Francesca

‘Are you being deliberately obstructive, Fanny, or simply very stupid? I refer to your surname.’

‘Grandfather said I was to be a Shelwood. After I came here.’

‘Quite so. Have you never wondered why?’ The little girl had been pleased that her grandfather wanted to give her his name. It made her feel more wanted, more as if she belonged. She had accepted it, as she had accepted everything else. She had never questioned his reasons. She shook her head.

‘It was because, Fanny, as far as we could tell, you had no other name to call yourself.’

‘I…I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Cassandra. I was called Francesca Beaudon at home on St Marthe.’

‘Francesca…Beaudon.’ Her aunt’s lip curled as she pronounced the name. ‘What right had you to such a name, pray?’

Francesca was completely puzzled. What did her aunt mean? She shook her head. ‘I…I don’t know. Because Papa’s name was Beaudon?’

Miss Shelwood leaned forward. ‘You had no right whatsoever to the name of Beaudon, Fanny Shelwood! None at all! Your father’s name is not for such as you. Richard Beaudon never married your mother!’

‘Of course Papa and Mama were married!’ cried Francesca in instant and scornful repudiation. What did this woman know about life on St Marthe? ‘Of course they were married,’ she repeated more loudly. ‘Everyone called Mama Lady Beaudon.’

‘Do not raise your voice to me, Fanny. I will not have it!’

There was a silence while Francesca wrestled with her sense of anger and outrage. Finally she muttered, ‘They were married. It’s not true what you say!’

‘Are you daring to doubt my word?’ A slight pause, then, ‘You must accept it, I’m afraid. And, unless you learn to control your feelings better, I shall wash my hands of you, and then where would you be? You might well go the way your unfortunate mother went—with disastrous consequences to herself and you.’

‘It isn’t true,’ said Francesca doggedly. She sounded brave, but deep down she felt a growing sense of panic. She was not sure of the exact significance of what her aunt was saying, but there was nothing good about it. There was a girl in the village who had a baby though she wasn’t married. Everyone was very unkind to her and called her names. They called the baby names, too. It was impossible that her darling mama had been like Tilly Sefton! ‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she said, her voice rising again.

Miss Shelwood said sharply, ‘Do stop contradicting me in that ridiculous way! What does a little girl like you know about such things? People called your mother “Lady”—’ Aunt Cassandra’s voice dripped contempt ‘—“Lady Beaudon”, because they did not wish to offend. It was merely a courtesy title!’

When Francesca remained silent she went on, ‘Deceive yourself if you wish—but tell me this if you can, Fanny. What happened after your mother died? Did your father keep you by him, as any real father would? He did not. He packed you off to England as soon as he could and we, your mother’s family, were more or less forced to give you a home and a name! And what have you heard from your father since you left the West Indies? Nothing! No visits, no letters, no money, no gifts—not even on your birthday. Why is that, Fanny?’

Once again Francesca was silent. She had nothing to say in defence of herself and her father. She had been hurt that she never heard anything from him, had tried to find out why, but her grandfather had always refused to mention the Beaudon name.

Satisfied that she had made her point, Miss Shelwood went on, ‘So you see, Fanny, a marriage is most unlikely for you, do you not agree? What have you to offer a respectable man? A girl without fortune, without name and—you have to admit that you are hardly a beauty. But you may stay here with me as long as I am alive.’

Even fourteen years later, Francesca still resented the cruel manner in which her aunt had told her of her situation. It had been like crushing a butterfly. For months afterwards she had cried herself to sleep or lain awake, thinking of her life with Maddy and her mother in the West Indies, trying to remember anything at all which might contradict what her aunt had said. But she had found nothing.

Her father had always been a dim figure in the background, especially after Mama had fallen ill and most of her time had been spent in the pretty, airy bedroom with fluttering white curtains and draperies. It was Maddy who had been the child’s companion then, Maddy who had sworn never to leave her young charge.

But, of course, Maddy had been forced to go when Aunt Cassandra dismissed her. Aunt Cassandra, not Grandfather. Francesca’s heart still ached at the memory of their parting. She had clung to Maddy’s skirts, as if she could keep her nurse at Shelwood by physical force, had pleaded with her grandfather, even with her aunt. But Maddy had had to go.

As Francesca grew older, she came to accept the hard truth about her birth, if only because she could not see why her aunt should otherwise invent a tale which reflected so badly on the Shelwood name. The rest of it—that she was poor and plain—was more easily accepted. It wasn’t just what her aunt said—everyone seemed to think that she was very like Miss Shelwood, who was tall, thin and pale, with strong features.

Francesca, too, was tall, thin and pale, and though she didn’t have the Shelwood eyes—the Shelwood eyes were dark brown, and hers were a greyish-green—her hair was very much the same colour as her aunt’s, an indeterminate, mousy sort of blonde. How Francesca wished she had taken after her small, vivacious mother, with her rich golden curls and large pansy-brown eyes, who had always been laughing!

A sudden rumble of thunder quite close brought Francesca back with a start to the present. She glanced up at the sky. The clouds were gathering fast—which direction were they travelling? Then a horn blared behind her and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She turned and was horrified to see a chaise and four bearing down on her at speed. She leapt for her life to the side of the road, but lost her balance, skidded into the ditch, and ended up in nettles, goose grass and the muddy water left over from the previous night’s rain.

The chaise thundered past, accompanied by shouts from its driver as he fought to bring his team to a halt. At first she made no attempt to move, but lay there in the ditch, content to recover her breath and listen to crisp orders being issued some way down the road. It had taken a while to stop the chaise. Footsteps approached the ditch where she lay and came to a halt beside her.

