The Headstrong Ward

by Jane Ashford

  “She is not badly hurt?”

  “As to that, I couldn’t say. The creature took a nasty chunk out of her thumb.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Anne again.

  “Yes, my lady. The girl is unable to work, and it is a great inconvenience to the whole household. Fallow did not wish to tell you about the incident, but I thought it better to do so.” Crane looked smug. She and Fallow had not established a comfortable relationship.

  “Well, I will apologize to the maid, of course. What is her name? And I will see to Augustus myself from now on. He will not bite me.”

  Crane drew herself up. “If I may say so, my lady, I think it would be much better if you got rid of the creature. I’ve said it before, and I say it again—he is not a fit pet for you or for a gentleman’s house.”

  “I know your views, Crane,” replied Anne. “But I have become rather fond of Augustus and mean to keep him. What is the name of the girl he bit?”

  “But, my lady…”

  “Please, Crane.”

  Under Anne’s direct gaze, the dresser fell silent, pressing her lips together disapprovingly. “Her name is Ellen, my lady.”

  “Thank you. I shall speak to her tomorrow. Now, I had best get ready. The others will be waiting for me.”

  Within half an hour the Debenham party was riding through the streets toward the Branwells’ rented town house. Laurence, having been spared Edward’s usual caustic remarks, was very cheerful, and he kept up a flow of talk, explaining the plans for the evening’s entertainment. “They have got Madame Callini to sing,” he told a rather unresponsive audience. “She has a wonderful voice. And there will be a chamber group as well. The violinist is the one the Prince had last summer in Brighton. Yes, I think I can promise you that the music will be memorable. Lydia arranged the whole; she is very fond of music, you know.”

  The others, who were not particularly fond of music, nodded dutifully. Edward directed a furtive grimace at Anne.

  “It is unusual, at an entertainment such as this, to find such quality,” continued Laurence blithely. “Most of these musical evenings are simply excuses for gossip and flirtation. But Lydia means to show what can be done if the effort is made.”

  Thinking that this sounded like Lydia’s own words, and afraid Edward would not be able to restrain a critical comment, Anne said, “Does she play herself?”

  “Oh, yes. Both the pianoforte and the harp. Splendidly.”

  “We will hear her tonight also, perhaps?” Anne resolutely ignored another grimace from Edward.

  “No. She says she will not inflict her performance on the guests when they have the opportunity of hearing such superior musicians. I told her that was nonsense, of course, but Lydia is very modest about her accomplishments.”

  “Ah,” was all Anne could think of to reply, but they fortunately reached the house at that moment, and a footman opened the carriage door.

  All three Branwells greeted them on the landing inside. Or rather, the bishop and Lydia did so. Mrs. Branwell merely stood between them, looking tired. “You will want to go directly to the drawing room,” said Lydia. “A great many people have already arrived, and the good seats are being taken. I set aside yours in the first row, but someone may usurp them if you do not go right in.”

  Laurence agreed, and the party moved off. In the drawing-room doorway, however, Charles paused. “There are the Steadhams. I must speak to them,” he said, starting to turn away.

  “But our seats,” objected Laurence.

  “Oh, keep mine for me, by all means, Laurence.” The younger man’s cheek reddened at his mocking tone as the viscount walked away.

  “There’s Kelso,” added Edward hurriedly and a bit guiltily. “Have something important to ask him.” And he too left them, before Laurence could speak.

  “Isn’t there someone you must see, Anne?” he said then, looking annoyed.

  She smiled at him. “No, I am ready to go to my seat. Laurence, you know they don’t care for music. It is too much to expect that they sit in the first row. Besides, Edward might fall asleep and disgrace you before everyone.”

  He smiled reluctantly. “He might indeed. Come, we shall give their seats away to more deserving persons at the first opportunity.”

  “A splendid idea.” They walked up the room together. The furniture had been removed and replaced by rows of gilt chairs set before an elevated platform containing a pianoforte and several music stands. They nodded to various acquaintances as they went. “Oh, there is Arabella,” said Anne. She waved to her friend, struck by an idea. “Talking of deserving persons, Laurence, Bella is extremely fond of music. She plays also. Let us offer her one of our favored seats.”

  Laurence agreed enthusiastically, and in a moment this was done and the three of them were settling in the front row of chairs. Laurence repeated his catalog of the coming treats to Arabella, who received it with much more interest than his family had shown. Soon they were engrossed in a discussion about the singers to be heard in London this season, and Anne was free to look about the room.

  She was beginning to recognize certain signs in a crowded drawing room, and they told her that this group was unusual. It seemed to be divided between a small number of very earnest guests, who huddled in animated discussion and almost none of whom she knew, and a large proportion of bored fashionables, who swung their fans idly or raised quizzing glasses in jaundiced weariness. Anne smiled slightly. It was fortunate that Mariah had convinced Charles she need not come. She would not care for this party.

  The Branwells came in, escorting several late arrivals, and made their way to the front of the room. Mrs. Branwell sank into a chair at once, but the bishop made a show of establishing his daughter on the raised platform and capturing the guests’ attention. Lydia waited with her fine head held high. Anne saw Charles sit down with a group of his friends near the back of the room—she hadn’t expected him to join them—and smiled as Edward slipped out with some fellow officers, no doubt in search of a quiet place and a hand of cards. Then, as Lydia began to speak, she turned to look at her.

