Francesca

‘Rakes!’

Francesca hardly heard the interruption. She continued, ‘You needn’t feel sorry for me—I enjoyed it. And they were only kisses. I daresay I shall have many more before I am too old to enjoy them. When…when I make my come-out and go to London.’ She had even managed a brilliant smile. ‘My father will fetch me quite soon, I expect. He said so just the other day in one of his letters.’

‘Francesca.’ He said her name with such tenderness that she was almost undone.

‘So you can kiss me again, if you like. Just to show that it doesn’t mean very much.’

‘Oh, Francesca, my lovely, courageous girl! I know just how much it meant to you. God help me, but how could I not know? Come here!’

He kissed her, at first gently, as he had the first time. But then he held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, kissing her again and again, murmuring her name over and over again. But gradually the fit of passion died and he thrust her away from him.

‘It’s no use,’ he said, and there was finality in his voice. ‘My uncle is right—I have nothing to offer you. And even if I had, you are too young. We both have our way to make. It’s no use!’

Then he kissed her hand. ‘Goodbye, Francesca. Think of me sometimes.’ He strode off down the hill, but Francesca could not see him. Her eyes were burning with tears she would not allow to fall.

But that was not the end. Hard though it was, she could have borne that much, could have cherished the memory of his care and concern for her, the thought that someone had once found her beautiful enough to love. But this consolation had not been for her.

Some days later she was standing on the bridge, looking down at the stream, when Freddie’s voice interrupted her unhappy thoughts. ‘You must be the little goddess Marcus spent the morning with the other day,’ he said. ‘He was very taken with you, give you my word! Wished I’d seen you first. Missing him, are you?’

Something inside Francesca curled up. She hated the thought of being a subject of conversation at Witham Court. Surely Marcus couldn’t have done such a thing?

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ she said coldly, not looking at him.

‘Don’t you? Marcus seemed to know what he was talking about. Never seen him so much on the go, and he’s known a few girls in his time, I can tell you. Very good-looking fellow. But he did seem taken with you. We were all no end intrigued, but he wouldn’t tell us who you were. It was Charlie who said you must be the Shelwood girl. Are you? Marcus was right about the figure, though I can’t see your face. Why don’t you turn round, sweetheart?’

Francesca shut her eyes, bowed her head and prayed he would go away.

‘Don’t be sad, my dear! Ain’t worth it! It wouldn’t have lasted long, you know, even if he hadn’t had to leave with Jack and his father. It never does with these army chaps. Off and away before you can wink your eye. And if you cast an eye around you, there’s plenty more where he came from.’

She would have left the bridge, but he was blocking the way.

‘Cheer up, sweetheart! It’s always the same with the army. Rave about one woman, make you green with envy, and then before you know it they’re over the hill and far away, making love to another! Seen it m’self time and again. Mind you, I’m surprised at Marcus—leaving Jack lying there in misery while he pursues his own little game. And a very nice little bit of game, too, from what I can see. Come on, sweetheart, let’s see your face.’

When Francesca shook her head and turned to run back to the Manor, he ran after her, caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘You shan’t escape without giving me a kiss. You were free enough with them the other day, from all accounts. One kiss, that’s all, then I’ll let you go, give you my word. Give me a kiss, there’s a good girl.’

‘Fanny!’ For the first time in her life, Francesca was glad to hear her aunt’s voice. Miss Shelwood was standing a few yards away, with Silas, her groom, close behind. Her face was a mask of fury. Francesca’s tormentor let her go with a start, and took a step back.

‘Come here this instant, you…trollop!’ With relief, Francesca complied. Her aunt turned to Freddie. ‘I assume you are from Witham Court, sir. How dare you trespass on my land! Silas!’ The groom came forward, fingering his whip.

Freddie grew pale and stammered, ‘There’s no need for any violence, ma’am. No need at all. I was just passing the time of day with the little lady. No harm done.’ And, within a trice, he disappeared in the direction of Witham Court.

‘Take my niece’s arm, Silas, and bring her to the Manor.’ Miss Shelwood strode off without looking in Francesca’s direction. Silas looked uncomfortable but obeyed.

