All About Passion Read online

  Francesca paused. That was not the first hint that Lady Elizabeth, while immensely pleased over the wedding, was not at one with her son over the details. As for the family members invited—the fact was there was only one family involved. She and Chillingworth were cousins, umpteen times removed perhaps, but that should make assembling the guest list easier. Shouldn’t it?

  Setting aside the point, she continued, “She says the castle staff are busy opening up the wings and polishing everything, and that I may rely on her to see that all is just so. She suggests I write with any requests or questions, and assures me she’ll be delighted to advise in any way.”

  Her tone signified “the end.” She refolded the letter.

  Franni sighed. “It sounds wonderful! Don’t you think so, Aunt Ester?”

  “I do, indeed.” Ester smiled. “Francesca will make a wonderful countess. But now we must think of a wedding gown.”

  “Oh, yes!” Franni sat bolt upright. “The gown! Why—”

  “I’m going to wear my mother’s wedding gown,” Francesca quickly said. Franni was given to overenthusiasms which sometimes turned difficult. “Something old and borrowed, you know.”

  “Oh—yes.” Franni frowned.

  “A very nice idea,” Ester said. “We must have Gilly up from the village and check that it fits.”

  Franni had been mumbling. Now she lifted her head. “That leaves something new and blue.”

  “Garters, perhaps?” Ester suggested.

  Francesca nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

  “Can we go into Lyndhurst and buy them tomorrow?” Franni fixed huge eyes on Ester’s face.

  Ester glanced at Francesca. “I don’t see why not.”

  “No, indeed. Tomorrow, then,” Francesca said.

  “Good, good, good!” Franni leapt up and flung her arms wide. The cushion went tumbling. “Tomorrow morning! Tomorrow morning!” She waltzed around the room. “We’re going to get Francesca something new and blue tomorrow morning!” Reaching the open door, she waltzed through. “Papa! Did you hear? We’re going . . .”

  Ester smiled as Franni’s voice died away. “I hope you don’t mind, dear, but you know how she is.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” Shifting her gaze from the door to Ester’s face, Francesca lowered her voice. “Charles told me he was worried that Franni would become querulous once she realizes I’m leaving, but she seems quite happy.”

  “To be truthful, dear, I don’t think Franni will realize you’re leaving—not coming back—until we return here without you. Things that are obvious to us often don’t occur to her at all, and then she’s upset by the surprise.”

  Francesca nodded, although she had never truly understood Franni’s vagueness. “I’d intended to ask her to be bridesmaid, but Uncle Charles said no.” She’d shown her letter to her uncle first, and he’d been adamant on that point. “He said he wouldn’t even like to say Franni will be at the wedding—he said she might not wish to be there.”

  Ester reached out and squeezed Francesca’s hand. “That has nothing to do with what she feels for you. But she might become frightened at the last minute and not want to appear. As bridesmaid, that really wouldn’t do.”

  “I suppose not. Charles suggested that I ask Lady Elizabeth’s advice on who should stand with me—I don’t even know if Chillingworth has sisters.”

  “Sisters, or close cousins of the bridegroom, given we have no one of suitable age on our side. Asking Lady Elizabeth would be wisest.”

  Ester rose; Francesca did, too. She glanced at the letter in her hand. “I’ll write this afternoon.” She smiled as she recalled Lady Elizabeth’s warmth. “I have lots of questions, and she seems like the best person to ask.”

  Despite Charles’s worry, Franni’s transparent happiness over Francesca’s wedding did not dim, although to everyone’s relief, her expressions of joy became less extreme. Franni’s temper remained sunny; engrossed though she was in the myriad preparations for her nuptials and her researches into her husband-to-be, his house and the estate, Francesca noted that with a certain happiness of her own. Charles, Ester, and Franni were now her family; she wanted them there, at her wedding, and as happy as she was.