‘Are you hurt?’ Betsy’s old sunbonnet had tipped forward and covered her eyes, so that all she could see when she looked up was a pair of long legs encased in buckskins and beautifully polished boots.

‘You were well clear of the coach, so don’t try to pretend. Come, girl, there’s sixpence for you if you get out of that ditch and show me that your fall hasn’t done any harm. Take hold of my cane.’

That voice! It was cooler and more authoritative than she remembered. And the undercurrent of mockery was new. But the rich timbre and deep tones were still familiar. Oh, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t! Fate would not be so unkind. Francesca shut her eyes and fervently hoped that memory was playing her false. Then the end of an ebony cane tapped her hand, and she grasped it reluctantly. One heave and she was out of the ditch and standing on the road. An exquisitely fitted green coat and elegant waistcoat were added to her vision of the gentleman.

‘You see? You’re perfectly unharmed.’

Francesca was not reassured by these words. She listened with growing apprehension as he went on, ‘There’s the sixpence—and there’s another penny if you’ll tell us if this lane leads to Witham Court. We appear to have taken a wrong turning.’

Francesca swallowed, tried to speak and uttered instead a strangled croak. Fate was being every bit as unkind as she had feared! He had not yet recognised her, but if he did…

‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ The gentleman pulled her towards him and, before she could stop him, was running his hands over her arms and legs. ‘Yes, you’re quite sound,’ he said, drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his fingers fastidiously on it. ‘So stop shamming—there are no more sixpences, Mary, or whatever your name is. Nothing more to be got out of me, until you tell me where Witham Court is.’ His movements had been impersonal—rather as if he were feeling the legs of a horse—but Francesca’s face flamed and she was seized with a sudden access of rage.

‘You can keep your money,’ she said, pushing her hat back from her face, and glaring at him. ‘An abject apology would be more in line, though I doubt it will be forthcoming. The last thing any of us expect is decent behaviour from the owner of Witham Court, or his guests.’

His eyes narrowed, then he said slowly, ‘I appear to have made a mistake. I took you for one of the village girls.’ He eyed her shabby dress and bonnet. ‘Understandably, perhaps. But—’ he eyed her uncertainly again ‘—it can’t be. Yet now I look…we’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘Yes,’ said Francesca stonily, wishing she could lie.

‘Of course! You were wet then, too…we both were. Why, yes! How could I have forgotten that glorious figure…?’

He laughed when Francesca gave an involuntary gasp of indignation and then pulled himself together and looked rueful. ‘I’m deeply sorry—that slipped out. I do beg your pardon, ma’am. Abjectly.’

Francesca was unreconciled. He didn’t sound abject. ‘The details of our previous acquaintance are best forgotten, sir. All of them. And if you offer me an apology, it surely ought to be for knocking me into the ditch.’

‘We did not knock you into the ditch. You jumped and fell. No, I was apologising for not recognising you.’ He regarded the wet and bedraggled creature before him. ‘Not even for a gentlewoman. As for our previous meeting—it shall be erased from my mind, as requested. A pity, though. Some details have been a most pleasant memory.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

How dared he remind her of such an unfortunate and embarrassing interlude! Had he no shame? Of course he hadn’t! He was a rake and a villain, and she was a fool to be affected by him.

‘You surprise me,’ she said acidly. ‘But are you suggesting you would not have practically run me down if you had realised I wasn’t one of the villagers? What a very strange notion of chivalry you have to be sure! As if it mattered who or what I was!’

‘Forgive me, but I did not practically run you down. My nephew, who is a trifle high-spirited, gave us all an uncomfortable time, including my horses, in his efforts to prove himself a notable whip. I shall deal with him presently. But allow me to say that you were standing like a moonling on that road. You must have heard us coming?’

‘I thought it was thunder—You’re doing it again! How rude you are to call me a moonling!’

‘It wasn’t your good sense that attracted me all those years ago, Francesca! And standing in the middle of a highway is hardly the action of a rational being. Nor is it rational now to stand arguing about a trifle when you should be hastening to change out of your wet clothes.’

The justice of this remark did not endear the gentleman to Francesca. She was about to make a scathing reply when they were interrupted.

‘Marcus, darling! Have you taken root, or something? We shall be caught in the storm if you don’t hurry.’

The speaker was picking her way delicately along the road, holding up the skirts of an exquisite gown in green taffeta, her face shaded by a black hat with a huge brim. As a travelling costume it was hardly suitable, the hat a trifle too large, the dress a touch too low cut, but Francesca had never seen anything so stylish in her life. Under the hat were wisps of black hair, dark eyes, red lips, a magnolia skin with a delicate rose in the cheeks—an arrestingly vivid face. But at the moment an expression of dissatisfaction marred its perfection, and the voice was petulant.

‘I’m not coming any further—the road is quite dreadful—but do make haste. What is the delay?’ The dark eyes turned to Francesca. ‘Good Lord! What a filthy mess! What on earth is it?’ She stared for a moment, then turned to the man. ‘Really, Marcus, why are you wasting time on such a wretch? Pay her off and come back to the coach. And do hurry. I shall wait with Nick. No, don’t say another word—I refuse to listen. Don’t forget to get her to tell you the way—if she knows it,’ she added, looking at Francesca again with disdain.

‘You mistake the matter, Charmian. Miss Shelwood’s accident has misled you into thinking she is one of the country folk. In fact, her family own much of the land in the district.’

‘Really?’ The dark eyes looked again at the shabby dress. ‘How very odd! Don’t be long, Marcus.’ Then the vision turned round and picked her way back to the carriage.

Francesca felt her face burn under its streaks of mud. She was well used to snubs from her aunt, but this was different—and from such a woman!