Page 19 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

London – Kensington

Lizzie’s face was a picture when Frances detailed the vision for the portrait.

It was difficult because she couldn’t even begin to explain in the way Jemie had.

Not that she’d forgotten what he said. No, those words would never leave her as long as she lived.

What she needed to do was find a more socially acceptable way of explaining it to her sister, then another way still of explaining it to her husband so that it wouldn’t raise eyebrows.

She had been working on both without a great deal of success.

“He said that he wants to portray me in a way that people rarely see outside the family. Something more natural. The way I am with my children, with my family, with…” the words stuck in her throat. “Frederick.”

Lizzie’s eyes widened.

Frances laughed. “It will be quite respectable, I assure you.”

“What has Fred said?”

“I haven’t broached the subject with him, and he hasn’t bothered to ask Jemie how he is going to paint me. He’s currently preoccupied about the dining room at the new house in Prince’s Gate.”

“Is there something wrong with the dining room?” Lizzie enquired.

Frances shook her head. “Not at all. It’s a charming room. He’s commissioning an architect to come and put up a structure of sorts where he can display his collection of porcelain ‘in an original way’,” she said, mimicking her husband.

“How does he intend to do that?” Lizzie asked with a puzzled look.

“Well…” Frances wasn’t sure herself. “It involves… cabinetry.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows and appeared to be trying not to smile. “Cabinetry?”

“Cabinetry,” Frances’s own lips twitched. “And the centrepiece will be one of Jemie’s pictures. I don’t know if he’s decided which one yet, but it will be one of them.”

Lizzie bit her lower lip. “I’ll wager it won’t be your portrait!”

She looked at her sister and they both burst into peals of laughter.

***

For once, Frances was alone in the breakfast parlour the next morning. She poured tea and applied a liberal coat of butter and gooseberry jam to a piece of toast before biting into it with a satisfied sigh.

As she ate, her thoughts turned to Jemie.

She hadn’t seen him since his impassioned speech about her portrait a few days earlier. She was glad of it. She needed some time to gather her composure and her wits.

No-one had ever spoken to her like that.

Not Frederick nor any of the passing beaus that had drifted her way over the years.

Nobody had been so… so… terrifyingly observant.

She had never seen herself that way, but his words touched something deep inside her and, frankly, it terrified her.

How was she supposed to carry on as normal knowing he saw her in that way?

Perhaps he was as surprised by his outburst as she was because ever since, he’d been curiously absent which was unusual.

She put down the teapot, propped her elbow on the table, and sank her chin into her hand.

It was all a bit much.

She was still deep in thought in the same pose when the door opened, and her husband walked in.

She sat up immediately, straightened her shoulders, offered him a warm smile, and then groaned inwardly as she thought again of Jemie’s words about how she had to change when he was around.

Would she ever be able to be herself? Say what she thought instead of having to constantly placate her husband?

He frowned. “Is something amiss?”

She swallowed and wanted to say something like – you savagely attacked our son; you belittle me at every opportunity; you bought a house without telling me, but no, nothing is amiss.

Instead, she pushed Jemie’s voice away with the sad realisation that no good would come of it if she attempted to stand up for herself.

“Nothing at all, my dear. What can I do for you?”

“I came to see if you would like to…” Frederick cleared his throat. “To see the new house.”

Frances’ eyebrows raised almost to her hair. She was sure of it. As olive branches went, it was poor, but from a position of telling her that her opinion was utterly worthless to inviting her to see the house, she could see how his offer would make him feel magnanimous.

“That’s very kind of you. Would you wait a moment whilst I fetch my coat?”

He grunted, not happy to be delayed. Frances dabbed her lips, put her napkin down, and went to dress for the excursion.

Frederick met her in the hallway when she arrived in her newest dolman in a fetching shade of spring green with matching bonnet. It had a fine feather trim, with which she was quite taken. She pulled on her gloves and set her reticule on her arm.

He handed her into the carriage even though the new house was but a few streets away. He sat opposite her and looked out of the window.

Frances watched the view of the beautiful, white town houses from the other window, the immaculately dressed people walking along the pathways, and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the French Embassy.

They drove up Exhibition Road, and the carriage pulled up by the house at Prince’s Gate. Frederick handed her down and stood beside her, gazing up at the house nestled among the others that looked suspiciously like the one at Queen’s Gate that they already owned.

“It’s one of the largest in the development,” he boasted with a look of extreme satisfaction. “I don’t think you will be disappointed.”

The white stone, caught as it was in the sunshine, seemed to glow. “It’s lovely.”

He almost set off up the steps, leaving her to follow, but he bethought himself and gestured for her to lead. Frances offered a gracious incline of her head and stepped up to the door, which immediately opened wide.

Her husband followed her in, and they stood in the magnificent hallway. Frederick held out his arms and turned around. “Fabulous, isn’t it?” His voice echoed in the enormous, marble filled entrance.

It was indeed. Even filled with workmen and piles of paper, fabrics, carpets, and a myriad of tools, its opulence was remarkable.

She could see why he wasn’t interested in what she had to say about the decorations. It wasn’t perhaps so much a question of her competence, but more about her taste. Her tastes were for simple and elegant. Frederick’s were notably more extravagant.