  “We have a great treat tonight,” said Miss Branwell. “Madame Callini of Milan is with us and has promised to sing several of her justly celebrated arias. I won’t delay that pleasure any longer, but will merely present…Madame Callini.” She extended a hand and looked expectantly toward the rear doorway. The audience turned also.

  There was a moment of silence. Someone giggled, then quickly controlled himself. “Madame Callini?” repeated Lydia, louder and with impatience in her voice. The doorway remained vacant. Whisperings started in the crowd.

  Her eyes flashing, Miss Branwell glanced at her father, who looked thunderous, then stepped down and strode through the drawing room and out at the rear. As one, the guests began an avid discussion of this contretemps.

  “I wonder what can be the matter?” said Laurence. “Perhaps I should offer Lydia my assistance?”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Anne. “I wager she would be very grateful.” To herself, she thought that this was a fine opportunity for Laurence to observe his fiancée’s temper.

  He rose. “I hope there hasn’t been an accident.”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Arabella from his other side. “Poor Miss Branwell, she must be so worried.”

  Throwing her a warm look, Laurence departed. Anne watched him go with a faint smile, but just as he reached the doorway, Charles stopped him with a raised finger and called him over. As Anne frowned in annoyance, the viscount could be seen admonishing his brother and finally urging him into a chair nearby. “Stupid!” exclaimed Anne.

  “What?” Arabella turned from the gentleman on her right and gazed at her friend.

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “What do you think is wrong?”

  “I suppose Madame Callini is being temperamental. Singers are known for that, are they not?�
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  “Some are. But how dreadful for the Branwells—to have all these people waiting, and no…” She stopped as Lydia entered the drawing room again. There was no sign of Madame Callini, but four very cowed-looking male musicians trailed after her. Lydia appeared to be controlling her rage with great difficulty.

  She made no further introductions, merely waving the men onto the platform and dropping into a chair beside her father. When the bishop leaned over to ask an irritable question, he received a glance of such burning outrage that even he drew back, daunted. “Why did Charles have to meddle?” murmured Anne savagely.

  “What?” Arabella looked around for Laurence, then moved over into his seat as the musicians struck up. “What is the matter, Anne?”

  The other sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Nothing, Bella, I promise.”

  “Shh,” hissed Lydia, glaring at them as if everything were their fault, and they fell silent, turning dutiful eyes to the players.

  The program seemed rather long to Anne and, judging by the restless rustling that increased as time passed, to other members of the audience as well. The quartet no sooner finished one piece than they began another, hardly pausing for the audience to express appreciation. Anne concluded that they had received harsh orders from Lydia Branwell. At last, however, they ceased, and the bishop announced a buffet supper in the dining room. The guests filed out eagerly, as many turning toward the stairs, Anne noticed, as toward the food. The second part of the performance would be more sparsely attended.

  Anne and Arabella walked to the dining room together and joined a table of young people near the door. A lively, noisy meal was in progress, the gentlemen fetching plate after plate of tidbits and vying for designation as most discriminating provider. Arabella laughingly agreed to judge between the lobster patties and the meringues, insisting that she liked them equally well, but Anne refused to be pulled into the competition. She was looking around for Charles, determined to speak to him.

  She did not find him at once, but at last a group of diners moved toward the buffet, and she saw him in the far corner. Rising despite the others’ protests, she made her way across and caught him just as he was leaving a group there. “Charles, I want to talk to you.”

  He turned. “Of course.”

  Meeting his cool gray eyes, the blond brows slightly raised, Anne was at first uncertain how to begin. She had been very annoyed when he stopped Laurence from following Lydia, but now she felt only confused. “Why did you interfere?” she blurted finally and, at once, bit her lower lip in annoyance.

  The eyebrows climbed higher. “I? Interfere?”

  Anne raised her chin, determined to continue. “Yes. When I sent Laurence after Miss Branwell. You stopped him.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Laurence since… Do you mean in the drawing room?”

  She nodded.

  “I see. I did not realize that you had ‘sent’ him.”

  “Well, I did. And you spoiled it. I wanted him to see her in a rage.”

  “Ah.” Lord Wrenley’s expression was wry. “I see. And I, in a misguided attempt to spare him that sight, forestalled you.”

  “Spare him?”

  “Yes, Anne. I am not entirely unfeeling, you know. I may weary of my brothers’ follies, but that does not mean that I wish them to endure the rages of a creature like Lydia Branwell. I was moved by, er, compassion to save him.”

  “But if he saw—”

  “I understand now. No doubt you are quite correct. I apologize for ‘interfering.’ I shan’t do so again.” He looked away. He had given some thought to Anne’s remarks about Laurence, and decided that they had merit. And though nothing could be done about his brother’s unfortunate choice, Charles had felt a moment’s sympathy for him tonight and acted upon it. Predictably, this had only caused more problems. He wished he had left it alone.