Francesca hardly noticed or cared what was happening to her. All her energies were concentrated in a desperate effort to endure her feelings of anguish and betrayal. She had believed Marcus! She had been taken in by his air of sincere regret, had thought he had been truly distressed to be leaving her! And while she had lain awake, holding the thought of his love and concern close to her like some precious jewel in a dark world, a talisman against a bleak future, he had been joking and laughing at Witham Court, boasting about her, making her an object of interest to men like Freddie. It was clear what they all thought of her.

Oh, what a fool she had been! What an unsuspecting dupe! She had fallen into his hands like a…like a ripe plum! Her aunt could not despise her more than she already despised herself. She had been ready to give Marcus everything of herself, holding nothing back. Only Freddie’s timely interruption had prevented it. She had indeed behaved like the trollop her aunt had called her. Occupied with these and other bitter thoughts Francesca hardly noticed that they were back at the Manor.

Miss Shelwood swept into the library, then turned and said coldly, ‘How often have you met that man before?’

Never. Francesca said the word, but no sound came.

‘Answer me at once, you wicked girl!’

‘I…’ Francesca swallowed to clear the constriction in her throat. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘A liar as well as a wanton. Truly your mother’s daughter!’

‘That’s not true! You must not say such things of my mother!’

‘Like mother, like daughter!’ Miss Shelwood continued implacably, ignoring Francesca’s impassioned cry. ‘Richard Beaudon was at Witham Court when he first met your mother. Now her daughter goes looking for her entertainment there. Where is the difference? No, I will hear no more! Go to your room, and do not leave it until I give you permission.’

Exhausted with her effort to control her feelings, Francesca ran to her room and threw herself on her bed. She did not cry. The bitter tears were locked up inside, choking her, but she could not release them.

In the weeks that followed, she castigated herself time and again for her weakness and stupidity. She, who had taught herself over the years not to let slights and injuries affect her, to keep up her guard against the hurt that others could inflict, had allowed the first personable man she met to make a fool of her, to destroy her peace of mind for many weary months. It would not happen again. It would never happen again.

Her aunt remained convinced that Francesca had been conducting an affair with Freddie. Francesca was punished severely for her sins. She was confined to her room on starvation rations for days, then kept within the limits of the house and garden for some weeks. It was months before she was allowed outside the gates of the garden, unaccompanied by her governess or a groom. She was made to sit for long periods while Mr Chizzle, her aunt’s chaplain, expatiated on the dreadful fate awaiting those who indulged in the sins of the flesh.

This last Francesca endured by developing the art of remaining apparently attentive while her mind ranged freely over other matters. Since she felt in her own mind that she deserved punishment, though not for her escapade with Freddie, she found patience to endure most of the rest.

But the worst of the affair was that Miss Shelwood took every opportunity it offered to remind Francesca of her mother’s sins. That was very hard to endure. And, in her mind, the distress this caused her was added to the mountain of distress caused by one man. Not Freddie—she forgot him almost immediately. No, Marcus Whatever-his-name-was was to blame. She would never forgive him.

The first few drops of rain were falling as Francesca found, to her surprise, that she had reached the Manor. She slipped in through the servants’ door—it would never do for Aunt Cassandra or Agnes Cotter, her maid, to see her in her present state. Betsy was in the kitchen.

‘Miss Fanny! Oh, miss! Whatever have you been doing?’

Francesca looked down. The mud from the ditch had now dried and the dress was no longer plastered to her body. But she was a sorry sight all the same.

‘I fell,’ she said briefly. ‘Help me to change before my aunt sees me, Betsy. I’ll need some water.’

‘The kettle’s just about to boil again. But you needn’t fret—your aunt won’t bother with you at the moment, Miss Fanny. She’s had another of her attacks. It’s a bad one.’

Suddenly apprehensive, Francesca stopped what she was doing and stared at Betsy. ‘When?’

‘Just after you went out. And…’ Betsy grew big with the news ‘…Doctor Woodruff has been. Didn’t you see him on your way to the village?’

‘I went through the fields. Did my aunt finally send for him, then? What did he say?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me, Miss Fanny. You’d better ask that maid of hers. Miss Cotter, that is,’ said Betsy with a sniff.

