by M C Beaton
Lady Emmeline was busy entertaining the Countess Honeyford, and after giving the Dowager Marchioness a quick look, Madame Croke dropped her voice to a whisper. “Then perhaps, Miss Quennell,” she murmured, handing Annabelle a pencil, “you might care to make a few alterations yourself? You see, so many ladies have come to me, asking me to design a gown exactly like the one Miss Quennell was wearing on such and such an occasion. I did not know what they were talking about, so I made the effort of watching you when you went out. I have built my reputation by creating, let us say, a rather fast line of creations. But perhaps, with your help, I could supply clothes to young ladies of quality like yourself. I should not, of course, be financially ungrateful if you were to give me some assistance.”
Annabelle stared at the dressmaker in surprise and delight. The thought of earning her living in this bewildering world where a lady was not supposed even to stoop to retrieve her own handkerchief was a heady novelty. She was also thrilled at the thought of being able to send some money home.
“I shall begin right away,” said Annabelle cheerfully. “I shall first sketch a suitable design for my ball gown and then, if you wish, I will suggest some more designs for gowns for other ladies. But please do not tell my godmother!”
Madame Croke shook her head and both bent over the designs, Annabelle’s clever pencil flicking over the alterations.
When Annabelle at last raised her head, she felt she had finally achieved the ball gown of her dreams. It was to be made of white Indian muslin embroidered from neckline to hem with roses of gold silk thread. Tiny artificial gold roses were to decorate the line above the deep flounce at the hem, the neckline and the edges of the little puffed sleeves. A headdress of roses would be wound through her red-gold curls to complete the effect.
She could imagine the beautiful dress floating and swirling round her legs as she danced the steps of the waltz with … For a moment Lord Varleigh’s thin white aristocratic face floated in her mind’s eye. She resolutely banished it and replaced it with the square tanned face and merry eyes of her dream lover.
ANNABELLE’S ball was voted “a sad crush” which meant that it was one of the successes of the Season. Royalty did not attend but practically everyone else did, from the haughty Lady Jersey to the impeccable Mr. Brummell.
Many gentlemen seemed only too ready to overlook the fact that Miss Quennell had no fortune, although, as the evening wore on and the champagne flowed, some of them became too enthusiastic, and Annabelle found it necessary to cool their ardor by behaving like a very haughty young lady indeed—or by “getting stiffly on her stiffs” as the current slang had it.
The ballroom was as hot as Clarence House despite the fact that the long windows were open onto the dusty garden at the back.
Annabelle found herself sympathising with Mr. Hullock, the merchant. The aristocracy seemed to be using her ball as an extension of the marriage mart. They gave Annabelle vague kind smiles, and a few of the older members patted her cheek, but the female half of the guests discounted her as a whole—the gentlemen were much too interested in her and no one without a fortune should be as beautiful as that! Her glorious, healthy, voluptuous good looks were gradually damned as vulgar as the evening went on and all the best of the marriageable men showed an irritating tendency to be more attentive than they should be.
Lady Jersey deigned to hold Annabelle in conversation all through the first waltz, rattling on at a great rate, and Annabelle, whose feet itched to dance, although the waltz was still considered rather fast, wished heartily that this queen of London Society would go away. She felt inclined to agree with the irrepressible Princess of Wales—“Mein Gott, dat is de dullest person Gott Almighty ever did born!”
At last Lady Jersey twittered off having felt she had done her duty by noticing dear Lady Emmeline’s tiresome goddaughter.
Lord Varleigh entered the ballroom and stood looking round the guests. Annabelle had begun to think he would not come, and it was with a queer little uplifting of the heart that she noticed that Lady Jane was not with him.
He came towards her, complimented her warmly on the elegance of her gown and then bent his head over her dance card. She hoped he would notice that the space opposite the next waltz had been left empty. She hoped Captain MacDonald would not come up at that moment and claim the waltz for himself. Certainly the Captain had been very subdued and attentive ever since his clowning at the opera. He had spent most of the ball in the card room but had made sudden forays into the ballroom between dances to stand next to Annabelle in an infuriatingly proprietorial way.
