"How is she doing?" Patricia whispered, her eye peeking through the crack in the door.
He mother shook her head. "She seems okay. But I'm not sure."
Frances and Harriet giggled inside the bedroom.
"She's keeping busy, at least," Mrs. Barrett continued. "But that's only occupying the surface of her thoughts. Everything else is still wrapped up in her time with the Fellowes family."
"I assume that Father and the boys haven't noticed?"
"I'm sure Andrew has, but you know how much he avoids talking about such things. Besides, I wouldn't ask him to do anything. He's only thirteen years of age."
"Yes, don't get him involved. It would just put Frances on a stage with attention she probably doesn't want." Patricia sighed. "I just wish I knew what to do."
Frances could feel their gaze on her. Patricia's blue eyes nearly glowed in the dark anyways. But she ignored them. They could talk about her all they wanted. It was a family's right, to worry and whisper. They were only looking out for her.
"Harriet, do you prefer the white shoes or the ivory ones?" She held up the two pairs.
Harriet looked at her through the mirror on her vanity. "I thought I had chosen the blue ones? You know, for my 'something blue'."
"No, remember, you decided on the blue rose on your gloves."
"Oh, right." She turned around on her bench. "Well, what about the white ones Amelia wore on her wedding day? I always liked those." She turned back to her vanity.
Frances shook her head. "Those were nice, but she spilt wine on them."
Harriet's brows shot up and she held up a pair of earrings to her ears. "Really? Amelia?"
Frances chuckled. "I know. And to think, after all those months of crazy planning and driving us all up the wall, she ends up ruining her shoes the day of."
"So what are my choices again?"
"The white ones from Patricia's wedding, and my ivory ones."
Harriet shrugged. "Whichever ones match the dress."
Frances held them up to the white wedding dress hanging from the curtain rod at the window. "I think the white ones match better. Next to the dress, the ivory ones just look old and dirty."
"The white ones it is then."
Patricia shook her head and quietly shut the door. "You'd never guess... She seems quite content. It is almost a shame we know her so well and can tell that something isn't quite right. If she knew that we didn't know, it might be easier for her to leave it all behind. But every time we show our concern, she is reminded of her time in Malborrow Creek."
"Maybe she needs time," Mrs. Barrett said. "She needed time to get past Owen's death, and she seems to have moved on for the most part from that."
"Yes, but she had a personal distraction: the Fellowes family. Here, nothing is happening to her. Her emotions aren't caught up in anything."
Patricia sighed. "I should probably head out. I'm expected home within the hour."
With a hug, she left, careful to step quietly on her way down the stairs.
When Frances reemerged from the room hours later, she found her mother in the parlor. "Still working on the house?" she asked, nodded towards the embroidery on the sofa.
Her mother shook her head. "No, I just forgot to put it away yesterday."
Frances took a seat on the chair opposite the coffee table. "Harriet seems to be doing well. Not nervous at all."
"She's always been very decisive. All her thinking took place before he proposed. Now that she's made her decision, there's nothing really left for her to think about, except be excited."
"I wish I was that way. It would definitely put my mind to rest."
Mrs. Barrett bit her tongue. She would not bite at the bit. Frances had obviously said that on a whim. It wasn't an invitation to ask questions. "Wouldn't we all?"
Click, click.
Frances looked over her shoulder at the entrance.
"The mail," her mother said. "Why don't you get it?"
Frances nodded and stood up. She picked up the handful of letters on the entrance mat and returned to her seat in the brightly lit parlor.
She rifled through the letters. "Two for Father. Looks like business. One for Harriet from Aunt Margaret. Another from cousin Cynthia. Probably to congratulate her. And one for..." she fell silent and her eyes widened.
"Are you all right, Frances?"
She gulped and nodded. "I'm fine." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine."
Mrs. Frances leaned forward. "Frances, you don't look so well."
Frances clutched the last letter to her chest and stood up. The other letters tumbled from her lap. "I have to go."
She rushed out of the room and up the stairs. She went straight to her room, placed the letter on the mantle above the fireplace and took a seat on her bed.
She could read the envelop from where she sat, her back pressed against her pillows and her feet stretched out in front of her.
Frances Barrett
286 Rycker Road
Her eyes blurred and she couldn't read the rest.
