The action of glancing about the room, scanning his guests, was purely reflexive. Everyone was chatting, all except Franni. Gyles’s gaze stopped on her; he’d expected her to be bored, possibly frowning. Instead…
She was smug, there was no other word for it. She was all but hugging herself with smirking satisfaction. Her gaze was on him and Francesca, but she wasn’t really seeing-she hadn’t realized he was watching her. Her lips were curved in a peculiar, distant smile. Her whole expression spoke of faraway thoughts and pleasurable imaginings.
Gyles stepped closer to Francesca. Franni’s smugness increased. She was, very definitely, watching them.
Frances Rawlings was an exceedingly strange woman.
Horace turned to Gyles. “How’s the bridge going?”
Francesca listened to Gyles’s reply, then squeezed his fingers, slid her hand free, and strolled over to Franni.
“Are you all right?” With a swish of silk skirts, she sat on the arm of Franni’s chair.
“Yes!” Franni sat back, smiling. “I’ve had a lovely visit. I’m sure we’ll come more often, now.”
Francesa smiled back. She turned the conversation to Rawlings Hall, avoiding all mention of Bath.
Charles and Ester joined them; Francesca stood so they could speak more easily. Then Ester sat on the chair arm the better to talk to Franni. Charles laid a hand on Francesca’s arm. She turned to him.
“My dear, it’s been such an enjoyable stay. I have to say it’s made me feel thoroughly vindicated in urging you to accept Chillingworth’s offer. Seeing you so settled has set my mind at rest.”
Francesca smiled. “I’m happy, and very glad you came and got to know Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace-we’re all related, after all.”
“Indeed. It’s a pity we’re so out of touch.”
Francesca said nothing of her plans, her familial aims. Time enough when she’d set them in train. But she was sincerely happy and relieved by how well the visit had gone. It was, in a way, the first feather in her social cap.
Ester stood, and the conversation veered to their journey the next day. Franni made a querulous comment over the detour to Bath; Charles sat on the end of the chaise to reassure her.
Ester raised a brow at Francesca, then murmured, “I do hope she won’t refuse to drink the waters when we get there.”
“Do they really help her?”
Ester regarded Franni, then quietly said, “Franni’s very like her mother… as you know, Elise died. We can’t be sure, yet, but Charles lives in hope.”
Before Francesca could frame her next question, Ester said, “I haven’t yet told Charles about Franni’s gentleman. I will once we reach home. No need to worry before that. But I did speak with Franni, and she told me he exists, but he’s definitely not Chillingworth.” Ester met Francesca’s eyes. “That must have been so unsettling for you-I’m glad we’ve sorted that much out.”
Francesca nodded. “You’ll write and let me know…”
“Of course.” Ester looked again at Franni, at Charles leaning close, speaking slowly and evenly. “She has improved, you know.” After another moment, she softly said, “Who can say? Perhaps the cloud will pass.”
The tone of Ester’s voice, vulnerability mixed with sadness, made Francesca swallow her questions.
At the other end of the chaise, Gyles drew Henni aside. “Now, cut line. What answer do you have for me.”
Henni glanced to where Franni sat slumped in the armchair, Charles hovering over her. “She’s odd.”
“I know,” Gyles replied pointedly.
“I’d be tempted to say she’s softheaded, or to use a vulgar but appropriate term, dicked in the nob, yet that’s not quite it. She’s perfectly lucid if a little simple, yet, after talking to her for a while, you look into those eyes and wonder if she’s truly there, and who it is you’ve been talking to.”
“She seems… innocuous enough.”
“Oh, entirely-not dangerous in any way. It’s more a case of not being at home.” Henni looked at Francesca. “There’s nothing like it on the Rawlings side-Frances must have got it from her mother, although Ester is as rational as you please.” Henni glanced at Gyles. “We’ve never been anything but hardheaded on our side of the family, and from all I ever heard of Francesca’s mother, she was a strong-willed woman-too strong-willed for old Francis Rawlings to cow. No need to think any of Frances’s traits will come into this arm of the family via Francesca.”
Gyles blinked. He looked at Francesca, now exchanging gossip with his mother. “That never occurred to me.” After a moment, his gaze still on Francesca, he murmured, “There’s no element of her behavior I wish to change.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Henni grin. She patted his arm and gruffly said, “Horace keeps on about you being a lucky dog-for what it’s worth, I agree with him.”
Gyles looked down at her. “Thank you for your opinion.”
Henni opened her eyes at him. “Which one?”
Gyles smiled. He stepped forward, drawing Henni with him, returning to the general conversations. He moved to Charles’s side, to share a few companionable words, ignoring Franni’s wide gaze.
They were leaving tomorrow morning; for Francesca’s sake, he would bear with Franni’s oddity for one last hour.
Chapter 14
The next morning, they waved their guests away. As Charles’s carriage rounded the bend in the drive, Francesca sighed. Gyles glanced at her, pleased the sigh had been a contented one.
“I was thinking of riding out to check on the bridge.” He waited until she looked up and met his eyes to ask, “Would you like to come?”
He’d wanted to see anticipation flare in her eyes; he wasn’t disappointed. But then she grimaced; the light faded. “No-not today. I’ve accomplished so little in the last three days, I need to catch up. The Harvest Festival’s only a week away, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”
He hesitated, then said, “I don’t need to check the bridge today-is there anything I can do to help?”
Disappointment vanished from her eyes. Smiling, she linked her arm through his, looking down as they turned back into the house. “If you would exercise your memory and tell me all you can remember of the day-what happened, when, and so on-it would be a great help. Cook knows some things, Mrs. Cantle knows others, and your mother and aunt remember still other bits, but I can’t find anyone who remembers the day as a child.” She glanced at him. “But you must. We have so many children on the estate, I want the day to be filled for them, too.”
“If it’s not, we’ll be fishing them out of the pond and the fountain. That’s what always happened when the younger crew got bored.”
“Being wet at this time of year isn’t wise, so we must ensure the younger ones aren’t bored.”
“Being wet never hurt me.” Gyles steered her to his study.
“That,” she declared as she swept over the threshold, “is not what your mother said.”
They spent the rest of the day organizing their Harvest Festival-the first for twenty-eight years. Gyles recounted his memories, then they added the events mentioned by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace.
After lunch, they called in Wallace and Irving, Mrs. Cantle and Cook. By late afternoon, they had a battle plan.
Gyles sat in an armchair and watched Francesca, the general, seated behind his desk, outline her campaign. Their troops were ranged about the room on chairs, nodding, occasionally putting in a suggestion or correction. The enthusiasm swirling about the room was palpable.
“I know where we can get the right-size barrels for the bobbing,” Irving volunteered.
Wallace nodded. “And we’ll need to speak with Harris about the ale.”