But Lord Varleigh merely scribbled his name opposite the waltz and stood chatting with her easily until her next partner came to claim her for the quadrille.
Lord Varleigh leaned against a pillar and watched Annabelle as she elegantly executed the steps of the dance. She had an almost fairy charm, he decided, with her beautiful creamy skin, red-gold hair, and air of fresh innocence. She appeared infinitely feminine and vulnerable, a girl to marry and cherish and protect. He realised with a little start that he had been thinking quite a lot of Miss Quennell lately and felt a strange pang of disappointment whenever he entered a party or ball and found her not there.
“Is that Lady Jersey’s vulgar debutante?” asked Beau Brummell, appearing suddenly at Lord Varleigh’s side. The famous Beau put up his quizzing glass and surveyed the dancing Annabelle.
“No, not vulgar … not vulgar at all,” said Mr. Brummell, letting his quizzing glass fall. “She has style and freshness—she is an original—a veritable country rose blooming on this rocky and bitter London soil. Charming! I find her charming,”
Lord Varleigh watched Brummell moving away with some amusement. That well-known London gossip, Jeffrey Roberts, had been listening avidly. Before much more of the evening had passed, Annabelle would be hailed as the new beauty. Such was the power of the Beau.
Soon she was floating in Lord Varleigh’s arms in the steps of the waltz. Although he held her the regulation twelve inches away, he was disturbingly aware of her body swaying in his arms. When the dance finished, he found himself strangely reluctant to leave her. He asked her if she would like some refreshment and sent a footman to fetch two glasses of wine while he led her to a small sofa beside the open windows.
“You are looking very beautiful tonight,” he said when they were seated together. “Charming, Brummell called you, and he is quite right.”
Annabelle blushed with pleasure and turned a glowing face to his. “Did he really say that?” she cried with ingenuous delight at the compliment.
“You are like a child with sweetmeats,” laughed Lord Varleigh. “Are you not in the way of receiving compliments?”
“Oh, yes, lots,” said Annabelle, “particularly this evening. But no one has ever called me charming before.”
“You must become accustomed to hearing it,” teased Lord Varleigh. “If the great Brummell says you are charming, then charming will be your label.”
“Then I shall simply remember the original compliment,” replied Annabell, wondering why she felt so at home with this man, feeling as if the sofa were an intimate, floating island surrounded by a feathered and bejewelled sea.
“Are you enjoying London?” asked Lord Varleigh, breaking the companionable silence. His hand was stretched along the back of the sofa, and Annabelle felt as excited and exhilarated as if he had put his arm round her shoulders.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, trying to fight against the realisation that she was enjoying herself completely for the first time. “I love all the parties and balls and operas. And I loved the City of London.”
“When were you there?” asked her companion idly.
“Captain MacDonald took me for a drive some days ago,” said Annabelle. “And then we went all round London. We even went as far as Highgate Village!”
“I shall be adventuring myself,” said Lord Varleigh. “I am bound for Paris in the morning.” The floating island bumped against the shores o
f hard reality. Paris and Lady Jane, thought Lord Varleigh, looking down at Annabelle’s bent head. Now why did I let Jane cozen me into taking her along? Habit, I suppose. And I am surely too old to start paying court to virgins like Miss Quennell.
“Paris!” exclaimed Annabelle in a small voice. “For how long, my lord?”
“For several months, I believe.”
“Business affairs?”
“Pleasure.”
“Oh.”
Annabelle sat very still, suddenly intent on the pictures on her Chinese fan.
“With Lady Jane?” she said at last.
“With Lady Jane.”
Never was Annabelle more glad to see the Captain than at that moment. “I hope you enjoy your journey, Lord Varleigh,” said Annabelle and, turning away, laid her hand on the large Captain’s arm and smiled up at him so brilliantly that several of the watchers were convinced the cancellation of the engagement had all been a hum.
Lord Varleigh watched them go. They were both young and very well suited he thought from the great height of his thirty-two years. He was fond of Annabelle, he told himself, and he was glad to see her enjoying her ball.
