Chapter 7

"Miss Turner? Miss Turner!" someone whispered in Frances' dream. She couldn't see who was calling her name, but it was ominous. The sound seemed to surround her, leaving her no avenue of escape. Everywhere she turned, every direction she looked in, she heard her name again and again. There was nowhere to run that the voice wouldn't find her.

"Miss Turner?"

A hand reached out and touched her shoulder, but instead of an icy apparition, it was warm and comforting. Frances gasped in surprise when her eyelids fluttered open and she saw Sara standing by her bedside.

"I'm sorry to wake ya, Miss Turner! But Her Ladyship sent me to fetch ya. Ya have a caller," Sara said, her usual helpful expression and eager tone gone this morning.

Frances threw an arm over her eyes. It had to be the Duke of Preston. This is what I get for agreeing to dance with him again, she thought bitterly. When will he understand that I have given my answer!

Frances started to stretch and roll out of bed, but then she thought better of it. She didn't owe him anything, least of all the honor of receiving him when she'd been out so late the night before. Without even knowing the hour, she knew that he had no right to intrude by coming here after she had told him firmly that she had no wish to marry him.

"Ya must hurry and dress, miss," Sara said, prodding her impatiently as she glanced towards the door several times.

"What's wrong, Sara?" Frances asked when she finally sat up.

"Nothin'."

That's not like her to reply that way, Frances thought as she watched the maid lay out a gown and some garments. She stood up to take the clothing behind her dressing screen, but she stopped when she looked down at the items.

"This? I have a caller and—though I have no wish to receive him—he is a duke, after all. I should think I must wear something a little finer than this coarse gown, shouldn't I?"

"It's not the duke," Sara said plainly, though she didn't say anything about the person's identity. "And I'm not to say anythin', so if ya please, don't ask me to. You must only trust me, though. Ya should wear this one."

"All right," Frances answered warily, picking up the old woolen gown she'd worn so often at school.

When she was dressed, she sat down on the stool and let Sara brush out her hair. Instead of styling it or adding any adornments, Sara simply pinned the sides away from Frances' face then declared her finished.

"Are you sure?" Frances asked, frowning at her reflection.

"Yes, miss. Ya must trust me." And with that, she left the room in a hurry.

Frances could only shrug off the unsettling feeling that something was terribly amiss. She left her room quietly, as though instinct told her to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She made her way down the stairs and stopped when she heard voices in the drawing room, voices that she didn't recognize.

Well, that certainly isn't the duke, she thought as she came nearer. I've never heard him speak so many words. And Aunt Bridget sounds far too pleasant for it to be him, especially if he's here to call on me.

Frances fixed a pleasant look on her face and entered the drawing room. At once, she noticed her aunt seemed far too excited to see her. Near her, sprawled on the sofa like a cat stretched along a stone wall in the sun, was an old man she had never seen before. Frances assumed it was some elderly relation and she did her best to appear happy to see him.

"Ah yes, here is my niece. Lord Rowland, may I introduce Miss Frances Turner," Lady Hutchings said cheerfully.

I cannot recall the last time she's been so happy to see me, Frances thought, bewildered.

Frances curtseyed, but the older man did not rise to his feet. Instead, he stayed in his seat, his fingers interlaced in front of his ample midsection. His gaze traveled slowly up and down Frances' body, making her feel like a prized ham on display in the butcher's window. His leer of satisfaction sent a shiver of disgust through her, and she felt his attention on her like an icy hand clawing at her garments.

"Yes, Bridget. I do see what you mean. She's quite the specimen of a girl!" he said, addressing the viscountess instead of Frances. "Overly tall for a girl, but very pretty, I suppose, though I can't help but think you might have been telling me a tale about her face. She doesn't look all that special to me."

"It's only due to the early hour. Her gown and her hair aren't styled in their usual way as it is only morning. I'm not sure why she thought a caller wouldn't require something more special, though," Lady Hutchings replied through clenched teeth, glaring at Frances.

"Hmm, perhaps. But are you certain she can breed? She's awfully thin, if you ask me. I'm seeking to have as many heirs as a wife can drop. Not like my last two who were worthless in that regard, though I did greatly enjoy all the attempts, I should say!"

Lady Hutchings didn't respond to the man's awful remarks, though she laughed merrily as though he'd made some hilarious jest. Frances felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame at the remark.

"Does she smile?" Lord Rowland grunted, growing serious again. "I need to see those teeth to know if she's in good health or not. Won't be taking a wife who's just going to die in a faint in a year's time."

Taking a wife?she thought, her blood running cold.

"Frances, dear. The earl would like to see your lovely smile," Lady Hutchings instructed, emphasizing the man's title as though that should encourage her.

"Aunt Bridget, may I speak with you for a moment?" Frances asked coldly, but Lady Hutchings shook her head.

"There's no time for that. I was just on my way out actually. But do sit and get to know the earl better. He's come all this way just to call on you, after all," Lady Hutchings said, standing up and gesturing for Frances to take her seat.