Worried as she was, Francesca failed to respond to this challenge. Agnes Cotter had been Miss Shelwood’s maid for more than twenty years and jealously guarded her position as her mistress’s chief confidante, but Francesca knew better than to quiz her. If Miss Shelwood did not wish her niece to know what was wrong, then Agnes Cotter would not tell her, however desperate it was. So, after washing, changing her clothes and brushing her hair back into its rigid knot, she presented herself outside her aunt’s bedroom.

‘Miss Shelwood is resting, Miss Fanny.’

‘Is she asleep?’

‘Not exactly—’

‘Then pray tell my aunt that I am here, if you please.’

With a dour look Agnes disappeared into the bedroom; there was a sound of muted voices, which could hardly be heard for the drumming of the rain on the windows. The storm had broken. The maid reappeared at the door and held it open. ‘Miss Shelwood is very tired, miss. But she will see you.’

Ignoring Agnes, Francesca stepped into the room. The curtains were half-drawn and the room was dim and airless. Her aunt lay on the huge bed, her face the colour of the pillows that were heaped up behind her. But her eyes were as sharply disapproving as usual, and her voice was the same.

‘I expected you to come as soon as you got in. What have you been doing?’

‘I had to change my dress, Aunt,’ said Francesca calmly.

‘You were here before the rain started, so your dress was not wet. There’s no need to lie, Fanny.’

‘My dress was muddy. How are you, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Well enough. Agnes has a list of visits for you to make tomorrow. I’ve postponed what I can, but these are urgent. See that you do them properly, and don’t listen to any excuses. I’ve made a note where you must pay particular attention.’

Miss Shelwood believed in visiting her employees and tenants regularly once a month, and woe betide any of them who were not ready for her questions on their activities. During the past few weeks, Francesca, much to her surprise, had been required to act as an occasional stand-in, so she knew what to do. Since both she and her aunt knew that she would perform adequately, if not as ruthlessly as Miss Shelwood, she wasted no time in questions or comments. Instead she asked, ‘What did Dr Woodruff say? Does he know what is wrong?’

‘How did you know he’d been? Betsy, I suppose.’

‘She told me, yes. I am sorry you were so unwell.’

‘I’m not unwell! Dr Woodruff is an old woman, and I shan’t let him come again. I don’t need him to tell me what I am to do or not do. Don’t waste any time before seeing those people, Fanny. I shall want an account when I am up. You may go.’

Against her better judgement Francesca said, ‘Can I get you anything? Some books?’

‘Don’t be absurd! Agnes will get me anything I need. But you’d better see the housekeeper about meals for the rest of you. Agnes will let her know what I want. Agnes?’

Francesca was given her aunt’s list, then she was escorted out and the door shut firmly behind her. She made a face, then walked wearily down the dark oak staircase. It was not easy to feel sympathy or concern for her aunt—not after all these years. But she was worried. Whether her aunt lived or died, her own future looked bleak indeed. If no post as a governess was forthcoming, where could she look for help? In spite of her brave words to Marcus, her claim on her father was nonexistent. She had not heard a word from him since she had left the West Indies nearly twenty years ago, and had no idea where he might now be.

The world would say that her aunt ought to do something for her, there was no doubt about that. But Francesca had every doubt that she would. Shelwood was not an entailed estate—Miss Shelwood could dispose of it as she wished—and whatever happened to Aunt Cassandra’s money, her sister’s child would see none of it—nothing was more certain. Her duty, such as it was, would end at her death.

Francesca came to a halt, thinking of the cheerless years since her grandfather had died. She had always been required to sit with her aunt at mealtimes, though the meals were consumed in silence. She was adequately clothed, though most of that came out of her allowance. She had a bedroom to herself, though it was the tiny room allotted to her when she had first arrived as a child of six. She had been taken to church twice every Sunday, and forced to join in her aunt’s weekly session of private prayers and readings with the Reverend Mr Chizzle. But there was nothing more.

