Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Ten

She was starting to show.

Frances ran her palm down the length of her stomach for the umpteenth time that evening, as if by doing so, she might banish the small bulge that pushed against the thin fabric of her shift. It was only a week ago when she noticed the change in her form, and as the days progressed, she noticed with growing apprehension that the bulge progressed with them. In a matter of weeks, her pregnant state would be impossible to conceal. Which was why she was of a determined mind to secure a husband at the ball tonight, one she hoped would look after her and her child.

But hope was frail, was it not? She couldn't be certain she would succeed in her quest, even if Roman had spent the better part of the past three weeks acquainting her with the customs of the British aristocracy. Tonight, all Roman taught her would be put to the test. She would be required to socialize, requested to dance, and expected to dine. As Sara pinned her hair into an elaborate style of curls and braids, she recalled some of Roman's instructions;

"You must know when to speak. Never speak unless spoken to," Roman had said that afternoon, as they danced the polka in the drawing room. The chairs had been pushed to the walls to create a temporary dance floor. "And only when a response is required."

"How shall I know when it's appropriate to speak?" she asked, fighting to keep up with his up with his fast movements without inflicting pain on his toes.

"The gentleman shall make an observation. More often than not, his observation shall be self gratifying or self indulgent. He shall attempt to hide his conceit in faux humility by presenting it as a question."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Perhaps he shall speak of his generosity, or his infallible nature, or his political stance. He shall then ask what you think. You're required to agree with him."

"What you mean is, I'm required to stroke his ego." She frowned.

"You will find that for most men, the actual path to their hearts is through their egos," Roman had said, and against her better judgment, Frances wondered about the path to Roman's heart. Her own mama had said the path to every man's heart was through his stomach. Yet the countless hours Mama had spent in the kitchen had proved useless against Papa's philandering ways.

Perhaps there was no clear path to a man's heart. Perhaps the idea of a path was nothing but a fable, a ruse to keep women pining after men. A man could not be compelled to love; a man would love only if he desired it.

She thought of Isaac, instinctively touching the swell of her stomach, where the child their bond had created lay. And not for the first time, she wondered if Isaac had truly loved her. Perhaps he'd simply submitted himself to her desires; perhaps he'd felt compelled.

"You look lovely," Sara's words broke through her reverie.

"Oh." She nodded, turning her attention to the mirror. Sara was right; her dress was indeed lovely. Laura, the modiste who'd replaced Gill, had done a fantastic job. "I agree."

"Yes." Sara bobbed her head, and while a small smile tugged on the edges of her lips, something dimmed her gaze. Perhaps it was disappointment? It mattered not that Sara hadn't raised any further opposition to Frances' decision to get married. Her disapproval was loud in her silence.

Toying with the lace fringes of her neckline, Frances turned fully to Sara. "I must go now."

Sara nodded, before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Frances. She was stunned by Sara's embrace, for she hadn't expected it. She'd expected a scolding, a reprove for her insanity.

She stood motionless for several seconds until she felt it; Sara's fear. It was fear that made her arms tremble as she clung desperately to Frances. She understood the danger that lay ahead of Frances, the outcome of her deception. And in the silence of that evening, Frances heard Sara's unspoken plea to remain, to reconsider her decision.