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“Well?” she demanded.
“You, my dear Frances, are the Countess of Rothermere. There is no one to gainsay you, not a mother nor a father. You are mistress here. This is your home. These are your servants. You can, as a matter of fact, do exactly as you please.”
She stared at him a moment, his very calm words sinking into her befuddled brain.
She said very slowly, her brow nit in thought, “You are quite right. I can do exactly as I please, can I not?”
“Most assuredly,” said the marquess, hope flaring.
Frances gave him a quite dazzling, beautiful smile. She pulled the cap off her hair and flung it to the floor. She stomped on it.
She next pulled the pins from the severe bun and shook out her thick hair.
She burst into merry laughter. “I believe, my lord, that the dowdy mouse has just died behind the wainscoting.” She threw the spectacles into the air, and when they landed, she ground her heel into the lenses.
“My lord, do you know of any acceptable modistes in York?”
“We will invite Lady Alicia Bourchier to tea, Frances. She will know of a top-of-the-trees modiste, doubt it not. As for funds, as the mistress here, you have all you need. Now, my dear, I know of a trunk that holds some of Nevil’s clothing. Perhaps we can find a pair of trousers for you. You would like to go riding, would you not?”
Frances threw her arms around the marquess’s neck. “You are a wicked old man, sir!”
“And you, my dear daughter, are a minx.”
Frances laughed gleefully, and didn’t hear the marquess add under his breath, “My poor son. You haven’t a chance, not now.”
He wondered as he rode beside a laughing, carefree Frances, how long he should allow Hawk to absent himself. Well, he would just wait and see how Frances settled in. Then he would decide how to bring his son about. If it were not for wicked, meddling old men, he thought, heedless young men would not gain their just deserts.
As for Frances, didn’t she realize that her husband would return? He wondered what she would do when that realization struck her between the eyes, as it surely would, sooner or later.
12
She lays it on with a trowel.
—WILLIAM CONGREVE
Mrs. Jerkins gawked at the vision, her mouth opening in a most undignified manner. Agnes had gasped that her ladyship had changed, but Mrs. Jerkins was of a tenacious, unchangeable nature, thus retrenching proved difficult.
“I .... my lady, what ... ?”
Frances gave her a sweet smile and said gently, “Please be seated, Mrs. Jerkins. I believe that you and I have some plans to make.”
“But here, in his lordship’s estate room?‘ No lady in Mrs. Jerkins’ experience would ever poach in a masculine preserve.
Frances understood well enough, but her smile never faltered. Mrs. Jerkins was quite used to being the oracle of housewifely behavior at Desborough. But Frances was taking over Delphi, and without further delay. She’d delayed too long as it was.
“Please be seated,” she said again, and Mrs. Jerkins sat, the keys at her waist jingling loudly.
“Now,” Frances said, “here is what you and I shall do. First of all, I will go over the menus for the week each Monday morning—”
“But,” Mrs. Jerkins sputtered, “you can’t read!”
Frances laughed at that. “What a poor impression I first gave you of my countrymen, Mrs. Jerkins. I assure you that I can read, it was just that I was in my, er, spectacle mode and thus was quite blind. I gather that menu you showed me wasn’t for a dinner?”
“It was a linen list!”
“Ah, I trust you still have it, for I should like to see to that this morning. Then, a complete tour of the house.”
Mrs. Jerkins was still looking like a full-ballasted three-rigger floundering in the shoals. Frances sat forward, her hands flat on the beautiful mahogany desk. “I believe that you and I will deal quite well together. It has been difficult, I would imagine, not having a mistress here. A household of men must have made your life less than harmonious.”
