Page 1 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)
Frances Leyland applied a thin scraping of butter to her tiny triangle of toast. She glanced at her husband of eighteen years, who had just demolished a plate of sausage and eggs, and tried to recall the point in their marriage he’d insisted she eat more delicately.
More politely, he’d termed it. Probably when his success at the shipyard meant a move to a lavish house and the requirement to entertain business associates.
Somewhere around that time, he had also decided her wardrobe did not befit his newly elevated status.
She chewed as delicately as she could and wondered what happened to the man she married years earlier.
Like most girls, she’d dreamed of meeting her prince and being swept off her feet.
She surveyed Frederick again. It had been a long time since he’d behaved like her prince charming.
A footman crept silently into the dining room and deposited fresh toast and tea. She smiled her thanks, but Frederick didn’t look up from scowling at his paper.
He was still a handsome man, although these days he hid most of his face behind a fulsome, long beard that tapered to a point, and a lavish moustache which was terribly fashionable for a gentleman of his status.
His love of good tailoring and frilled shirts emphasised his tall, trim figure.
She supposed he was still in his prime at forty.
She recalled the early days of their marriage when they had lived in a tiny, cramped house while he scrabbled his way up the ladder at the shipyard.
Bibby & Son was the biggest shipping company in Liverpool, and he’d first been apprenticed there as a boy.
At least they’d talked to each other back then.
The newspaper rustled softly as he turned over the page.
The quiet splendour of Speke Hall was a far cry from the early days of their union, yet here they were.
In its glorious dining room, carved oak panels of deep walnut embellishing the walls, intricate floral motifs adorning the ivory ceiling overhead, soft light spilling through its majestic windows framed by crimson curtains.
Politely ignoring each other over the breakfast dishes while Frances pretended she felt at home in such a grand house.
She bit into another tiny piece of buttered toast and chewed methodically whilst Frederick stared at his newspaper. Absently, he reached out for his teacup and lifted it to his lips without letting his eyes stray from the print.
Frances cleared her throat. “Everything is ready for your guests, my dear.”
Clearly startled by this gentle intrusion, her husband blinked and looked at her as if surprised to see her there before returning his gaze to his newspaper.
“I should hope so. I must go out after breakfast, but I will be back in time to greet them.”
Frances nodded, unsurprised that her effort to engage in pleasantries had been rebuffed.
He hesitated, then darted a glance at her. “Did I mention I bought another house in London? It’s almost ready to move into.”
Frances put down her cup and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin to gather herself before speaking so nothing of the shock of his announcement showed. She didn’t have the energy for an argument and Frederick could be so quick to temper.
“How nice. Is this a house for you?” Just after they moved to Speke Hall, he had bought himself a large flat in Liverpool for when he worked long hours at the shipping company, a detail he had omitted to tell her. She wondered if he’d decided to do the same in London.
“It’s for the family.”
Frances nodded and chose her words carefully. “What will happen to the house that we currently reside in when we’re in London?” she asked, thinking of their very grandiose property at Queen’s Gate in Kensington.
He shook out his newspaper, signalling the conversation was all but over. “I’ll sell it.”
“Where is the new house?” she enquired.
“Prince’s Gate.”
“Isn’t that… rather close to Queen’s Gate?” She was sure it was but a few minutes’ walk between the two.
Frederick’s eyes narrowed, and he sighed loudly. He made a show of putting the paper down and leaning back in his chair, making no effort to mask his irritation.
She tried not to shrink back but didn’t quite manage it.
“Of course it is, but this house is bigger. Grander. More befitting of our position.”
“I see.”
Frederick skewered her with a look. “It has fourteen bedrooms, six reception rooms and stables for eight horses and a marble staircase that once graced the home of the Duke of Northumberland,” he reeled off. “Does that suit? You seem unimpressed.”
“I’m sorry, I am impressed. Most impressed. It sounds magnificent.” Frances forced a lightness into her voice and smiled.
“The remodelling is almost complete.”
