She wondered how Thorne Wainwright would react when he learned that Annabelle Richardson was Emma Bennet—or vice versa. Well, the book would not be out for another six weeks or so.
In the event, however, she did not have to wait that long to learn his reaction to such news.
Thirteen
Thorne returned to London early in the New Year, for he wanted to be in the city as the nation’s political power brokers drifted back into the capital for the opening of Parliament and the social season. He hoped to begin building early—and strong—support for some of his reformist measures.
He knew the very word reform struck fear in many a breast. England still had vivid memories of the cataclysmic changes France had endured in the last thirty to forty years. Such fear in recent years had manifested itself in restrictions that appalled much of England’s free-thinking citizenry. A number of basic freedoms had been severely curtailed.
Many, not necessarily motivated by fear, nevertheless advocated harsh restrictive measures because doing so achieved some self-serving end. Thus, Thorne saw many of his fellow mill owners instituting ever harsher measures against workers. Among the most vocal of these unfeeling fellows who fought tooth and nail to keep labor costs down was Viscount Beelson. The labor of women and children was vastly cheaper than that of men. Therefore, unscrupulous mill owners were especially vehement in their opposition to reforms that would curb exploitation of weak workers.
Specifically, they opposed any measures approving workers’ rights to organize. Meetings of more than fifty people were banned. Education of poor children was simply a waste of public money. For some jobs—notably, cleaning chimneys or gaining access to veins of coal in narrow crevices—the smaller bodies of children were essential to the task. To oppose the use of children for such work was a threat to the natural order of things.
For the Thorne Wainwrights of the nation, it was beyond time for change. His days of military campaigns were over, but there were other battles to be fought and other strategies to employ. For the Beelsons of Britain, the status quo was just fine. So the battle lines were drawn and the battlefield was Parliament.
Knowing that Lord Wyndham—despite his being a member of the opposite party—shared many of his views, Thorne visited their club on his first night back in town. He was disappointed to learn that the Wyndhams had not yet returned to the city. There was a positive side to the delay, he told himself. At least it would postpone the probably inevitable meeting with Annabelle.
The days had become weeks and the weeks blended into months, but he still thought of her often—the recurring positive images mixed inextricably with the pain of her deception. On the one hand, he dreaded seeing her again; on the other, he would dearly love to wring her pretty little neck!
The next night he attended a meeting of the London Literary League—and there she was.
Annabelle was surprised to see him. Celia had said nothing of his return to town when the two women had called on Letty in the afternoon. However, even had Letty or Celia known, there would be no special reason to inform their friend, would there? How could they know how nervous she was about seeing him again?
Annabelle wished now she had dressed more fashionably. She was wearing a simple gown of soft wool. Midnight blue and trimmed with light gray lace, it was one of her favorite outfits—but it was also a holdover from last year.
Their parting at Rolsbury Manor had been cordial, but reserved. She remembered thinking as they said their goodbyes that both of them seemed to be mindful of that kiss above the abbey ruins. Nevertheless, both had been formally polite as she and the Wyndhams took their leave. Would that cool formality prevail now at their first meeting since then?
As soon as he entered the room, he was taken up by first one small group and then another. Given the size and informality of these gatherings, he might avoid her all evening if he were so inclined. After all, he had chosen to ignore her for months now—proof positive, if she needed such, that their friendship—let alone those kisses—meant nothing to him. She tried, with little success, to concentrate on the conversations swirling around her. She wished she could leave, but Aunt Gertrude had especially desired to hear tonight’s featured presentation on modern poetry.
In the way of these affairs, the persons she had been talking with drifted away and she stood momentarily alone. She turned abruptly on hearing his voice just behind and to the side of her. He was dressed in gray Cossack trousers and a dark green jacket that reflected the color of his eyes. He was simply the most attractive man in the room and all her senses leapt to attention at his nearness.
“Good evening, Miss Richardson.”
“Good evening, Th—uh, Lord Rolsbury,” she said, on catching the aloofness in his tone and a cold, closed expression on his face.
His voice was soft enough not to carry to others, but there was a steely quality to it as he continued. “I address you as ‘Miss Richardson,’ but in a meeting such as this, it should be ‘Miss Bennet,’ should it not?”
A distinct coldness gripped her and she was sure the color had drained from her face. “I ... I ... What did you say?”
“Never mind the dissembling. I have had quite enough of that.”
His gaze was unrelenting in angry accusation. She looked away. No! She would not fall to pieces right here in the Melbournes’ drawing room. “Yes. I suppose you have. I ... I wanted to explain—so many times—”
He made a dismissively slicing gesture with the hand not holding his walking stick. “Cut line, my dear. You have had your little joke. The hoax is over. When I think—and you were laughing all the while. I do hope you enjoyed it—all of it.” His tone became increasingly bitter.
She put out a hand to touch his arm, but he jerked away as from a flaming torch. “Please, Thorne. It ... it was not like that—”
“You simply do not stop, do you? Your deceit has no bounds. You cannot just explain away your despicable behavior.”
Angry tears of regret and humiliation threatened, but she was certainly not going to allow him to witness her turning into a watering pot. “Very well, my lord. I will not even try.”
