"Good morning Miss, I hope I find you awake. This new dress just arrived from the... Oh," Annabeth trailed off as her eyes fell on the painting Franny was working on, wholly absorbed in the process, her blonde hair sticking out in all directions from the loose bun on the top of her head.
"How do you reckon, Annabeth? It might be one of my best works yet," Franny asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes, her hand smudged with paint.
"I um... don't know Miss... is that the Queen, with what might look like a King Pine on Her Majesty's head?" Annabeth took her guess uncomfortably.
"Precisely. Most fitting, I think. I might as well predict her next appearance. It could also serve as an illustration to that scandal sheet of Lady Whistledown."
"I don't think that would be wise, Miss." Franny didn't reply but admired her masterpiece, hands on her hips, brush in her mouth, head tilted.
"I shall make you a bath Miss, then you can try on your new dress. I shall braid your hair also."
"Well, good luck with that," Franny murmured as Annabeth left the room to start running the water, leaving Franny alone, rather unwisely. Her attention shifted to the dress, surprised to say to find that it was to her liking. Lilac, with shades of blue, and with a delicate layer of lace interwoven with small white flowers, the dress was laid carefully on the bed. But just before her hands could reach it, she remembered that lace and paint rarely mixed well together, and stopped herself from ruining the dress. Perhaps some manners were rubbing off on her, after all. God save me from becoming a proper lady, she thought.
✦
Hand washed off paint, hair braided tightly, dress fitting perfectly, Franny was on her way to the drawing room eager to tell her uncle about her new watercolour.
"Uncle, you must teach me how to paint portraits! I had enough of landscapes and flowers. I want to paint something that would make the ton's conservative forehead wrinkle. You must comment on my new watercolour of Queen Charlotte with a King Pine on... Oh," Franny trailed off as upon walking into the drawing room he found two men standing in front of each other: Her uncle, with a sombre and icy expression on his face, and his complete opposite, Lord Wetherby greeting her with a warm, welcoming smile.
"Lord Wetherby, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Franny queried in surprise.
"Well, I was hoping we could follow up on our rather enjoyable conversation of last night," he replied, giving Franny a bouquet of beautiful flowers.
"Oh, you are here to call on me?" Franny pressed on, still in awe.
Lord Wetherby let out a small chuckle, while Mr. Granville's face was still grim.
"You must forgive my niece for her bluntness, Lord Wetherby, this is her very first season. Please, do take a seat. Franny, why don't you serve our dearest guest some tea and biscuits," walking in, Lucy Granville took control over the situation before it could head to disaster. She shot a glance to her niece, who was knocked out of her bewilderment and offered Lord Wetherby a plate of biscuits which he accepted with another smirk, clearly amused at the situation. Should I curtsy? Franny wondered, nevermind, just concentrate on not dropping the plate on him.
"Dearest, weren't you on your way to buy some supplies? I am afraid we have a shortage in yellow paint," Lucy inquired, turning towards her husband, with a pleasant smile.
"Yes, Lucy dearest I was, just before Lord Wetherby graced us with this rather unexpected visit," Mr. replied, his eyes locking the gentleman's.
"Unexpected, but most welcome," Mrs. Granville walked next to Mr. Granville. "I shall gladly chaperone these young people, so you can continue with your day, dearest," putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, she eyed Mr. Granville with a pressing look, muttering go quietly.
"Very well then, I shall be on my way," the painter said reluctantly. "Goodbye Lucy, Niece, Lord Wetherby."
After saying their goodbyes, silence descended to the room, Mrs. Granville smiling impeccably, Franny shifting nervously, while Lord Wetherby sipped his tea quietly, amusement clear in his chocolate brown eyes.
"Is this when you tell Lord Wetherby how flawless my needlework is and how sufficient I am at the pianoforte, Auntie?" Franny teased, breaking the silence.
Lucy Granville replied in the same manner, "Dear God, no. We do not want to scare Lord Wetherby away, do we," the three of them laughed in unison, Mrs. Granville in a feminine, tinkling voice, Lord Wetherby with a deep chuckle while Franny's laugh was less controlled and more heartfelt.