Was it that Miss Shelwood could not tolerate the evidence of the shame that her sister had brought on the family? But Sir John Shelwood had never shown any sense of shame. Regret at not seeing his daughter again before she died, at not telling her that she had been forgiven, perhaps, but there had been no sense of shame. There had never been anything in his attitude towards his granddaughter that even hinted at the shocking truth. Strange…

The next morning Francesca rose early; by midday, she had completed her round of visits. She had made notes of complaints and requests, and, in order to satisfy her aunt, had written down one or two criticisms—nothing of any consequence—together with some recommendations. She attempted to see her aunt, but was denied access, her civil enquiries about Miss Shelwood’s health being met with a brusquely indifferent reply from Agnes Cotter. Resolving to see Doctor Woodruff for herself when he called that evening, she left the papers and escaped from the house.

At the end of an hour, she found she had walked off her frustration and anger and was enjoying the woods and open ground above Shelwood. The air was still heavy, however, and swallows and martins were swooping low over the swollen expanse of water left by the storm, catching the insects in the humid air. Francesca watched them for a while, marvelling at the speed and skill with which they skimmed the surface.

But even as she watched, one bird’s judgement failed disastrously. It dipped too low and, as it wheeled round, its wing was caught below the water line. Francesca drew in her breath as it dropped, then rose, then dropped again. By now both wings were heavy with water, and the bird’s struggles to fly were only exhausting it further. It would soon drown.

Without a second thought, Francesca hitched up her skirts, took off her shoes and waded in. The water was very shallow—it shouldn’t be difficult to scoop the bird out.

‘I never knew such a girl for water! You must have been a naiad in your previous existence.’

She recognised the voice, of course. But she said nothing until she had captured the bird and released it on dry ground. Then she said calmly, ‘And you seem to be my nemesis. I lead a very dull, dry life in the normal course of events. Excuse me.’ She bent down and put on her shoes. ‘Let me wish you a pleasant walk.’ She wanted to take polite leave of him, but realised that she had no idea what to call him other than ‘Marcus’. That she would never do again. She started off down the hill without saying any more.

‘Wait!’

She pretended not to have heard, but he came striding after her.

‘I was hoping to learn how you fared.’

‘Thank you—very comfortably. But my aunt is not well—I must get back to her. I know you will understand and forgive my haste. Goodbye.’

‘Not so fast! I want to talk to you.’

The pain in her heart was getting worse. He was still as handsome—more so! The years had added one or two lines to his face, one or two silver strands to the dark hair, but this only increased his dignity and authority, and the blue eyes were as alert, as warm and understanding as ever. The villain! The scheming, double-dealing villain! Where was the lady from the carriage?—if ‘lady’ was the right word! He should be using his charm on her, she might reward his efforts—probably had done so long before now. But she, at least, was old enough to see through him. She was well past the age of innocence!

But none of these uncharitable thoughts showed in her expression as she said coolly, ‘That is a pity. I have no wish to talk to you. I doubt that we now have very much in common. You must find someone else to amuse you.’

‘Is your aunt as ill as everyone says?’

He blurted this out with none of the polish she expected of him. What was he thinking of? Had he heard the rumours and was daring to be sorry for her? Francesca fought down a sudden rise in temper, then said in measured tones, ‘I am surprised that Lord Witham’s guests indulge in village gossip. I would have thought they had other, more interesting, pursuits.’

‘Don’t be such a awkward cat, Francesca—tell me how your aunt is.’

He had no right to sound so anxious. It weakened her, made her vulnerable once again to his charm.

‘I don’t know why such a thing should concern you,’ she said, maintaining her usual air of colourless reserve as she lied to him once again. ‘But if you insist on knowing, my aunt is suffering from the heat. I am sure she will be quite well again in a few days.’

‘That isn’t what I have heard.’

They must have been discussing the situation at Witham Court. Once again she had been made the subject of gossip there. It was intolerable! ‘You must think what you choose, sir. However, I am sure my aunt would not welcome speculation by strangers. And nor do I.’

‘Strangers, Francesca?’

Francesca had been avoiding his eye, but now she looked directly at him. She did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘Whatever happened nine years ago, sir, we were, and are, strangers. Of that I am certain. Now please let me go!’ In spite of herself, her voice trembled on these last words.

