Page 7 of The Quiet Wife
“Darling, you really don’t have to pretend,” Edith said, squeezing Frances’ hand. “He’s a grump, and that’s all there is to it. He needs to stop being so stuffy. Take a leaf out of his beloved artist’s book.”
Edith’s petite frame with fair hair and wide blue eyes belied an intellect that was formidable. She always saw the truth of a scenario.
William took it with good nature. “No need to apologise, dear. I think he’s just getting worse with age. I imagine he has a lot on his plate now. I understand he’s going after ownership of the company?”
Frances shrugged delicately. Her husband told her nothing of his business dealings himself, but it was clear from what people said that Frederick was working towards obtaining the majority share in the company he’d worked for since he was a boy. Bibby Shipping Line was his entire life. That’s all there was to it. If only he’d spent a fraction of the time with his family that he had lavished on his business dealings for Bibby & Sons,both their marriage and life together might have been a happier affair.
“He’s been working awfully long hours lately,” was all Frances said diplomatically. He had, and it left him tired and irascible when he bothered to return to the family. Thankfully, most of the time, he stayed in the flat that he owned in Liverpool, and she was grateful for his absence.
Business, as he frequently told her, was not for women. That might be so, but it might be nice, useful even, to know how things were progressing, so she could answer questions without sounding like a complete pudding head and hear information about her own husband before it was relayed back to her by their friends. She used to think that she might offer at least an ear for him when times were hard or difficult, but it was not to be. He’d talked to her in the early days of their marriage, but as he’d risen the ranks within the company and become increasingly important, his confidences had ceased.
William gave her a gentle smile. “I hear things are progressing well. It’s all highly secret, of course, but I imagine he’ll tell you when there is something to tell.”
“Of course,” Frances said, although she very much doubted that he would.
“Who’s the new chap?” William gestured to where Mr Rossetti stood in animated conversation with Mr Whistler whilst Frederick listened intently, a small frown of concentration on his face. “He looks even more artistically dandified than the rest.”
Frances had to smile at that and was thankful William had changed the subject. “It’s a Mr James McNeill Whistler. I believe he’s very well regarded. I have a suspicion that he might be American.”
Her companions looked most interested in that snippet of information.
Mr Whistler gesticulated as he made some sort of explanation, his voice rising. It was quite high pitched with a nasal tone and… well, flamboyant. Almost as though he were addressing the whole room and not just her husband. He was certainly turning heads. Under normal circumstances, she was sure Frederick would frown at someone attracting such attention. Instead, he appeared to be taking in everything the man said with genuine interest.
“Whatever his reasoning, at least we get to enjoy a jolly fun few days,” Edith sipped another glass of champagne, and winked knowingly at Frances.
“Absolutely. After all these years, I’ve given up trying to understand him. I’m so pleased you are all here. The children are very excited to see you.”
They chatted until Frances felt guilty that she was neglecting her other guests, so moved away to circulate. She was moving to the next group when Mr Whistler stopped her and bowed again. Somehow, his hair looked even more artfully rumpled than when they’d first been introduced. He ran a hand through it, revealing why it was so disordered and gave her a lopsided smile.
“Very kind of you to extend an invitation, Mrs Leyland.” He appeared a little distracted, but his intense blue gaze was fixed on her unwaveringly.
“Not at all. My husband and I are delighted that you could join us.”
He blinked, then shook his head, seeming a little dazed.
“You have extraordinarily beautiful hair.” His voice was soft, much quieter than when he’d spoken to her husband and the guests.
Startled, Frances couldn’t quite stop her hand from going up to touch the curls gathered at her nape.
“That’s… very kind of you to say.” She wasn’t sure how to respond as she felt the heat in her cheeks rising. It was a rather personal remark from someone she had only just met, but oddly, not delivered in the way of a compliment or even an attempt at flirtation, more an… observation.
Whistler grinned. “That was terribly rude, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, it’s just the colour. Sometimes I get carried away with beautiful colours. I’d wager it looks stunning when it’s down.”
Frances was used to dealing with uncomfortable situations from years of playing hostess, but she had no words to reply to a comment that was so intimate it should have been shocking, yet somehow it wasn’t. She stared at the man in front of her, unable to think of anything to say.
He laughed in a self-deprecating fashion and rubbed his hand over his face. “Lord, I’ve done it again. That wasbeyondrude, but you really are beautiful. Leyland is a lucky man. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Frances ventured a half-hearted laugh that was pitched higher than she would have liked.
“Nothing to forgive, Mr Whistler. What woman would turn down such a generous compliment.” She hoped her cheeks were not as pink as they felt, but as Mr Whistler’s gaze roamed her face, she suspected they were.
“So,” he said briskly, thankfully moving on to safer ground. “How do you find living near Liverpool? Fascinating city, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Frances murmured, wishing she could tell him she had spent the early years of her marriage in the city, but knowing her husband would have apoplexy if she did.
Mr Whistler was staring again, so Frances cleared her throat.
“Sorry! Wool-gathering. Leyland has asked me to do some sketches whilst I’m here as well as look at maybe doing his portrait.” He looked at her intently. “Do you think I could sketch you?”