As sitting in the drawing room, with her beloved aunt and a perfectly decent gentleman with a handsome countenance and an amiable manner, Franny felt at ease, chattering, laughing and altogether enjoying the careless lives of nobles. Whilst it was pleasant to spend time with Lord Wetherby, surely a marriage required more than conversing in drawing rooms. Sharing a life together, happy moments and worries alike, and, of course, children. Franny could hardly imagine herself being a wife, the lady of the house, let alone a mother, responsible for tiny, hopeless human beings, who depended on her for protection, and the various ways she could unintentionally cause damage to them. She shivered, thinking about the loveless marriage of her parents and how sorrow seemed to be a permanent feature of her mother, drawing her energy and youth away day by day, finding escape only in her daughter and painting till the day she could no longer... the never-ceasing expectation to birth an heir, a boy, and the unspoken criticism for she could not.
"Miss Granville," her train of thought was interrupted by Lord Wetherby, "I must take my leave now. But I had the most wonderful time. I am hoping that you would share a dance with me at the Vauxhall celebration," flitting a beautiful smile at her, he kissed her hand.
"Thank you for your visit Lord Wetherby. I look forward to seeing you at the event."
"Now dearest, that wasn't all dreadful, was it?" Mrs Granville raised her eyebrow playfully as she sipped her tea from a beautifully decorated porcelain cup, now only three available in the household thanks to Franny's last night stroll.
"To be frank Auntie, not entirely," Franny replied, leaning on the canape, making use of her chance of not having to keep a lady-like pose any longer.
Hearing the door opening, both of them turned their head in the direction of the entrance. Henry Granville stepped in with some newly purchased brushes and paints.
"I have bought some new shades of orange for you Franny,"
"The most kind of you, Uncle."
"Why don't you go and put them to use? I wish to discuss some matters with Mrs. Granville."
Franny's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but deciding not to push her luck, she grabbed the paints and took her leave reluctantly.
"I trust you will reach your room and not stop to eavesdrop from the stairs," Mrs. Granville added, knowing her niece like the back of her hand.
✦
"I am afraid, Mr. Bridgerton, we are freshly out of orange paint. My most sincere apologies. Should you come back tomorrow, our stocks will be filled."
"No problem. I shall come back tomorrow, good day."
As Benedict left the shop, he wondered what might have caused a sudden increase in the demand for orange paint. A memory of last night's ball came to his mind, how they locked eyes with Frances Granville, the reluctant debutante. Benedict couldn't tell why, but she has captured his attention with the defiant expression in her eyes when she realised he has caught sight of the spot of orange paint on her forearm. Most curious, he thought.
✦
As Annabeth did not come to get her ready for the celebration, Franny suspiciously approached the drawing room, only to find it empty. Her aunt was out of the house, conducting some serious business (Franny was probably better off not knowing), leaving her and Mr. Granville alone. As the temperature was agreeably warm with a pleasant breeze, she knew where to look for her uncle. Standing on the patio he put the newly acquired brushes to good use, painting what seemed to be a rather abstract piece. Franny could tell from his blurred lines that there was something preying on his mind.
"Are we not to attend the Vauxhall celebration, Uncle?" she asked, straight to the point.
"No," with a monosyllabic reply, Mr. Granville's back was still turned.
"And may I inquire why?" Franny implored, her intonation resembling a demand, not a question.
"You may not," granted once more with an abrupt answer and a dispassionate tone, Franny grew impatient.
"Does it have anything to do with the fact, by any chance, that Lord Wetherby is counting on my presence?"
"The matter is not up for discussion."
Losing the very last string of patience, Franny leapt next to her uncle and snatched the brush out of his hand, paint splattering on them. None of them, however, seemed to pay any heed to the spots of paint on their clothes, for both it was their natural habitat. Their eyes locked in a battle of wills. Gazing deeply into her uncle's eyes, Franny searched for an explanation, but all she could find was resentment and rejection, emotions she rarely saw in her beloved uncle. For as long as she could remember they shared a special bond, a strong sense of kinship, an unspoken understanding, deep caring for each other. But she found no trace of any of that in Mr. Granville's deep brown eyes. Hurt, Franny let go of the brush, and left without saying another word. Mr. Granville stood alone in silence, staring blankly at the blurred lines of his dark, amorphous painting, the projection of the deep pain he was in. As he looked up to the sky let out a long, painful sigh.
*Author's note: So I did my homework on pineapples (yes, I am that committed), it turns out that they came to Europe in the 16th c. and apparently Charles II was an absolute fan of them and he gave the name "King Pines". Here you go, I am sure this knowledge will save your lives one day :)