#*frances&victoria

“Oh, Lady Spencer, we do apologize!” Mary Fitzroy trilled. She was a whirlwind of apologies as she blew into the black marble entryway, followed by her more sedate husband and her niece, Frances, who lingered by the door to study a creative piece of taxidermy that appeared to be sporting the head of an elk and the body of a bear. It was completely absurd, but then, so was Lady Spencer. If it weren’t for the privilege afforded by her title and the family name, all of London would think her insane. Some did regardless. As it was, she got by on “eccentric”.

The countess and Duchess Spencer brushed cheeks and the hostess led the Fitzroys towards the dining room where the party was already assembled. “It was the landau, if you believe– Frances come along –not ten paces from the door and the wheel rolled right off! I thought the earth itself had tilted sideways, but then my niece pointed out that it was just the carriage, she is clever– Frances, hurry!” 

As her aunt frantically waved her handkerchief, urging Frances to quicken her  pace, Frances said a silent, ineffectual prayer for patience, understanding and badly aged meat as the main course, so they might all be sent home early. She had hoped that with the excitement of their departure, her aunt may have decided to stay behind. Her aunt’s ongoing, vivid dramatization of how they bravely exited the lop-sided carriage was evidence enough of her poor luck.

“No matter at all,” Lady Spencer soothed as they reached an oak door. Muffled conversation was audible on the other side. “I consulted my crystal ball before you arrived and foresaw your late arrival, your seats have already been set aside.” 

Their arrival was announced to the broader party as they entered the dining room. “The Right Honorable Earl and Countess of Haddington, accompanied by the Lady Frances Fitzroy.” 

This time, Frances’s attentions glossed over the inventive taxidermy mounted to the walls, instead going straight to the faces of those seated. Lady Spencer’s eccentricity  had a tendency to lend itself to a peculiarly assembled guest list. She recognized Lord Fletcher, eligible, respectable. There was a woman with generous décolletage who Frances was fairly sure was a popular opera singer. An empty seat, presumably hers, and directly across from it–

She knew him, even in profile. He was sitting next to a blonde woman whose face wasn’t visible from the door. Frances kept her pace leisurely as she rounded the table, nodding politely at those familiar to her with her gaze carefully trained away from the one person it was drawn to. 

The dinner party didn’t seem like such a terrible obligation now. She couldn’t say if it was a good one, not until she was seated and could gauge his reaction, but it was interesting. Her heart jumped in her chest, reflecting nerves she would never own up to.

Frances sat down, eyes lifting from her place setting to the man sitting across from her and the woman at his right.

She immediately wished all four wheels had fallen off the landau.

She straightened, back ramrod straight against her chair and her smile loose on her face. Battle armor. “Lord Effingham, Miss Hale, what a delightful twist of fate.”