  When, four days before the wedding, they set out in the lumbering coach, Charles and Ester on one seat with Francesca and Franni facing them, Francesca was as excited as Franni and even more impatient. They would spend two days on the road, arriving at Lambourn Castle on the second day, two nights before the wedding as Chillingworth had stipulated. On that point he’d remained firm, unmoved by Lady Elizabeth’s pleas for more time before the wedding to become acquainted with her future daughter-in-law.

  Lady Elizabeth hadn’t accepted his refusal with anything like good grace—Francesca had laughed at the diatribe the Dowager Countess had, in her next letter, heaped on her son’s head. After their first exchange of letters, correspondence between Lambourn Castle and Rawlings Hall had proliferated dramatically, letters crossing and recrossing. By the time Francesca left Rawlings Hall, she was almost as eager to meet her mother-in-law-to-be as she was to see her handsome fiancé again.

  The first day passed easily as the coach rocked its way north.

  At noon on the second day, it started to rain.

  Then it poured.

  The road turned to mud. By late afternoon, the coach was crawling along. Heavy grey clouds had massed, then lowered; an unnatural twilight had descended, darkened further by the rain.

  The coach rocked to a stop. Then it tilted, and they heard a splat as the coachman jumped down. He rapped on the door.

  Charles opened it. “Yes?”

  Barton stood in the road, the rain streaming off his oilskin, pouring off his hat. “Sorry, sir, but we’re a long ways away from Lambourn and we’re not going to be able to go much farther. The light’s going. Even if you was willing to risk the horses, we can’t see what muck we’d be driving into, so we’d bog for sure within a mile.”

  Charles grimaced. “Is there somewhere we can take shelter, at least until the rain stops?”

  “There’s an inn just up there.” Barton nodded to the left. “We can see it from the box. Looks neat enough, but it’s not a coaching inn. Other than that, we’re miles from any town.”

  Charles hesitated, then nodded. “Take us to the inn. I’ll have a look and see if we can stop there.”

  Barton shut the door. Charles sat back and looked at Francesca. “I’m sorry, my dear, but . . .”

  Francesca managed a shrug. “At least we have a day’s grace. If the rain stops during the night, we’ll be able to reach Lambourn tomorrow.”

  “Good God, yes!” Charles uttered a hollow laugh. “After all his planning, I wouldn’t want to have to face Chillingworth and explain why his bride had missed the wedding.”

  Francesca grinned and patted Charles’s knee. “It’ll all come right—you’ll see.” For some reason, she felt confident of that.

  The inn proved better than they’d hoped for, small but clean and very willing to cater to four unexpected guests and their servants. As the rain showed no sign of easing, they accepted their fate and settled in. The inn boasted three bedchambers. Charles took one, Ester another, while Francesca and Franni shared the largest with its canopied bed.

  They gathered in the tap for a hearty meal, then retired to their rooms, agreeing on an early start the next morning, heartened by the prediction of the innwife’s father who assured them tomorrow would dawn fine. Reassured, Francesca settled in the big bed beside Franni and snuffed out the candle.

  They’d left the curtains open; moonlight streamed in, broken by the shadows thrown by nearby trees.

  After spending the day dozing in the coach, neither of them was sleepy. Francesca wasn’t surprised when Franni stirred, and asked, “Tell me about the castle.”

  She’d already told her twice, but Franni liked stories, and the idea of Francesca living in a castle appealed to her. “Very well.” Francesca fixed her gaze on the da
rk canopy. “Lambourn Castle is centuries old. It sits on a bluff over a curve in the Lambourn River and guards the approach to the downs to the north. The village of Lambourn lies a little way along the river, tucked into the side of the downs. The castle has been modernized frequently and added on to as well, so it’s now quite large, but it still has battlements and twin towers at either end. It’s surrounded by a park filled with old oaks. The gatehouse is still standing and is now the Dower House. With formal gardens overlooking the river, the castle is one of the great houses of the district.”

  She’d spent hours thumbing through guidebooks and books describing the country seats of peers, and she’d learned yet more from Lady Elizabeth. “Inside, the house is of the utmost elegance, and the views to the south are rated as spectacular. From the upper levels, there are also views north across Lambourn Downs. The downs are excellent for riding and are used for training racehorses.”