She turned sharply and walked away from him, but not before she heard him mutter, “I had the right of it. Emma Bennet is a coward.”
She hurried out of the room as the first tears made their way down her cheeks.
Anger, pain, regret, humiliation—she hardly knew which emotion was uppermost. She made her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, stopping only momentarily to ask a footman to find Lady Hermiston for her. She sank onto a settee and tried to sort out her feelings.
He might at least have accorded her the courtesy of listening to her explanation! But, no, the ever-so-superior Lord Rolsbury wanted none of that. Wanted none of her. And, that, she supposed, was the keenest pain. She put her fist against her mouth to quell her trembling chin. No! Absolutely not! She would not dissolve into heavy, racking sobs!
Aunt Gertrude entered the room, looking very concerned.
“Annabelle, my dear, whatever is wrong?”
Annabelle turned her tear-stained face up to the older woman and broke into heavy, racking sobs. Aunt Gertrude sank down beside her and enfolded the girl in her arms. She patted her back and murmured, “There, there, darling. Stop crying, do—and tell me what is wrong.”
Annabelle tried to get hold of herself. She took several deep breaths, snuffled, and searched futilely in her tiny reticule for a handkerchief.
“Here.” Aunt Gertrude handed her a lacy square of cloth.
“Th-thank you,” Annabelle whimpered. “It . . . it’s Th-Thorne. Lord Rolsbury. H-he knows about Emma Bennet.”
“So? The whole world will know in due time.”
“Y-yes, but he is very angry about it, you see. Oh, Aunt Gertrude, what am I going to do?”
“First off, we are going home. We need not let the whole League see you like this.”
“I shall go and send the carriage back for you. I know you wanted
to hear the presentation.”
“Robert Southey will probably have little to say that I have not already heard—or can hear again another time. No. I shall accompany you, dear.”
“Thank you.”
Once they were in the carriage, Annabelle said, “I—I wanted to tell him myself,” and foolishly dissolved into tears again.
“Of course you did, my dear.” Aunt Gertrude held her as she cried anew until her sobs died away.
As they arrived home, Aunt Gertrude steered Annabelle to the drawing room instead of allowing the girl to go immediately to her room. She motioned Annabelle to a chair and busied herself at a sideboard.
“We must talk about this, my dear. The situation may seem relatively simple, but it is actually very complicated.”
“I—I do not understand.”
“It is not merely a matter of Rolsbury’s wounded pride and your hurt feelings.”
Annabelle felt the tears threaten again. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Aunt Gertrude handed her a glass.
“Here. Drink this. ’Tis only sherry, but it may help settle your nerves.”
Annabelle sipped at the amber liquid. “I still do not understand.”
Aunt Gertrude fixed her with a steely look. “You must get hold of yourself. And this . . . this contretemps between you and Rolsbury must be smoothed over.”
“Smoothed over?” Annabelle repeated, feeling as though she had walked in on the middle of a play with no idea of what the dialogue was about.
“Smoothed over.” Aunt Gertrude sounded adamant. “You must not mention it to Marcus—nor to Harriet, who would undoubtedly tell Marcus.”
“Why? Marcus and Harriet—they are my best friends. I tell them everything.”
“Yes, I know. And that is why you must mend this breach with Rolsbury and pretend it never happened.”
“Given his anger at me, I doubt that is possible. But, I still do not understand.”
Aunt Gertrude sighed. “You do know that Marcus is rather highly placed in government circles?”
“Yes . . .”
“A Tory government?”
“Yes, but—”
Aunt Gertrude held up her hand. “I know. Marcus is his own person. But consider this—Rolsbury is a Whig. He, too, is his own person, but he is much respected by Whig leaders.”
“But this has nothing to do with me—or Emma Bennet.”
“Oh, but it does, my dear.” Aunt Gertrude took a sip from her own glass. “Rolsbury and Marcus were working together last year on certain reforms. They have been in correspondence these last several months.”
“They—they have?”
“Yes. You were so involved with this new book, you hardly noticed, I am sure.”
“Perhaps . . .”
“Well, the long and short of it is this—England needs these reforms sooner than later—and if there were a breach between Rolsbury and Marcus, it would mean a major setback the nation could ill afford.”
“I suppose I actually knew all this, but just did not realize its full import.”
“Yes. Well, you do see why Marcus must not know how deeply Rolsbury may have hurt you? Both men have a very strong sense of family loyalty—and you are very much a part of the Jeffries family of which Marcus is the head.”
Even in her misery, Annabelle felt a glow of warmth at having this idea voiced aloud.
“You are saying,” she said, her voice at last clear, “that I, too, must show some family loyalty in protecting Marcus—and his goals.”
Aunt Gertrude smiled. “Precisely. Can you do it?”
“I—I think so. In a few days.”
“Do not hesitate too long. Marcus and Harriet will return to town soon.”
Annabelle took another sip from the glass, then set it aside and squared her shoulders. “I shall pull through this. I know I will.”
She bade Aunt Gertrude good night and at last escaped to her own chamber, where she allowed herself one last bout of tears, grieving for what might have been.