Frances didn't move for a long time. She stared between Lord Rowland and her aunt and back again, trying to decide what to do.

"Frances. Sit!" Lady Hutchings hissed, jabbing her finger in the direction of the empty chair.

Still, Frances couldn't will her feet to walk.

"Not very obedient, is she? I can't help but wonder what else you got wrong about her, Bridget. I hope you're not just trying to foist a ruined girl off on the first willing man who'll have her," the earl droned in a nasally voice. "It's no matter, she'll listen well enough when I'm through with her. All women are like unbroken horses, especially the young fillies. They need a firm hand and a husband who can take what's rightfully his to tame their wild ways and make ‘em mind."

Frances thought for a moment that she might become violently ill. The sort of man who would speak such things in front of her—a young lady he'd just met!—was no one she wished to associate with. But the look of indifference on Lady Hutchings' face told her that her fate was already sealed.

"Aunt Bridget," Frances began weakly, knowing there was no chance she could appeal to the woman's loving heart.

She'd have to possess such a heart first, Frances thought hopelessly.

"Do as you're told, else there shall be consequences," her aunt said in a low voice, nearly snarling at her now.

The threat was all it took for Frances to regain her composure. She stood up straighter, holding her head up proudly and looking down her nose at both of them. Her height, always on the taller side for a lady, had once made her feel a little awkward, but right now it served her well. She became imposing, and she was glad for it.

"I shall not," she answered firmly. Turning to Lord Rowland, she simply said, "It is a shame that you felt called upon to speak to me in such a way, for it shows just how little class and worth you have. As you seem to have traveled all this way for a wife, I wish you the best of luck in finding one. But I'm afraid I will not be accepting any offers from someone who conducts himself this way. I am worth far more of a man's regard than that."

With that, she turned and left the room, her aunt's screeching calls echoing in her ears.

As she made her way to her room, Frances thought she might be ill again. What had she done? She had just humiliated her benefactor, something that would surely not go unnoticed and unpunished! Still, she had to remain steadfast or else she would find herself sold like a sow at the market!

Before she reached the top floor, Sara darted out from a doorway and pulled her by the arm. They slipped into the library and pressed themselves back against the wall. Frances began to tremble.

"Now I see why you made me wear this!" Frances whispered as she began to cry.

"It's all I could do, miss. Her Ladyship told me not to say why you had to come down. I'm so sorry!"

"What will I do? They're going to make me marry that awful man!" Frances cried as quietly as she could.

"I don't know, miss. But I did gather up all yer valuable things and tuck ‘em away downstairs, just in case they turn you out. You might lose yer nicer gowns and slippers, but as for yer mother's things, yer father's watch, and whatnot, I've put them all where I can get them to give to you later."

"Sara, you are truly a saint!" Frances said, throwing her arms around the maid's neck and holding her tightly.

Soon enough, she took a step back and wiped at her eyes. A fierceness built up inside her that would not be quieted.

"I will not yield to that awful woman. I will not be forced to do her bidding simply because she despises me!" Frances answered, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. "I will go to my room and await her fury, and then whatever may befall me will happen. But I shall decide for myself what I do!"

As she expected, no sooner had Frances returned to her room with Sara than the door flew open. Lady Hutchings stood framed in the doorway, looking about wildly. Sara came closer and stood beside Frances, but the viscountess ordered her out.

"How dare you!" Lady Hutchings screeched when they were alone. "Your uncle found you a profitable match to an earl, a gift that you do not deserve, yet you brought shame on this entire household by acting like a spoiled child!"

"I am not going to be treated with so little regard, Aunt Bridget," Frances said firmly, breathing deeply to keep her voice from shaking. "You heard that awful pig of a man. What sort of man speaks that way in front of ladies? Were you not ashamed for us? What would people say about you, about Juliet, if they knew you tolerated such talk to a lady in your house? And worse, that you permitted him to marry your family anyway!"

"You are not my family," her aunt hissed. "You are an orphaned brat whom we should have sold to the workhouse the day you arrived here! My family would be grateful for our care all these years, falling to their knees to give thanks that we took it upon ourselves to find a titled, wealthy husband in the first place!"

"If this man is such a prize, then let him marry Juliet," Frances challenged, narrowing her eyes at her aunt. Lady Hutchings recoiled in disgust, and Frances smiled. "As I suspected. This creature you dragged in to be rid of me is not suitable for your own daughter, yet you wish to berate me for not falling at your feet to shout my thanks that you think I'm worthy of him? It must be horrible to be so disappointed."

Lady Hutchings needed only a matter of seconds to regain her ire.

"You will marry Lord Rowland in a week's time as your uncle has commanded. We will seek the special license this morning and there shall be no other discussion on the matter."

And with that, Lady Hutchings whirled about and left the room, likely convinced that Frances would have no choice but to obey. Instead, Frances smiled to herself.

Ah, but I do have a choice, she thought as she hurried to her trunk and fetched a piece of her preciously hoarded paper.