But she could still make out the name in the top left corner:
Julian Fellowes
He had written to her. She pressed her hands to the cool sheets beneath her. They still stung from where they had held the letter.
Why would he write to her? Why, why, why?
She knew why. He wanted her to come back. It was the only option. But that didn't feel right. It wasn't what Julian would do. He wasn't desperate like that. He was sad and tired. But not desperate. That much she knew. And writing a letter to her asking her to return was desperate. There was something else written in that letter.
But she didn't know if she cared. She had left Malborrow Creek behind. She had put it in her past. She was moving on...she thought. Reading that letter, thinking about Julian, was dangerous.
She pulled herself off the bed and grabbed the letter. She opened her window and clenched the letter in the middle. She was going to rip it. Into a million pieces and then let the wind take care of the rest. That was for the best. She needed to rid herself of all of this. She wanted to be free.
She pulled. It ripped a centimeter. But then she breathed. She let out all the air from her lungs. The cold air shocked her chest. She pulled back into the bedroom and closed the window. She replaced the letter on the mantle and left the room.
***
"Frances, are you all right?"
Frances' head shot up to her mother. "Yes, I'm fine. Why does everyone always asking me that?" She looked around the table at all the faces that blinked back at her.
Her mother looked down at the plate. Frances followed her gaze. She had pushed all her food off her plate with her fork.
Frances grimaced and put down her fork. "Sorry."
"You may feel better if you actually ate the food instead of just pushing it around," Mrs. Barrett suggested.
"I'm not really hungry."
"You barely had a bite at dinner and nothing at breakfast. You have to eat something."
Frances chuckled darkly. "Why do I feel we have this conversation at every meal?"
"Because we're worried about you." Patricia took her hand.
"What was in that letter, Frances?" her mother asked.
Frances' face darkened.
"It's been almost a month."
Frances didn't reply.
Her mother sighed. She and Patricia met eyes and she shook her head.
"What can we do to help, Frances?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. Really. I just lost my appetite." She looked up from her plate and smiled warmly. "I think I'm just nervous for Harriet's wedding. Probably more nervous than she is. It's only a month away and there's still so much to do. And the letter was just a recommendation from Mr. Fellowes should I decide to try and find another position. It was really quite kind of him."
Mrs. Barrett's face relaxed but Patricia wasn't sure. "Is that all?" she asked.
Frances nodded convincingly. "You remember me when I was preparing for my wedding. I was a complete mess. At one point, I think I was living off black coffee and pie."
She stood up slowly. In fact, the caterer will be here early tomorrow morning. I should probably be going to bed. Don't want to fall asleep in the cake, do I?" she chuckled and left the table.
The rest of the family continued eating, cautiously at first. Patricia didn't even touch her fork.
When she knocked on Frances' bedroom door an hour later, she wasn't surprised to hear her sister's voice call out immediately.
"Come in."
She did. Frances sat cross-legged on her bed. She was still dressed, but her hair was falling out of its tie. "How was supper?" she asked.
Patricia shrugged. "It was good. But Cuppie always makes good meals." She took a seat beside Frances and followed her sister's gaze to the mantle.
The letter stood upright against the wall. "What did it really say?" Patricia whispered. "Was it bad news?"
Frances took a deep breath. "I don't know. I never opened it."
Patricia closed her eyes and shook her head. "Oh...Frances...did you think it would be better not knowing?"
"I don't know. I tried to destroy it, but I couldn't bring myself to actually do it." Frances pulled her crossed legs closer to her body and rocked back and forth. "I feel as though I'm standing on a tightrope and no matter which way I lean, I'll fall. I choose to destroy it, and I give up on Julian. I decide to read it, and I give up on forgetting him."
Patricia stood up and took the letter. She stood before Frances, holding the letter gingerly in her hands. "What if you walk forward? What if you read it and let your heart heal? You don't have to forget him, Frances. But you do have to decide what you want."
Frances stared at the letter. Her heart hammered in her chest. "I don't think I can read it." She looked up at her sister. "Could you?"
Patricia smiled sadly. "No. I'm not going to read it for you. It isn't my place to read his words. They were meant for you and you only."
She placed the letter on the bed in front of Frances. "Frances, just because you read the letter, doesn't mean you will fall. You have to trust that. But if you don't, just know that if you do fall, there will always be a net to catch you."
Frances nodded and took the letter in her hands.
Patricia smiled knowingly and left the room.