CHAPTER FIVE
An Unpleasant Discovery
Several hours had now elapsed since Michael’s departure from Rosewood House, and still he had not returned. In his absence, Frances had eaten dinner, changed back into her own clothes and had spent the evening drifting down corridors, through book-lined rooms and up and down the stairs, searching for anything to interest or amuse her. She found little to this purpose, except for the library, which as Michael Brearly had promised her, contained an extensive and fascinating collection of books, and to her surprise, medical journals and papers. She spent at least an hour sifting through the assortment of books until at last, having selected something to read, she closed the door and made her way downstairs.
A small fire, just re-kindled by a servant, awaited her in the drawing room, and under the light from the gasoliers, she sank gratefully into a Chippendale chair beside the fireplace. She had hardly reached the third page of her book of poetry, when a loud meow, emanating from beside the chair, commanded her attention. She peered curiously over the arm rest to see a rather rotund cat, with a smug, aristocratic face, looking up at her. She had seen this cat earlier in her travels, but she had only caught fleeting glimpses of his cloudy ginger fur and a mass of white whiskers. She had called out to him on several occasions, but to her frustration he ignored her. From the way he pompously presided over his domain, it was clear to Frances that he had more important things to do with his time—until now—now that there was a fire glowing in the grate, and an empty lap in front of him.
Frances smiled and patted her lap. This time the cat jumped up and landed heavily on Frances’s legs. She had not counted on him being so heavy, and moving her legs slightly to accommodate his substantial weight, she accidentally knocked the poetry book off the chair. It landed on the floor with a dull thud. Clutching the animal with one hand, she reached over and claimed the book with the other. As she was retrieving it, a small piece of note paper slipped from its musty pages and fluttered to her lap. Before the cat collapsed on top of it she picked the note up and studied it. Despite her first impressions, it was not just a piece of paper. It was a photograph of a remarkably beautiful young woman—a woman whom Frances knew very well.
Frances stared down glumly at the picture of her eldest cousin, Agnes Wentworth. At twenty-five years of age, the same age as Frances, Agnes was Louisa Wentworth’s favourite and most admired daughter. Over the years, Frances had heard detailed accounts of Agnes’s life, mainly through a procession of letters written by Louisa to Frances’s mother. According to these letters, Agnes had blossomed into a very fine young woman, was accomplished in every respect, was admired by all those who knew her, and would no doubt make a very prudent marriage. Every facet of Agnes’s life, it seemed, had been documented, to the delight of her adoring mother, and to the collective groans of despair from the letters’ recipients (Frances and her mother included).
While Louisa sang the praises of her eldest daughter in the loudest of voices, Charlotte, her younger daughter, was seldom mentioned. Charlotte was the plainer of the two, had, according to her mother, no finesse or savoir-faire, and was too quiet and insular. To make matters worse, the twenty year-old had married a local church minister, Cyril Beckett, a man who was almost twice Charlotte’s age. Louisa believed this to be an imprudent marriage, and could never quite reconcile herself to Charlotte’s choice (little did she know that Charlotte had married Cyril primarily to get away from Louisa!). Another concern for Louisa was that Charlotte had married before her elder sister, something Louisa considered unseemly. In most respects, it seemed Charlotte was a weed in the Wentworth family’s rose garden.
Frances fixed her eyes on Agnes’s face and was immediately filled with loathing. Her aversion to Agnes had begun in childhood when the ten year old Agnes haughtily, and with much conviction, informed Frances that she wasn’t good enough to play with her. Frances wasn’t from a wealthy family, didn’t have Agnes’s advantages in life, and in short, was considered to be beneath her rich and pretty cousin. Frances assumed that Agnes’s opinion of her would change when Agnes got older, but it never did. So long as Agnes maintained her rigid views about class and privilege, the division between the two cousins remained.
As quickly as she could, Frances shoved Agnes’s photograph back into the recesses of the closed book, where it belonged. She then sighed and sank back further into her chair. Across the room she caught an unsatisfactory reflection of her face in the mantelpiece mirror. Her mind returned to the photograph of Agnes in the poetry book, and she began to wonder what it was doing there. Had it been deliberately discarded, or had someone lost it? Perhaps it was Agnes’s book, and she had let Michael Brearly borrow it. But why would she put a photograph of herself in a book? It didn’t make sense.
Frances closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Up until this moment she had been feeling quite calm about the situation she now found herself in. Her harrowing day was almost over, she was miles away from her officious aunt, and she was beginning to enjoy her rare piece of solitude, as it gave her time to contemplate her future.
Her future. The words stuck in her throat like a fish bone. She was reminded of her mother’s letter, and while she tried to recall her mother’s exact words, she unconsciously began stroking the cat’s velveteen fur. While the cat’s contented purring became the prevailing sound in the room, Frances wondered how she could possibly respond to her mother’s announcement. She could wilfully ignore the letter (a course of action that would serve little purpose), she could write a congratulatory (yet dishonest) letter, or she could write her mother an honest account of the distress she had felt since hearing of the engagement. Each option seemed equally disagreeable to Frances, and at a loss for what to do, she looked down at her feline companion and began scratching him under the chin. The cat’s purring grew louder, and soon lulled her into a dreamy state of sleepiness.