Page 6 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Speke Hall - Liverpool

Frances stood still as her maid added the finishing flourishes to her hair, then turned this way and that to examine herself in the looking glass.

She was pleased with the effect, and very pleased with her new gown.

It was a deep, emerald green, an incredible colour that complemented her skin and hair perfectly.

Tight fitting in the bodice and draped elegantly over a bustle, it emphasised her still tiny waist, which she was proud of after birthing four children.

With a plunging neck and tiny puff sleeves just off her shoulder, it was daring, but entirely within the bounds of propriety and the modiste had assured her it was the latest fashion.

Frances loved the way it made her feel. A matching emerald ribbon about her throat completed the look.

She was debating which jewels to wear, considering a pretty double bracelet that would go nicely over her long gloves, when the door opened, and her husband entered.

“What have you been saying…” he broke off his tirade to stare at her.

Frances froze under his scrutiny.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

“It’s a new gown. It came from the modiste in London this week.” She swallowed. Her throat instantly parched. “Don’t you like it?”

“I can see your…” he gestured in a vague, awkwardly disgusted fashion, “bosom. If I can see it, so can other people.”

She searched for the right words. “I assure you, it’s perfectly respectable, my dear. I have other dresses in this style, and I recall you rather liked them.”

“You should change.” He ordered her.

Frances drew a steadying breath to conceal the hurt she felt at his words.

“I don’t really have time to change, my love.

We wouldn’t want to keep our guests waiting.

” She spoke calmly and evenly. She’d learned over the years that outright refusal made her husband dig his heels in and refuse to budge.

When that happened, there was only one victor.

Her only hope was to reason with him and persuade him to arrive at the conclusion she wanted as if it had been his own doing.

They had already argued because she had wanted to include the children on the guest list for dinner, yet he’d been adamant that they were too young.

She didn’t want another awful row, especially when she then had to go and entertain their guests.

Frederick’s eyebrows drew down, and he took a step closer. Frances stared at the floor, mind racing.

“Wear the blue one.”

She looked up at him. “The one that I wore last time we entertained your business friends?” She let her eyes widen with feigned shock and worry. “Darling, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you by appearing in the same gown twice.”

“You must have hundreds of dresses that don’t make you look like a whore.”

She bit her tongue, not letting him see how much his words stung.

“I do, but they are stored. They will need to be pressed before wearing. If I must change, I will be dreadfully late. Please trust me. This dress is the height of fashion and as you have friends here from London, I wouldn’t want to look like a dowd and embarrass you. ”

He continued staring, then made a dismissive noise.

“Please yourself.”

With a huff, he closed the door behind him with far more force than was necessary, causing her to flinch.

Grace, her maid, laid a hand on Frances’ arm, a kind gesture than almost undid her. “You look beautiful, ma’am.”

Frances blinked back tears. Until her husband’s arrival, she’d felt beautiful.

***

Frances greeted her guests in the offending gown, feeling even more uncertain than usual.

“Oh, my,” Lizzie took a step towards her and surveyed her sister’s dress with appreciative awe. “That gown is delicious!”

Frances tugged at it awkwardly. “Do you think so?”

“I most certainly do. That colour becomes you. You look good enough to eat.”

“It’s not too revealing?” she hesitated.

Lizzie tilted her head to one side. “What do you think?”

She bowed her own head and whispered. “I love it, or rather I did until Frederick passed comment.”

Lizzie’s look of sympathy was almost unbearable.

“For God’s sake, say nothing to Edith or I’ll never hear the last,” Frances muttered.

She’d confided in her sister over the years, so Lizzie was well aware of Frederick’s temper and unpleasantness.

Frances might have won the battle over the dress, but he would be unlikely to let the matter drop until he felt vindicated.

His unpleasantness often extended to the children, and, with Freddie home, she knew she needed to tread with care to avoid further upset.

Before she could dwell on it further, the gong for dinner sounded, and everyone filed into the dining room.

Frederick escorted the wife of Sir Andrew Farley in to dine.

Farley was an important man in Frederick’s world, but Frances found them both tiresomely formal sticklers.