He suddenly felt very liverish and ill at ease. He would be better off at his club. Paris beckoned, and by the time he returned, Annabelle would probably be married.
DURING the month following Lord Varleigh’s departure to Paris, Annabelle found herself more in Captain MacDonald’s company than ever before.
They rode in the Ring in Hyde Park, they attended the Jubilee celebrations, and they danced and dined with society in that long hot summer of parties. The war was over, the French defeated, and the celebrations and fireworks went on as the troops from Bordeaux—except those lucky enough to be dispatched across the Atlantic to fight the Americans—were returning in the hundreds, hungry and wounded. They had been taken from the gutter and to the gutter they returned. They had done what the nation needed, and the nation didn’t want them anymore.
The officers, such as the Captain, were lucky enough to return to the world of society and to go on as if they had never left it. Who wanted to hear of Salamanca when there were so many delicious court scandals to discuss?
Captain MacDonald was quiet and civil. There were no more drunken episodes, no more amorous overtures, and he made an easy, undemanding companion. Annabelle had not discovered any man to fall in love with but many who were prepared to fall in love with her and found the Captain an effective barrier to their pursuit. Little by little they drifted closer together during the long, lazy summer days, sharing small jokes that only they knew the meaning of, exploring London, attending parties and balls.
Lady Emmeline felt triumphant. The Captain was following her instructions to the letter, and Annabelle was falling neatly into the oldest trap of all—propinquity.
Lady Emmeline was admittedly disappointed that Annabelle had lost a certain zest, a certain spark of independence. She was unfailingly dutiful, pleasant and submissive and, to the old dowager’s way of thinking, appeared to be in danger of becoming a bore.
Then Lady Emmeline fell ill with a high fever. The physician was called and failed to diagnose the cause of the illness, but he recommended that the Dowager Marchioness should be removed to more salubrious surroundings since even the elegant squares of the West End were beginning to smell ripe under the heat of the summer sun.
Annabelle enlisted the aid of Countess Honeyford and rented an attractive villa. The villa proved to be a small palace in Kensington Gore, standing back behind a high wall. It had three acres of garden on the south side, and the large rooms ran the whole length of the house from north to south. There was a library, a long gallery, two studies, and a suite of entertaining rooms. It was the most charming house Annabelle had ever seen. The doors were panelled with mirrors, the sofas and chairs were covered with apple-green damask, the drawing room was crimson and gold, and the long gallery and the library were green. Peacocks strutted on the terrace during the day, and nightingales sang their serenades in the garden after dark.
Annabelle felt sure that her frivolous godmother would be delighted with her bedroom when she recovered from her illness and could see it. It was in blue and gold with blue damask hangings and a large Mal-maison bed.
The library was Annabelle’s favorite, a great sunlit room filled with the scent of woodsmoke, potpourri and calf bindings, brimming with buhl and ormolu, pier glass and statues as well as delightful sofa tables from Gillow’s fashionable warehouse, Sévres china, and singing clocks.
The house belonged to a shady relative of the Count-ess’s who had fled to France after some scandal. Whatever the relative’s wrongdoing, Annabelle had to admit that he had excellent taste.
Society did not journey out to Kensington to visit the old lady or her beautiful goddaughter, and even the Captain only left his floral tributes at the lodge house at the gate. It was feared Lady Emmeline’s fever was contagious.
Annabelle found that she did not mind the long hours of nursing. Horley, the maid, was surprisingly helpful, burying her animosity towards the girl so long as her mistress needed help.
Day after day the Dowager Marchioness tossed and turned and rambled in her delirium, and each day the doctor came and prophesied the worst.
Annabelle had never been so alone in her life. The servants were so well trained they were almost invisible.
When Horley relieved her at the sickbed, she would escape to the calm of the library to sit dreaming over a book or to simply stare out at the peace and quiet of the garden. Although they were very near London, they could have been miles away. Annabelle prayed that some of the peace of their surroundings would penetrate to poor Lady Emmeline’s fevered brain. She had stopped the physician from bleeding the old lady any further, fearing that Lady Emmeline would become too weak to battle the fever.