  He looked so strange, almost piqued, that Anne added, “I have a plan, you see, to show him the truth.”

  Charles bowed his head, coldly acknowledging her remark, but expressing no interest or approval.

  “And when he knows, all will be at an end.”

  “Will it?”

  “Well, of course. No one would wish to marry someone like Lydia Branwell if he realized what she is really like.”

  “Possibly not. But what has that to do with anything?”

  Anne stared up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “If you achieve this revelation for Laurence—as I suppose you must, the girl certainly offers ample opportunity—what do you expect him to do?”

  “Why, break it off, of…” Anne shut her mouth abruptly. She raised her eyes to his. He looked inquiring. “He cannot break it off, can he?” she whispered after a while.

  “It is certainly not the act of a gentleman.”

  “But… Oh, dear.”

  “It appears that your meddling is as misguided as mine. Perhaps we should both give it up.”

  Anne was thinking. “I shall have to find a way to make her cry off,” she said to herself.

  “An unlikely development.”

  “Yes, it will be much harder. I hadn’t thought.” She looked at him speculatively. “You might help me.”

  He shook his head, still rather offended. “My philanthropic impulses are erratic, and limited to such as you saw tonight.”

  “Very well, I shall do it myself, then. With Edward.”

  “He is unlikely to be of assistance.”

  “On the contrary, he has promised to help me.”

  “Indeed?” Lord Wrenley looked truly surprised. “Haven’t the two of you enough to amuse yourselves with the season?”

  “We are not amusing ourselves,” retorted Anne fiercely. “Can’t you see that?”

  He looked down at her, frowning slightly. “The first time your crusade seriously inconveniences you, you may see matters differently.”

  Anne began a hot reply, then paused. Charles really could not understand how she felt, and this made her more sad than angry. “I won’t,” she answered with quiet conviction. “I like Laurence more and more. I care about him. I will do everything I can to further his happiness, whatever the inconvenience.”

  Their eyes met. Charles was genuinely puzzled. His bewildered expression made Anne smile faintly. “What if one of your friends were about to make a disastrous marriage?” she ventured daringly. “Would you not do something?”

  “Of course not. It would be none of my affair.”

  “You never offer advice, then? Or any kind of help?”

  He started to shake his head, then paused.

  “You see? How can it be different for your own family?”

  He frowned. “I have always fulfilled my responsibilities toward—”

  “Oh, Charles, I am not talking about responsibilities. If that is all you can feel, then I pity you.” And turning on her heel, she walked away.

  Lord Wrenley watched her go, his frown deepening. He really could not imagine what the girl meant. His family had meant nothing but responsibility since he was sixteen. His duty had overshadowed all other emotions, and it had been a burden very nearly too heavy for an adolescent. Now that Laurence and Edward were older, he was only too glad to give them free rein. What more could Anne ask?

  Raising his head, he looked at her from under lowered eyelids, trying to dismiss her remarks from his mind. But for some reason, this was very difficult. Her phrases and, particularly, her intense tone lingered in his thoughts. He could not, quite, still the echo of that outraged—“I am not talking about responsibilities.”

  Ten

  Two evenings later, Anne, Mariah, and Laurence set off after dinner for Almack’s. This was to be Anne’s first visit to that famous assembly, and she was eager to see the rooms she had heard so much of. Mariah, who had completed the planting of her parlor garden that afternoon and w
anted nothing more from life than to work in it, was resigned to the outing but not inclined to talk, so the conversation during the drive was confined to Anne’s questions about what she could see and Laurence’s replies.

  “I do wish Brummel were still in London,” said Anne finally. “Mrs. Castleton was telling me about him yesterday. I should have liked to see him.”

  “Yes, we haven’t anyone to match the Beau,” agreed Laurence. “But perhaps the Prince will look in. He does sometimes, when he is in town.”

  Anne’s eyes twinkled. “I understand he is a wondrous sight. They say his corsets creak.”

  Her escort smiled back at her but said, “Don’t say such things to strangers, Anne. The Prince is sensitive.”

  “I won’t. And I hope he does come. But even if he does not, at least I shall be able to waltz, finally.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “Is there any doubt of it?”

  “Well, no, of course not.”

  “Do they sometimes leave one sitting at the side through all the waltzes?” she demanded, suspicions aroused.

  “No. That is, hardly ever. Only when they…er…”

  “When they don’t like you,” finished Anne. “And I trod on Lady Jersey’s flounce at the Archers’ ball and tore it! She will probably tell the others not to approve me. Oh, Laurence, if I have to sit by and watch everyone else dancing many more times, I shall…burst!”

  “You won’t. I’ll…I’ll speak to someone.”

  “Will you? Are you well acquainted with one of the patronesses?”

  “Ah, no. But I…”

  “Fiddle. I shall have to do something myself.”

  “No!” exclaimed Laurence, then quickly added, “I will take care of the matter, I promise.”

  She met his anxious eyes and almost giggled, he looked so afraid of what she might do. “Well, I will give you a chance to do so,” she conceded, “but I warn you, I will not sit through every waltz again tonight.”

  He nodded.

  “Is Miss Branwell coming to Almack’s tonight?”