It was a grandiose display of his newly acquired wealth. He’d engaged an architect to remodel the whole affair. A Mr Shaw who, it seemed, had done a thorough job which was almost complete.

As Frances picked her way through the mayhem, she wondered if this was what happened when one became overwhelmingly wealthy.

One simply paid someone to do all the planning.

All the thinking and selecting of the items that would transform a house into a home.

She sighed and manoeuvred around a large bucket, wondering if this cavernous space would ever feel homely.

No doubt her husband would expect her to behave like a duchess now that they had a house that contained the staircase that once belonged to a duke.

She moved, eyes still transfixed on the staircase, and accidentally knocked over a pile of paper. She began hurriedly stacking them up again when the object of her musing whirled to scowl at her.

“Mr Jeckyll is about to start work on the dining room.”

“I see.” She quickly straightened up. “Will Mr Jeckyll be working in the hallway too?”

Frederick shook his head. “I was thinking I might commission Whistler to do it.”

Frances ignored the breathless feeling that threatened to swamp her at the mention of his name.

He led her up the magnificent staircase. The one that apparently once belonged to the Duke of Northumberland. She wondered how on earth one moved an entire staircase and re-installed it into another house safely? More to the point, why would one bother to do that?

Frederick led her around the rooms, extolling the virtues of the three connecting drawing rooms, the bedchambers, bathrooms, and dressing rooms.

After a while, he looked at her with exasperation and asked, “Are you not pleased with it?”

“I’m delighted with it.” There was no point arguing with him or offering an opinion that differed from his, but she realised he was expecting some reaction from her.

“Are you still angry that I didn’t let you choose the furnishings?”

That startled her. She had no idea he’d realised she was upset. “Of course not, my dear. I wasn’t angry, just a little disappointed.”

He gave a familiar sigh.

“Frances, you must surely understand. This is London. You simply do not have the taste and experience required to equip a London home in the fitting style. You must leave it to me.” He spoke in reasonably kindly tones making Frances wonder if he felt guilty.

If so, about what? Was it because he hit Freddie?

Because he kept claiming she had no taste?

Or did he feel guilty about not telling her about the house? It was hard to tell.

“Of course,” she murmured.

He looked at her for a long moment, but decided all was well. So much so, he offered what seemed like yet another olive branch. She could only conclude that he really must be feeling ashamed of how he’d behaved, both to her and Freddie.

“Mr Jeckyll is coming to view the dining room and will start on that in a day or so. Would you like me to explain what I want?”

She tried to muster a pleased expression although the offer didn’t impress her. “That would be lovely. Although you did explain the cabinetry, it would help to see it.”

He led her to the dining room, holding the door for her to precede him.

Frederick entered and stood in the middle of the room, gestured grandly as he spoke.

“I want cabinetry on most of the walls. They will provide spaces where pieces of my Chinese porcelain collection can be displayed to its best advantage.” His eyes shone at the prospect.

“I want to show all my best pieces in here. I want everyone who dines with us to see them and appreciate them.”

Frances nodded. She heard the unsaid – and see how successful I am and see how much I am worth – and wondered if her husband realised that was what he was communicating.

Was he making a show to prove he could belong?

She wasn’t all that au fait with the ways of London society, but this smacked of vulgarity to her.

Like the rest of the house. She was certain that overt displays of wealth would be looked down upon by those who were born to it and doubted her husband’s grand plans to assimilate into the upper echelons of society would work.

“So not just shelves?”

He scowled at her. “No, not just shelves. I’ve explained this. I want cabinetry,” he flung his arms wide again. “I want a display, something spectacular, something that people will talk about for years to come.”

Frances smiled politely.

“And on this wall,” he walked up to the end wall where the small fireplace was. “On this wall, I want space in the cabinetry to hold one of Whistler’s larger paintings. I haven’t decided which one yet, but one of his full-length portraits.”

Frances watched him. Seldom had she seen him so animated about anything other than ships. “Your portrait?”

He shook his head. “No, not mine.”

She swallowed and maintained strict control of the smile that threatened. “Not mine?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The whole purpose of the room is to showcase my appreciation for art, not to show off the family. No, this will give everyone an understanding of the man I am.”

Frances tried to keep her expression neutral. God forbid he should show interest in his family, or place them above business or art. It would certainly show the man he was. She wasn’t sure that man was what he really ought to display.

“It will be… magnificent.” She felt a grandiose statement was needed.

“It will. I feel blue walls will give it a sense of richness and splendour, and I want a lot of gold as a highlight. It will show off the blue in the porcelain. Jeckyll is starting on it tomorrow.”

Frances nodded. “Good, good. I shall be interested to hear what he says. Is Mr Jeckyll an artist?”

“An architect. I’ve asked Whistler to come and look as well. I’d appreciate his views. He has a good eye.”

“He does indeed,” Frances concurred.

Frederick droned on about wall hangings he’d bought at huge expense as Frances tried to imagine what the room would look like.

She shook her head. Much as she loved Jemie’s paintings, she would have liked to see one of Mr Turner’s dramatic landscapes on the wall, but she apparently lacked the eye for such things and decided her thoughts were best left to herself.