One evening she returned to the sickroom and found Horley kneeling beside the bed, the tears streaming down her sallow cheeks. “She’s gone, miss,” sobbed Horley. “Just like that!”
Annabelle crossed slowly to the great bed and stood looking down at the waxen figure. She had never seen death before but despite Lady Emmeline’s graveyard pallor, felt sure she was not seeing it now. She seized a looking glass from the dressing table and held it before the Dowager Marchioness’s mouth. Nothing.
And then the glass began to mist. Annabelle felt the old lady’s brow. It was cool and damp.
She took a deep breath. “God be praised, Horley,” she said. “My lady is not dead. The fever has abated and she sleeps.”
Horley got briskly to her feet. Drying her tears with the hem of her apron, she looked at Annabelle with all the old dislike. “Then I shall watch by her bedside until she wakes,” she said briskly. “There will be no need for your services this night, Miss Annabelle.” Then she bobbed a curtsy and added reluctantly, “Not that I’m not grateful for all your help.”
Annabelle hesitated a minute beside the bedside. But Lady Emmeline did indeed seem to be in the depths of a refreshing sleep. She left Horley to her charge and returned to the library.
The tall figure of a man was standing over by the long windows looking out across the garden. He turned as she entered the room and made a magnificent leg.
Annabelle responded with a deep curtsy. “So you are returned from Paris, my Lord Varleigh,” she said in a carefully calm social tone. “You have no doubt not yet heard that Lady Emmeline has been sick of the fever.”
“I did,” he replied simply, “and that is why I am here. Is she better? Has the fever abated?”
Annabelle told him her good news, trying to keep the surprise from her face. This was one member of society at least who did not: seem to be worried about infection.
“Then that is good news,” he said, smiling down at her in such a way that her heart gave a wrench. “Come and walk with me in the garden and tell me all the latest on-dits.”
“I fear I am sadly out of touch,” said Annabelle, moving out through the windows and
onto the mossy terrace. “I would rather hear your news of Paris. Was it very exciting?”
“Depressing, rather,” said Lord Varleigh, tucking her small hand in his arm. “It was like stepping back into the last century.”
He went on to describe the dark streets, ankle-deep in mud and filled with grimacing, posturing blackguards. She was filled with horror as he described the filthy theaters where even the rich spat on the floor and used their knives as toothpicks and were crammed to capacity, their Napoleonic inscriptions painted over with fleurs-de-lis.
Paris, said Lord Varleigh, showed no signs of being a conquered capital or the French of being a conquered race. On the night after the allies’ entry, he was told that the theaters and public gardens were packed as if nothing had happened. The cynical French were impenitent at the suffering they had caused. There indifference to death remained the same. At Montmartre, where the Russians stormed their way into Paris over the bodies of the boys of the Military College, corpses were carefully preserved for sightseers, and houses pitted with bullets bore notices, “Ici on voit la bataille pour deux sous!” “Here one can see the battle for two sous!”
Despite his dislike of the worldy Parisians, Lord Varleigh said he could not help but be impressed by Napoleon’s great public buildings. It was like another world, he told the fascinated Annabelle, to find all this order and splendor in the middle of a dark medieval jungle of twisted streets and filthy houses.
He praised the splendid prospect from the summit of the Elysian fields with the road descending through masses of trees to the Tuileries. Incredible!
“How I should love to see it all!” cried Annabelle, and then sensed a stiffness and reserve in her companion and wondered what she had said to upset him.
Lord Varleigh was thinking how Lady Jane had thrived in Paris among the indolent, pleasure-loving crowd. There were no gentlemen and certainly no ladies. Even Napoleon himself, now exiled on Elba, had observed, “They are all rascals.” Her rapacious demands for money, for clothes and jewels, and gold for gambling, had increased. She had gained a great deal of weight from sampling all the gastronomic delights of Very’s, Hardis, and the Quadron Bleu, even breakfasting greedily with intending duellists at Tortoni’s off pâtés, game, fish, broiled kidneys, iced champagne and liqueurs.