“Perhaps I could help with the finishing touches?” she offered, without a great deal of hope that he would allow it.
He shook his head and picked up his paper. “It’s too important. This will be a statement of who we are. Where I stand in the world. I don’t want you meddling. You know you’ve no eye for art, or up to the minute styles.”
Frances studied her teacup, taking a moment to compose herself. “Of course, my dear. As you wish. I shall look forward to the arrival of our guests,” she offered, changing the subject to avoid any further argument.
Frederick had invited people from the business world he inhabited, but some of his artist friends too. When they were involved, entertaining was sometimes less… rigid.
Despite possessing no discernible artistic talent himself, save for being a more than adequate pianist, Frederick lavished a significant amount of his wealth on art.
Playing the part of patron to some quite significant figures was primarily to elevate his own status.
Gabriel Dante Rossetti for one, who had painted her portrait recently.
In Frances’ view, it looked nothing like her, but she was hardly an artistic expert.
She had to confess that she had been particularly pleased by Frederick’s purchase of several works by Turner.
They now graced the walls of Speke Hall and she often enjoyed losing herself in the landscapes.
Frederick put down his newspaper with another pointed look. “Make sure the children behave.”
Frances stifled a heavy sigh. “Of course.” She dropped her gaze to the table to avoid meeting his eye.
She was struck, and not for the first time, that she had preferred both him, and their life together, before he’d become so ridiculously wealthy and ascended so high up the ranks at the company.
At least back then, she wasn’t forced to navigate the rules of etiquette that were utterly confusing to one not born into high society.
Her husband felt he understood them perfectly, but Frances was not convinced he did.
He snatched up his paper and swept from the room.
Frances waited for the door to close, then let out the breath she’d been holding.
She put a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes and composed herself before returning to her toast. She picked up a larger piece, buttered it, applied a liberal coat of rhubarb jam, and took a big, satisfying bite now she was alone.
As she chewed, she returned to her original musing about what a woman dreams of from a marriage and the reality of married life.
In her opinion, romantic novels had a lot to answer for.
They described, by very passionate means, the romance and excitement between two people falling in love against all the odds, ending dramatically when the heroine falls into the strong arms of the hero to be kissed passionately and led to the altar.
Nobody detailed what happened next.
The footman interrupted her reverie, tapping on the door, before depositing more toast and sausages. He placed it all carefully on the sideboard, bowed, and left on those silent slippers the servants wore.
Frances’ lips twitched in a small smile as she chewed another piece of toast and waited. As she suspected, moments later, the door opened a fraction and her eldest son, also Frederick, but known to them all as Freddie, much to his father’s annoyance, poked his head around.
“Has papa finished?” he asked with all the hopefulness of a perpetually starving almost eighteen-year-old boy.
“He has. You may come in.” Her son ambled into the room.
He had the makings of an incredibly handsome young man, even allowing for her bias.
He’d inherited her dark red wavy hair, and his father’s height and striking eyes, although they tended towards green rather than hazel.
He paused hopefully by the food on the sideboard.
“Freddie, you must surely have eaten, darling.”
“I have, but if he’s finished, and you’ve finished…” he murmured, sending her pleading looks before eying the sausages.
Frances laughed. “Very well but be quick.”
Frederick grabbed a plate and piled on a frankly alarming number of sausages, alongside a couple of eggs, before adding some toast and sitting beside her. Frances smiled affectionately at her firstborn.
“Are the artist people coming today?” he asked through a mouthful of sausage meat, making her wonder what his outrageously expensive school taught them by way of table manners.
“They are, along with some of papa’s business associates so you must all be on your best behaviour.” He rolled his eyes, biting down on another sausage before he made to reply. Frances gave him a warning stare and shook her head. “Please don’t talk with your mouth full, darling.”
Frederick grinned as he chewed. He swallowed.
“You’re an awful good sort,” he nudged his shoulder against hers.
It was the closest he came to any kind of affectionate gesture these days, and she treasured it.
They sat in silence for a little while. Frances, lost in reverie, and Freddie focused on the bounty before him.