He took a step forward, hesitated, then bowed gracefully. ‘Very well. Good day to you, my dear.’

She felt his eyes on her as she set off again down the hill. She hoped he could not see how her hands were trembling, or hear how her heart was pounding.

Chapter Four

Marcus was astonished to discover that, even after nine years, the strange line of communication between Francesca and himself was still there. The horrors of war, the problems and anxieties of peace, the totally absorbing task of learning to run a huge and prosperous estate had caused him to put her out of his mind, but no sooner had they met again than he was once more caught in a strange web—a curious feeling of kinship with her. It was as infuriating as it was inexplicable.

He stood watching her as she went down the hill, and knew, though he didn’t know how, that, in spite of her gallant attempt to deceive him, she was lying about her aunt, just as she had lied to him all those years ago about her future with her father. Francesca was desperately worried about the future. And if the gossip last night had any foundation, she was right to be worried. The impulse to run after her, to shake her till she admitted the truth, then to reassure her, swear to protect her from harm, was almost irresistible.

It was absurd! It had been absurd nine years ago, when he had been a penniless and inexperienced officer in Wellington’s army. At that time, he had been convinced that Francesca was the love of his life, and only the intervention of his uncle had stopped him from making what would have been a disastrous mistake. His uncle had been right—he had indeed forgotten the girl once he was back with the army!

But to find, now, that he had the same impulse to protect Francesca nine years later was ridiculous. A man of thirty, rich, sophisticated and, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely eligible…how London would laugh! He must take a grip on himself, before he did something he would later regret. Shrugging impatiently, he strode off down the other side of the hill.

When Francesca got back to Shelwood Manor she found Agnes Cotter waiting for her. The woman was clearly distressed.

‘Miss Shelwood has suddenly got much worse. But she won’t hear of sending for Dr Woodruff. I don’t know what to do, Miss Fanny.’ The situation must be grave indeed—this was the first time ever that Agnes had appealed to anyone for help.

‘We must send Silas for him straight away,’ Francesca said calmly.

‘But Miss Shelwood will—’

‘I will take the blame, Agnes. Go back to my aunt but say nothing to her—it would only cause her unnecessary agitation. Stay with her till the doctor comes, then I shall take over.’

Dr Woodruff came with a speed that showed how grave he thought the situation was. ‘I knew this would happen. It is always the same in cases like these.’

‘Cases like what, Dr Woodruff?’

‘You mean you don’t know that your aunt is dying, Miss Fanny? No, I can see she hasn’t told you.’

‘You mean she knows?’

‘Of course. I warned her some months ago, but she refused to believe me. A very determined woman, your aunt, Miss Fanny. I’m afraid that very little can be done for her, except to ease the pain. I prescribed laudanum yesterday—perhaps she will accept it now. Take me to her, if you please.’

Francesca went up the stairs with a heavy heart; when she entered her aunt’s room, she was shocked at the change she saw in her. Miss Shelwood was a ghastly colour, and gasping for breath. Agnes was bathing her mistress’s forehead, but when the doctor came in she glided away.

‘What are you doing here?’

Francesca was not sure whether her aunt was speaking to the doctor or to her. She went up to the bed and said gently, ‘It’s time you had some medicine, Aunt Cassandra. Dr Woodruff has something to make you feel better.’

‘I don’t want his morphine! If I’m going to die, I want to die in my right senses! But you can stay. I have something to say to you. A-ah!’

‘Drink some of this, Miss Shelwood. You won’t feel less alert, but it will take away the worst of the pain. And if you wish to be able to talk to your niece, you will need it.’

‘Very well.’ The voice was but a faint thread of sound.

Dr Woodruff held a small vial to the sick woman’s lips, and then stood back. He said quietly, ‘That should make her feel better for a while. I’ll be in the next room.’

After a moment, Francesca said tentatively, ‘You wished to tell me something, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Yes. Box on the desk. Fetch it.’ Francesca did as her aunt asked, then on request opened the box. ‘Letter…underneath.’

The letter was dry and yellow. It began, ‘My dear Cassie’…and was signed ‘Richard Beaudon’.