  “You’ll like that,” Franni murmured.

  Francesca smiled. She said nothing more, only to hear Franni prompt, “And the bit of land that you have in your dowry is going to make the earl’s estate look like one big pie again.”

  “Indeed.” Franni had overheard enough to become curious, so she’d explained. “And that’s the reason for arranging our marriage.”

  After a moment, Franni asked, “Do you think you’ll like being married to your earl?”

  Francesca’s smile deepened. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Franni sighed. “That’s good.”

  Francesca closed her eyes, expecting that Franni would now settle. Her mind wandered . . . to Lambourn Downs, to riding a fleet-footed Arabian mare—

  “I had a gentleman come to visit me—did I tell you?”

  “Oh?” Wide-awake again, Francesca frowned. “When did he call?”

  “Some weeks ago.”

  Francesca hadn’t heard a word about any gentleman coming to visit Franni. That didn’t mean some gentleman hadn’t appeared. She considered her next question carefully; with Franni, one had to be specific, not general. “Was it before or after Chillingworth visited?”

  She couldn’t see Franni’s face, but she could sense her struggling. “Sometime about then, I think.”

  Franni wasn’t good with time; for her, one day was much like another. Before Francesca could think of her next question, Franni wriggled around to face her. “When Chillingworth asked you to marry him, did he kiss you?”

  Francesca hesitated. “I didn’t meet him formally. The marriage was arranged through your father—he’s my guardian.”

  “You mean you haven’t even met Chillingworth?”

  “We met informally. We discussed a few details—”

  “But did he kiss you?”

  Francesca hesitated some more. “Yes,” she eventually replied.

  “What was it like?”

  The eagerness in Franni’s voice was impossible to mistake. If she didn’t appease it, Francesca knew she’d get precious little sleep. The kisses she’d shared with her husband-to-be remained fresh in her mind; it took only a moment to decide which interlude to describe. “He kissed me in the orchard. He stopped me from falling and claimed a kiss as a reward.”

  “And? What did it feel like?”

  “He’s very strong. Powerful. Masterful . . .” The words were enough to evoke the memory and send recollected sensation sweeping through her, sweeping her away—

  “But was it nice?”

  Francesca stifled a frustrated sigh. “It was better than nice.”

  “Good.”

  She felt Franni rocking herself happily and had to ask, “This gentleman who called, did he try to kiss you?”

  “Oh, no. He was very proper. But he walked with me and listened to me very politely, so I expect he’s thinking of making an offer.”

  “He called just once some weeks ago—”

  “Twice. He came back after the first time. So that must mean he’s taken with me, don’t you think?”

  Francesca didn’t know what to think. “Did he tell you his name?” She felt Franni nod. “What was it, Franni?”

  Franni shook her head. She had a pillow clutched to her middle, and she hugged it almost gleefully. “You have your Chillingworth, and I have my gentleman. That’s nice, don’t you think?”

  Francesca hesitated, then reached out and patted Franni’s arm. “Very nice.” She knew better than to press Franni once she’d said “no.” That was one word Franni never shifted from; any pressure would only provoke enormous and sometimes hysterical resistance.

  To Francesca’s relief, Franni settled, sighed, then snuggled deeper under the covers. A minute later, she was asleep.

  Francesca lay staring up at the canopy, and wondered what to do. Had some gentleman called on Franni—or had she imagined it, a reaction to Chillingworth calling on her? That was possible. Franni didn’t lie, not deliberately, but her version of the truth often diverged from reality. Like the time she swore they’d been held up by highwaymen, when all that had happened was that Squire Muckleridge had hailed them as they drove past.

  What Franni said happened and what really had happened weren’t necessarily the same thing. Francesca considered the little Franni had let fall—there was no way of telling if it was truth or fantasy.

