Page 9 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Speke Hall Liverpool

Frances suspected there would be hell to pay, and she was right.

“What on earth were you thinking? ” Frederick demanded when they were alone in the morning room.

“What in God’s name made you imagine that involving the children in a picnic with our guests was a good idea?

Do you still have absolutely no idea? For God’s sake.

” He thrust his hands through his hair, neck tendons taught with rage. “I despair of you.”

Frances kept silent. It was best to wait until the tirade had finished. Interrupting never ended well so her eyes remained downcast.

“There was never any mention of a picnic involving the children.”

“I’m sorry, but I had no idea it would turn out to be such a glorious day.” Frances examined her hands, still avoiding his eye.

“You are supposed to be here in the house. With me. Looking after our guests. You are supposed to be my hostess,” he hissed.

“Then perhaps everyone would like a walk and a picnic?” she offered.

That was a mistake. She knew it as soon as the words came out of her mouth. “Do not test my patience.” She closed her eyes and braced herself, flinching as he stood beside her, stooped over her chair so his face was next to hers.

She tried not to flinch. “Would you like me to cancel the outing?”

“We can hardly cancel now that Whistler and Rossetti want to go, can we?”

She swallowed and finally looked up at him.

He stared at her as though she were simple before storming out of the room without another word.

He slammed the door so hard it bounced on its hinges, swinging back open, making Frances recoil.

She stayed where she was for several moments, trying to compose herself, slowing her breathing enough to re-join the guests.

“Have I caused a ruckus?” a voice enquired from the doorway.

Frances shrieked as she almost jumped from her skin. She whirled around to find Mr Whistler standing there. Lord, did the man have no sense of discretion? Could he have not pretended that he saw nothing? Heard nothing? Did they not have polite society in America?

She rose from her chair and drew a shaky breath. “A ruckus? Do you mean a rumpus? Goodness, no,” she said softly, trying to stop her voice wobbling. She forced a smile and hoped it convinced him all was well. She brushed at a speck on her sleeve to distract herself.

“I should apologise. He looked like he was going to ruin your picnic. I just thought if I joined you, he might let it stand. I didn’t mean to cause more trouble.”

Shame and humiliation swept through her that he had read Frederick so clearly.

“I… heard him shouting,” he continued with a touch of awkwardness, apparently unable to drop the subject. She placed a hand to her forehead as she tried to breathe.

“There now,” Mr Whistler soothed. She heard the click of the door closing, and he came to stand beside her. He handed her a large white handkerchief. She took it but just stared at it, frozen.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, still observing the white linen, unsure what to do next.

“Of course not. Our secret.”

“He’s been very tense lately.” Frances ventured, although she heard how feeble the excuse sounded.

His eyes were watchful, and it felt rather like he could see inside her.

“I should…” she gestured vaguely.

“You should.” He nodded.

Frances hesitated and looked at him. He gave her a crooked smile. “You really should let me paint you.”

Frances had no idea what to say.

He shrugged guiltily. “It’s like I said,” he waved a hand about, gesturing to her head. “Extraordinarily beautiful hair.”

In that moment, Frances felt anything but beautiful.

***

Frances moved the guests and children out of the house quickly before Frederick could make another appearance and dampen everyone’s mood, not just her own.

Alastair and Mr Carlisle walked with Aunt Agatha and Miss Woodgrove, each lending a lady his arm.

Edith and William strode along briskly with the artists and the children, so Frances brought up the rear of the party beside her sister, Lizzie, who gave her a knowing look. “You’re in a blue funk,” she remarked.

“I argued with Frederick.” Frances’ shoulders sagged and she rubbed her temple.

They walked in time with each other, the rhythm of the movement was soothing.

“What’s wrong with old Fred? Let me guess, you want to do something fun, and he didn’t like it?” Lizzie tilted her head back.

“He’s really not like that.” Defence of her husband came naturally and swiftly to Frances, being well practiced at this art, although she sometimes wondered why she bothered with Lizzie. She knew him far too well.

“Darling, he really is.”

Frances looked away, not being able to bear her sister looking at her. “He was angry that I’d invited the children to join us. You don’t think that was a mistake, do you?”

“Of course not,” Lizzie assured her. “I’d have been jolly annoyed if you’d left them behind and so would everyone else.”

