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Franny

Franny gnawed on her lip and stared at the pale orange soup on the spoon she held suspended mid-air before her. The tick of the large walnut freestanding clock seemed to taunt her. Her only company. The door creaked, and she looked up, heart lifting, hope expanding in her chest. And fleeing out the open dining-room door. A head of stark white hair greeted her, and their butler, Sanderson, walked into the dining room. Without Rupert.

She looked around the room, glaring at the gilt-framed Rutledge ancestors adorning the cream-colored walls. They all stood as pretentiously as the current Lord Rutledge. Having a stick up your arse must be a family trait. God, she didn’t know how she could be so furious with someone and so frantic for their company at the same time. She almost laughed. She’d always craved her father’s attention, hadn’t she? Perhaps there was something wrong with her. Always seeking attention from those who clearly didn’t want to give it to her.

“A note for you, my lady.” Sanderson proffered a silver tray, his face expressionless as always, his stark blue eyes giving nothing away.

She pushed away her convoluted thoughts and sent the butler a tight smile. Even from this distance, she recognized Rupert’s uniform, tidy scrawl. Even his handwriting was pompous. The prat.

She knew what the letter would say. She had seen his retreat back at the hunting lodge. When she’d returned and shocked her lady’s maid, Sally—and herself—half to death by the state of her back, she didn’t blame Rupert for putting his barriers back up. She’d been completely unaware of the havoc upon her back during their…frenzy. But it truly wasn’t so bad. All superficial. Sally cleaned it up and applied a salve. Franny shifted. It was a bit itchy and burned a mite, but she would be right as rain in a few days.

If she could only speak with him…help him understand that she was well, more than well. She thought she might be starting to understand her husband’s withdrawal. He was stricken. She truly had feared for his well-being back in the lodge. She’d never witnessed someone unravel like that before her eyes. His panic—shame?—over what had happened, looked as though it had taken hold of his very body. And his expression—God, he'd looked tortured.

His behavior when it came to marital relations might be rather…unexpected. Not that she had known much of what to expect, but decidedly, it wasn’t this—this roughness. Roughness, and yes, pain, but she liked it. Gooseflesh frizzled over her skin. She loved it.

She unfolded his note, taking in the expected words. “ My sincerest apologies.” “ Pressing business matters.” She rubbed her fingers against her temple, wanting desperately to growl, to stomp her feet and scream. Throw rocks. A very large one. At Rupert’s head.

So, he was mortified by his actions, but what did it say about her that she enjoyed his assault? She wasn’t fluent in the happenings of husbands and wives, but she had a feeling this game she and Rupert played and enjoyed wasn’t typical.

An all-consuming desire constantly coursed through her, to stretch him to his limits and then, with a single finger, push him right over the edge. It had always been there, even when they’d been children, even when it had been innocent. Because she wanted his consequences. And now, as a woman, she wanted his lustful rage. If they both desired it, was it really so wrong? Why should there be shame in that? It is not as though they would be announcing it in the ballrooms of London.

Her mind drifted back to the dinner they’d shared. Laughing. Teasing. And then all of a sudden it was all…gone. Like he’d realized he’d been enjoying himself and retreated.

Why?

There was something between them. Something unnamable. A connection. The way they came together…it spurred the hope in her chest to burn brighter.

“I will not be around for dinner. In fact, I will not be back until late tomorrow, possibly the day after.”

Franny stiffened. Or perhaps not.

She placed the letter carefully on the silver tray.

He had left.

She lifted her hand to her breastbone, rubbing at the tightness there, where her heart had somersaulted right into her ribcage, bruising.

Now that hurt much worse than anything he’d done to her back.

“Thank you, Sanderson, please take it away,” she said woodenly.

She stared blankly at her soup as the pad of Sanderson’s retreating footsteps faded away. The previously succulent, broiled lobster tail centered in her bowl now looked as unappealing as a slug. Her stomach roiled, and she pushed her bowl away. A servant hurried forward, clearing her dish, another immediately replacing it with a slice of savory meat pie. Her stomach rebelled with more force.

He had left. Not merely avoiding her. Not merely refusing to speak with her. But gone. For days.

She pressed her fingers to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, squeezed so tightly her head ached. She desperately tried to hold on to the anger over him deserting her. To let that drown out the burn behind her eyes, the hollowness building in her chest.

She opened her eyes, but the cream walls covered in gold-framed Rutledge ancestors were gone. Replaced with a deep royal-blue damask, and instead of Rutledge ancestors, a violent depiction of a fox hunt swam before her.

Another empty dining room.

Another solitary meal.

Another year that no one remembered. No one cared to.

The hollowness swallowed her whole.

So, like she had every year in the past, she was the only one who said it:

“Happy Birthday, Franny.”

She reached for her mother’s locket, the cool metal warming instantly in her palm. Her mother’s empty locket, just like Franny’s chest. A tear broke free and trailed down the bridge of her nose. Her grip turned strangling, the metal chain biting into her neck as she pulled against the locket. Her lifeline.

“Mama,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Am I destined to always be alone?”