She’d planned on walking to dinner with William, but instead Mr Whistler appeared beside her and offered a hopeful elbow.

She accepted his arm with what she hoped was a gracious smile and forced herself not to tug at the dress again, which would only draw more attention to it.

He looked remarkably elegant in evening wear and even his hair had been subdued, though the more sombre black did little to subdue the wicked sparkle of those blue eyes or repress the vivid energy that surrounded him.

“Do you have an interest in art, or is this your husband’s passion?” Mr Whistler asked, giving her a sideways glance as they walked.

“Art is very much my husband’s passion, but it rather rubs off on one. Did you always want to be an artist?” she replied as they moved slowly forward.

“Goodness, no. I had a very chequered youth and considered a host of options to make a living. I was quite determined to be a soldier for a long time. Although, through everything, I always loved to draw and paint.”

“You mentioned that you spent some time in America and Russia?” Frances nodded encouragingly.

Mr Whistler grinned. “Well, I was born and brought up in America, lived in Russia for a time as a boy and a young man, went back to America and then came to England… so,” he shrugged. “My accent is a bit of all things I imagine, and my painting and drawing is just as varied.”

“Indeed,” Frances couldn’t help but smile at him. He was remarkably easy to talk to and it made her feel more at ease.

“My father was a military man and a renowned engineer, so we moved about a fair amount.”

“Is that how you ended up in Russia? Because of your father’s work?”

Mr Whistler nodded. “The Tsar commissioned him to build a railway.”

That was surprising. “The Tsar…?”

Mr Whistler laughed. “I know. It was a big deal for him. For all of us. Paid well too.”

Frances politely ignored the reference to money. “You must have admired him greatly.”

Mr Whistler turned away briefly. “I did.”

“Did you not want to be an engineer, too?” she wondered.

“It crossed my mind, and papa would have loved me to be one, but it wasn’t right for me. He sent me to West Point.”

When Frances watched him blankly, he explained. “Where they train officers for the army in America. I think you have the Royal Military College here?”

“I see. Are… are you an army officer?”

He laughed once more. “Lord no. I was hopeless. They failed me on a chemistry examination in my final year, and that was a travesty. However, through the whole experience, I discovered that sadly, I wasn’t terribly good with discipline,” he said with a mischievous grimace.

Frances’ smile widened as she found herself genuinely fascinated by his story. “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear indeed. You should have heard my mother.”

Frances chuckled. “I imagine she was cross.”

“You have no idea. Gentle as anything, my mother, until I do something wrong and then, bam!”

Frances laughed louder. “I should love to meet her.”

Mr Whistler nodded and gave her a speculative smile. “I think she’d love you.”

***

Dinner was a lengthy affair, but at least with the artists, the conversation wide ranging instead of the usual polite society small talk.

Mr Whistler proved to be an exceptionally entertaining guest. Once everyone was finished, the ladies retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

Frances tried to make sure she spoke to all her guests and made a point of going to talk to Mrs Caldicott.

Mr Caldicott had recently joined Bibby Shipping, so she was keen to make his wife feel welcome.

“How lovely of you to join us tonight, Mrs Caldicott,” she settled beside her. The woman was serenely elegant and very pretty with glossy dark hair and equally dark eyes. She had an air of gentility about her, the kind that Frances sought to emulate.

“It’s terribly kind of you to invite us.” She replied in a friendly tone that Frances immediately warmed to.

They chatted about nothing much, as one did at these affairs. Even so, Frances was drawing a favourable impression when Lizzie and Edith joined them.

“Lovely meal, darling,” Edith beamed at her, resplendent in cornflower blue. “Do you suppose I could steal your cook?”

“Don’t even think it!” Frances shook her head, as Edith squeezed onto the settee beside her, and Lizzie took a chair. “Mrs Bancroft is an absolute gem and I intend to hold on to her tightly.”

When the gentlemen re-joined them, and Frances was alone with Edith and Lizzie, they took the opportunity to ask after Mr Whistler.

“So, is Mr Whistler Fred’s new pet? I don’t recall seeing him before,” her sister said with a glint in her eye.