Frances nodded, pleased neither her judgement had been wrong nor her behaviour untowardly.

“You do know it’s not always you that is wrong.”

Frances hesitated but nodded, the words resonating.

“Frances, darling, you both came from the same background. He’s not part of the aristocracy no matter how much he pretends to be. He’s a jumped-up ship worker. Your background is his background. As is mine.”

“Lizzie,” Frances hissed, trying to suppress a smile.

“Has he bought the wretched company yet?”

Frances shook her head. “I don’t think so. He’s very tense. I have the sense that he’s making himself unpopular over it. I don’t think the shareholders want him to buy Bibby but don’t tell him I said that.”

“Well, there’s a surprise,” Lizzie rolled her eyes.

Frances leaned into her. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured. Lizzie was younger than her but often times it felt like she was the sensible, adult one and Frances was the floundering child. Lizzie hugged her arm tightly.

“William and Alastair are so good for Freddie,” Lizzie observed after a little while. “Makes up for the miserable way Fred treats him.”

This time Frances didn’t leap to Frederick’s defence, knowing he didn’t deserve it.

“I always thought Frederick would want him to learn the business. I supposed he would want to give him the best training so he could take over the reins when he retired. I thought he’d have had more… interest in his son.”

“So would I, love. So would I.” Lizzie agreed.

In quiet moments, Frances wondered if the notion of one day having to hand over the company to someone else was simply too difficult for her husband to bear, considering how hard he’d worked to get to where he was.

Sometimes, if felt as though even the thought of handing it to his son was perhaps too much to bear.

They crested the hill, and Frances laughed to see that her incredibly efficient servants had set up some easels, paints, and papers. Goodness alone knew where they had come from. A row of picnic tables lay close by, and Frances made a note to thank them later for their quick thinking.

The ladies sat in the shade of a large tree where blankets and chairs awaited.

Mr Rossetti flitted about setting up painting stations for all four of the children, telling them what paints they required, how they needed to consider the sun, the shadow it cast, and how to sharpen pencils to just the right point for sketching.

All of them hung on his every word, even Freddie who cared little for art.

Mr Rossetti finished distributing the paint pots and charcoal, then retired to sit with the adults. Frances was going to go over and help the children, but Mr Whistler threw himself into the proceedings with gusto, much to the children’s delight. Moments later, he called over to his friend.

“Rossetti, we need your wise counsel. Gentlemen, do join us.”

Mr Rossetti made a play of sighing but rose to his feet, as so did Alastair and Mr Carlisle, making the children shriek with joy at having their attention.

Mr Whistler stripped off his jacket, causing Frances to blink, and a riotous lesson ensued.

Frances simply watched in absolute delight and for the first time in what felt like forever, she sat back, relaxed, and enjoyed the company unreservedly.

“What do you think of Mr Whistler?” Edith asked as she accepted a glass of wine.

Frances regarded the man in question as he rushed about in the sunshine, enthralling her children.

“I have no idea,” she said eventually. “At first, I thought him rather showy, but he is being awfully kind to the children.”

Edith chuckled. “He’s a proper peacock, I’ll give you that.”

“It could be worse,” Lizzie added. “He could be shabbily dressed and smelly, to boot, like that other chap Fred was interested in.”

All of them laughed at that.

Frances considered the question. “He’s a little… loose. I think it’s because he’s American.”

“Loose?” Edith pondered. “Do you mean morally?”

“Lord, no,” Frances said on a laugh. “Just that he has a different approach to life that seems less…” she searched for a word. “Restricted.”

“Well, he did rescue the picnic, and the children seem to love him,” Lizzie agreed, just as Mr Whistler looked over at them, almost as if he knew they were discussing him at that moment.

He waved, dropped her an unmistakable wink, and then turned back to listen attentively to something Florence said.

Frances was open mouthed. “There. Do you see what I mean? Loose!”

Edith shook her head. “What’s wrong with a wink?”

Frances sat up straighter. “We are both married women. He shouldn’t be winking at us.”

Edith tutted. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Frances! First, he wasn’t winking at me, he was winking at you, and second, how old are you? I don’t think you are in your dotage quite yet. What’s wrong with a little harmless flirting?”

Frances felt completely flustered by his inappropriateness but shut her mouth as the words that threatened to spill out would have done her maiden aunt proud. She wasn’t really quite so prudish, was she?