Thorne watched her leave the Melbourne drawing room, annoyed that he could not control his own conflicting emotions. He should be feeling triumphant, vindicated. Instead, he felt deflated. Those unshed tears shimmering in her eyes had nearly undone him. Part of him wanted to run after her—walking stick be damned—and take her in his arms to comfort her. Another part scorned that idea as foolish weakness.
He observed a footman approach Lady Hermiston and speak softly to her. She hurried from the room, but neither she nor Annabelle returned. When it dawned on him that he was responding to others with polite nothingness and not really listening to what they were saying to him, he took his own leave.
That night, for the first time in several weeks, he sought forgetfulness in a brandy bottle.
Over the next several days, more and more of the ton returned to the city and the social whirl picked up its pace to a fevered level. Thorne spent the days making calls, usually at the home of this or that Member of Parliament who might lend him a sympathetic ear. His evenings were filled with routs, soirees, and an occasional dinner party. He did not accept invitations to balls. Not anymore. His acceptance of other invitations was entirely dependent on assessing the political advantage of attending an event.
“I swear, Thorne, you are becoming a real bore, always prosing on about some reform or another.” Luke, who had returned to town two days after Thorne’s encounter with Annabelle, grinned at his brother at the end of a rather unproductive day, in Thorne’s view.
“Hmmph!” Thome sniffed in derision. “One social flutterby in the family is quite enough.”
Luke ignored this and said, “And what is wrong between you and Annabelle?”
Thome was guarded in his response, for he had as yet said nothing to Luke—or anyone else—about Annabelle being Miss Bennet. “Why do you ask? What has she said?”
“She has said nothing—and that in itself is strange. Whenever I mention either of you to the other, you both change the subject.”
“Well, then—leave it alone.” Thome hid his own confusion behind his blunt tone.
“As you wish, big brother.” Luke changed the subject. Thome had no idea why he did not reveal the whole story to Luke. Was he actually protecting the woman who had held the Wainwrights up to ridicule? Or was he protecting Luke from hurt and disappointment if he knew the truth about his friend? Thome preferred to think it was the latter, but was honest enough—at least with himself—to acknowledge a desire—nay, a need—to protect her as well. This fact brought more confusion and disgust aimed at himself. The whole sorry mess was over, for God’s sake! Why could he not let it go?
Annabelle frequently appeared at the same large social affairs to which he was invited. When they met, each was studiously civil and each sought to avoid any prolonged contact. One evening he was invited to the Winters House for a dinner party. He knew this was to be Letty’s first stint as hostess since presenting the Winters heir in November. Knowing how inseparable Letty, Celia, and Annabelle were, he steeled himself for Annabelle being there.
She had not yet arrived when he was announced. Nor did she come later. His pride would not allow him to ask about her, but he listened intently when Celia did so.
“Where is Annabelle?” she demanded of Letty. “I should have thought she would be here for the new mama’s first outing.”
Letty laughed. “This is not my first outing. It is merely the first I have hosted. But—to answer your question—she sent round a note saying she had a headache.”
“Annabelle? A headache?” Celia’s disbelief was clear.
“That is what her note said. She quite threw my numbers off.”
“And when did you care overmuch about odds and evens at your table? Something is wrong,” Celia said. “Did you have words with her over some trifle?”
“No, of course not. Nor about anything important.”
“I shall call on her tomorrow and have the truth from her if I have to thrash her to do so.”
Thorne grinned at the image of Celia “thrashing” Annabelle with Letty in the midst. He found the evening pleasant, the conversation interesting, and the company charming. But something was missing. She rarely dominated everyone’s attention, but Annabelle always added something warm and cheerful to a gathering.
Annabelle knew she really was acting the coward in not attending Letty’s party. Letty had let slip the fact that Thorne would be there—and that it was to be a very small group. Annabelle felt sure she could not bear a whole evening of his chill in such a close atmosphere.
His attack at the League meeting had come as a shock. Yes, she wanted him to know the truth, but had feared his reaction to it. She had wanted to tell him herself—but now he had found out some other way. And he had certainly proved her fears well founded!
Having expended her store of tears that evening, she awoke the next morning to the ravages of her pain—swollen, puffy eyelids and a general redness that could not even be disguised with a veil. She fumed at Thorne Wainwright anew for forcing her to give up her morning ride. But that infernal man was getting no more tears from her.
She rang for Molly to order up cold cucumber slices for her eyelids. Molly returned with cucumbers, toast, and chocolate. Annabelle knew she could cure the effects of the tears. She could even will away additional tears. But she seemed to have precious little control over where her mind drifted.
That stubborn organ kept drifting back to him. So—he knew the truth. How long before he spread it around? Or would he? How long had he known? And how did he find out? He apparently had not shared the information with his cronies. Winters would have told Letty and Letty would have challenged Annabelle again with a triumphant “I told you so.” Nor had Luke said anything when she saw him..
What did it matter? She intended to tell Celia and Letty anyway, but Mr. Murray had persuaded her not to make the information known until closer to the publication date. That little advertising coup would probably sink before it was launched. She smiled at the mixed metaphor.
Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 15
