#*frances&archie

[francesackerley]

June 30, 1799 || Spencer House

“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.”

@ixnay-on-the-ipshay​

[francesackerley]

Dear Sir,

I believe I am owed a favor. 

Cliveden. The library. After dinner on the first night.

Cordially,

Lady Gander

End of July, 1799 | Library, Cliveden House

The note (it could hardly be called a letter) was hand delivered by a homely kitchen maid several days prior. No identifiable names, no address, just a small sheet of paper folded twice and pressed into the hand of the butler upon answering the door with instructions to give it to the Earl of Effingham, the elder half. 

It was only now that Frances stood in the library, straining to hear footsteps beyond the cedar paneled walls , that she wished she had arranged the rendezvous with a method that didn’t rely so heavily on good faith. Perhaps the note hadn’t been delivered, or it had, but Victoria had also read it. Perhaps Lord Effingham had failed to intuit the sender of the note, or he had understood but nevertheless decided not to come. 

The sound of the doorknob turning banished any fears that she would be left waiting alone. Only gnawing anxiety for what was to come remained.

Frances snatched up a book from a nearby side table. She waited a moment, flipping idly through the pages, before looking up in feigned surprise. 

A curtsy was given, followed by an empty smile. “Lord Effingham, may I offer my many congratulations.”

@ixnay-on-the-ipshay​

[francesackerley]

💌 + Really now, would you have been less offended if you were asked for a kiss rather than-than asked to kiss a dart?

“I think most women would prefer to be regarded as an object of affection, rather than simply an instrument used to achieve winning ends. Assuming that I would have been, the more prudent question seems to be: why are you so interested to know?” 

[francesackerley]

❤️‍🩹 Tending a wound (physical or emotional) from the journey [would love a long overdue Frances and Archie moment!]

Absurd, Frances thought sourly as she cut through a swath of tall grass. Insulting, she swatted at a cloud of gnats with her carpetbag. Its original contents had been hidden away in the bottom of her trunk, replaced by a fresh set of clothes.

Dusk had begun to settle as she wandered away from the group, the scrape of silverware and melody of conversation distant. Her growling stomach joined the choir of crickets chirping in the brush, but changing came before eating and she had been firmly turned away from the sleeping cabin by a maid collapsing under the weight of bedding. Dreadfully inconvenient.

The leafy curtain of a bowed willow caught her eye. Last season she would have balked at the idea of dressing underneath a tree, but she had become a better friend to necessity in recent months.

She slipped past the branches and very nearly screamed.

There was a body slumped against the tree trunk. Frances blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting the dim light underneath the foliage. It was a disheveled man who looked rather green. Drunk, not hurt, or worse. Her nose wrinkled. The saturated stench of alcohol cut through the sweet summer air. She tilted her head, took a halting step forward.

"Lord Effingham?"

His head lifted at his name. He looked blearily at her, color high on his cheeks and pale everywhere else. She looked back, sunburn across her nose and damp hair clinging to her neck. Those who thought the highest of themselves were always susceptible to falling the lowest.

Something between a long-suffering sigh and laugh escaped her. She fished a glass bottle from her bag, the liquid inside a pale yellow.

"Here. Equal parts lemon and egg, plus sugar, cream and brandy. A Scottish trick. Drink the whole of it and you will be right as rain. In the meantime, you can continue your career as the vanguard of my decency. I will be just over there." She passed along the bottle and nodded to another willow not far off. "Do shout if someone else comes along."

[francesackerley]

11:15am || Library, Eastwell Hall || 6 January 1800 

“…a far more majestic creature than most think, for is it not the simple things that enrich our lives? And it is exactly the grouse’s simplicity— of behavior, aesthetic sensibilities and mind — that plays an ab-so-lutely critical role in that vibrant order we call Galliformes. Now, there is far more to cover than our meager allotment of time will allow for, but we will endeavor, my covey of friends— that is some Tetraonini humor for you — to traverse the underbrush together and uncover the true spirit of the country grouse in winter. Now, let us begin….”

“Oh yes, please,” Frances muttered sardonically, adding shading to the sketch in her lap with a vicious scribble of her pencil. The taxidermy grouse set at the front of the room was serving as a useful model, if not as their lecturer intended. There was something off about the left eyebrow in her drawing. Frances squinted at it, a rather exaggerated caricature of the head and face of the lecturer, combined with the rotund body and twiggy legs of the grouse. She was no great artist, but the likeness was there. Sundays spent at church may not have done much to hone her religious spirit but they had been ever-so helpful in improving her creative eye.

Maybe it wasn’t the eyebrow but the proportion of the nose. Another bit of shading here and there until– snap, the overly sharpened tip of her pencil broke. 

Well that was her plan to pass the time shot. 

Frances looked up from her lap to the speaker. There was some enthusiastic gesticulating underway that was entertaining at face value but did little to capture her interest when the words accompanying the gesture were considered. This wouldn’t do at all.  

Frances turned to the occupied chair to her right, affixing a smile in place. “Pardon the intrusion, but do you happen to have a spare pencil?”

@wimbcrly​

[francesackerley]