  Despite Franni’s sometimes childlike behavior, in age there was only a month between them. In looks, in physical maturity, they were equals. By all outward appearances, Franni passed for a young gentlewoman. In the right setting with the right subject, she could converse perfectly rationally as long as her interlocutor did not switch subjects quickly or ask a question beyond Franni’s ken. If her train of thought was broken, her vagueness quickly became apparent, but if it wasn’t triggered, then there was nothing to disturb the image of a quiet, unassuming young lady.

  Francesca knew there was something amiss with Franni, that her vagueness and retreat into childish ways was not a condition that was improving with time. Charles and Ester’s care and concern underscored the truth, but Francesca had never asked, never forced either Charles or Ester to acknowledge that truth by explaining it to her.

  That Franni’s condition was a source of pain and sorrow to both Charles and Ester was something Francesca knew without asking; she strove to do nothing to add to that pain. So she considered carefully what Franni had said, considered whether and how much she should tell Charles.

  Not Charles, she eventually decided. A gentleman might not understand a lonely girl’s dreams. Francesca had dreamed enough in her time; Franni’s gentleman might live only in Franni’s mind.

  Turning onto her side, Francesca snuggled down. Tomorrow she’d warn Ester—just in case Franni’s gentleman had, in fact, been real.

  Decision made, she relaxed and let her mind drift. Like a slow, inexorable tide, the emotions that had swept her earlier returned, inching up, then pooling inside, a well of impatient longing.

  She’d waited for him for years; at his insistence, she’d waited four weeks more. Soon, it would be her wedding night. She’d wait no more.

  Her dreams were ones of passion, of longing and love, of a love so deep, so enduring, it would never wane.

  Morning came and she rose, restless, oddly breathless, more impatient than she’d ever been. She dressed and went downstairs. She joined the innwife’s old father as he stood in the open doorway.

  He glanced at her, then nodded outside. “Told you. It’s cleared and gone. You’ll get to your wedding on time, young mistress.”

  Chapter 5

  The old man’s prophecy held true, but they cut it very fine. The state of the roads as they pushed north deteriorated; the rains had been heavier here. They crossed the Lambourn River, swollen and running high, via a stone bridge; if the crossing had been a ford, they would never have made it. It was too dark to see much of Lambourn village beyond a cluster of roofs off to one side, huddling between the river and the escarpment of the downs.

  The escarpment lowered over them as the road swung left, fo
llowing the river, gradually rising above it. It was almost full dark when they slowed and turned between huge gateposts, their wrought-iron gates set wide. The crest in the gate on Francesca’s side, illuminated briefly by the coach lamps, had a wolf’s head as the principal device.

  She leaned closer to the window, peering through the gloom. The Dower House had been on the coach’s other side; she’d barely glimpsed it. They rattled along a well-graded drive, the horses at last picking up speed. Parkland dotted with huge oaks stretched as far as she could see.

  The coach slowed. The tension that had steadily built all day knotted tight; her stomach was a hard ball pressing into her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The coach halted. The door opened. A footman stood ready to assist them to the ground. Flickering light from flares lit the scene.

  Francesca went first. The footman handed her down to a flagged forecourt. Releasing her skirts, she looked around.

  Lambourn Castle, her new home, was exactly as she’d imagined it. The Palladian facade stetched away on either side. Tall windows were set into the pale stone at regular intervals, some with curtains drawn, others with lights glowing. The second story was topped by a stone frieze, which she knew hid the old battlements behind it. Directly before her, a sweep of steps led up to the imposing entrance, the pedimented porch held aloft by tall columns flanking double doors.

  Those doors stood wide; warm light streamed out. Two tallish, older ladies stood silhouetted just outside the doors. Francesca gathered her skirts and climbed the steps.

  One of the ladies came sweeping up the instant she reached the porch. “My dear Francesca, welcome to your new home! I’m Elizabeth, dear, Gyles’s mama.”

  Enveloped in a scented embrace, Francesca closed her eyes against a rush of tears and returned the embrace eagerly. “I’m delighted to finally meet you, ma’am.”