Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Twenty One

The scorching afternoon sun beat down on the heads of the three men who stood conversing between rows of fresh ridges. Pressing further against the wall, Frances parted the worn curtains slightly and stretched her neck to get a better view of the speaker. She heard not a word he spoke, but could barely tear her eyes off of him, her gaze gliding from the top of his uncombed hair, to his neck, where an undone button left a small portion of his chest exposed, to his arms. His gray shirt, with its rolled-up sleeves, revealed his firm muscles. She thought them bigger than she remembered. Perhaps they'd grown due to all the work he'd endured on the farm in the last one month. Her face caught fire when she thought of what it might feel like to have those arms wrapped around her. The heat spread to the pit of her stomach as she remembered the day at the lake, when his arms had indeed been wrapped around her.

"You should go to him."

Frances jumped. Releasing her grip on the curtain, she spun around, shocked to find Sara in the room.

"Sara!" She pressed her hand to her pounding chest. "You startled me."

Sara raised a brow. "I knocked, three times! When no answer came, I let myself in to find you glued to the window, daydreaming about a man who's already your husband."

Frances was certain she was as red as a tomato. "I wasn't..." She closed her mouth long enough to think of a lie. "I was trying to open the window."

"I've been standing here for five minutes, Mrs Brown, and I'm certain I didn't see you reach for the glass. Not once."

"You would admit to eavesdropping?" She raised a brow

"Only one of us was eavesdropping, and she wasn't me. Now," Sara stepped forward, a laundry basket in hand, "shall I inform Mr. Brown of your intention to join him for dinner tonight?"

"I have no such intention." She watched Sara empty the basket on the bed. "I do not wish to see him." She crossed the room and settled on the edge of the bed with Sara, where she began helping her fold the clean clothes. The two women had spent the better part of the morning doing the laundry. Sara did the bulk of the work because Frances' movements had become severely limited by her growing belly.

"I beg to differ. For five whole minutes, I watched you watch him. I'm of the mind that you were watching him for much longer."

"You're wrong."

Sara groaned. Placing the sheet she'd just folded in the basket, she turned fully to Frances. "When will you swallow your pride and approach him about what you saw that evening? It's the reason you've chosen to confine yourself in here. Surely you do not wish to remain confined forever!"

Frances looked away. She did not want to be reminded of the evening she walked into the drawing room to find her husband clinging to a painting of her dead sister. It'd felt like a punch to her guts, and she feared she might never recover. How could she? Unlike her, Roman loved Layla. He'd loved Layla before their marriage, during their marriage, and after.

Frances understood Roman didn't love her, but to be barred from his heart completely, to watch him expend his love on a dead woman, while simultaneously sentencing Frances to a lonely existence? The very thought had been too much to bear. Fighting to keep herself from crumbling under the weight of his rejection, she found a suitable position for the portrait above the mantle. It signified the prominent position Layla held in Roman's heart, but more than that, it reminded Frances there would never be room for her where Roman was concerned. She thought if she placed a reminder before herself, she might guard her heart. It was painful enough knowing her husband was in love with another woman. She didn't wish to bear the added pains of loving him in vain.