by M C Beaton
“Oh, yes, yes,” cackled Miss George, “but she forgot to say that Miss Davenant was also in residence.”
To Miss George’s utter amazement, the beautiful Duchess of Hadshire said, “But of course. I thought everyone knew that. Only very common people are going to take the word of a vicar’s daughter. What does Darkwood say himself?”
“Lady Clairmont says he spoke not a word in his defense,” said Lady Trompington, “and I have not seen him this age.”
“Why should Darkwood say a word in his defense?” said Matilda, doing a deliberate imitation of her husband at his worst. “He would not stoop so low. Of course, Lady Clairmont likes to keep it quiet, but I happen to know that her third cousin married an ironmaster.”
“No!” chorused the ladies in delighted horror.
“So why should Darkwood waste time justifying his actions to such as she?”
Miss George sat back bemused. Free coal and tea and she had hardly said a word. The Duchess of Hadshire had taken the matter out of her hands.
The Duchess of Berkshire was hoping for a visit from her latest lover. Instead, to her horror, she received a call from that elderly ancient relative, Miss Primms. But family duty was family duty. She produced wine and cakes and settled down to be thoroughly bored.
But she sat up in amazement as Miss Primms started to outline Annabelle Carruthers’s innocence. Lady Clairmont had refused to tell the duchess the name of her dressmaker, and the duchess had not forgiven her. Also Lady Clairmont set herself up as an arbiter of fashion and held sway over the saloons of London society. The thought of bringing her down a peg was delicious. She pressed more cakes on Miss Primms, and Miss Primms embroidered a good deal but kept to the salient fact that Miss Davenant had been in residence in Darkwood’s house when Mrs. Carruthers was there. Miss Primms finally became tired. There was a large plum cake standing as yet uncut on a crystal tazza on the table.
“Good heavens! Is that someone outside the door?” she cried.
The duchess recollected her lover and ran to have a look while Miss Primms scooped the whole plum cake into a reticule the size of a coal sack.
The duchess’s lover did not call but she did not miss him. She hurriedly dressed to go out. Gossip was more exciting than love any day.
Lady Kitson sent for her niece after she came in from making calls. Normally placid, she looked flurried and upset. “Come and sit by me, Cressida, and tell me child, did you not inform me Annabelle Carruthers was in residence in the Earl of Darkwood’s house when he had the fever?”
“Yes, Aunt, and, oh, you promised me you would not breathe a word.”
“Yes, yes, but listen. Did you tell me that aunt of the earl’s, Miss Davenant, was there at the same time?”
In one blinding moment, Cressida saw a way of repairing the damage her gossip had done. “Oh, I knew that,” she said.
“But,” said Lady Kitson faintly, “do you not see that alters the whole scene? If Miss Davenant was there at the same time as Annabelle Carruthers, then there is no scandal.”
“I am only a country mouse,” said Cressida meekly, “and do not know the ways of the world.”
“Goodness, I must fly to Lady Clairmont and apologize and explain. My memory! Are you sure you told me about Miss Davenant?”
“Oh, yes, Aunt,” said Cressida who firmly believed that lies were all right if the end justified the means.
Once more the Earl of Darkwood was summoned to Lady Clairmont’s presence, but this time he refused to go. He judged she simply wanted to read him a lecture. That evening, he attended the opera. The Clairmonts were in their box. To his amazement, Lady Clairmont quite definitely waved to him. Unlike most of the audience, who preferred to study each other, he turned his attention to the performance and happily forgot the existence of the Clairmonts.
At the first interval he was about to rise and go and visit some friends in the neighboring boxes when he received a call from Sir Edward Clairmont.
“My dear fellow,” oozed Sir Edward, “such a childish misunderstanding.”
The earl, who had been about to brush past him and go on his way, hesitated and raised his thin eyebrows. “Misunderstanding?”
“Yes, yes, that stupid Kitson woman, saying that Mrs. Carruthers had been alone with you in your town house when you had the fever, and now it appears that everyone knew your aunt was in residence as well.”
“Everyone?” asked the earl, concealing his surprise.
“Yes, Miss Davenant herself has been most incensed on the subject. My poor wife is in such distress, and Rosamund has quite ruined her pretty eyes with weeping. Do come with me and tell my wife you forgive her.”
Bemused, the earl followed Sir Edward to his box. He patiently endured Lady Clairmont’s apologies while all the while his mind raced. He had that special license in his pocket. In some miraculous way it appeared his aunt had managed to persuade London society that she had been chaperon to Mrs. Carruthers at every step of the way.
Rosamund threw him a languishing look. Instead of a feeling of freedom, he irrationally felt trapped. He could feel his recent happiness ebbing away.
He did not return to his box after the interval, but left the theater, his interest in the opera gone. He sent his carriage home, saying he preferred to walk.
The air was cold and smoky, and frost sparkled on the cobbled streets. How miserable that last bout of fever had been, he thought as he strode along. And what had happened to the house and servants? Barnstable had said no one could manage servants like Mrs. Carruthers. But she had brought something to his home apart from order and cleanliness, a freshness, a sweetness, a comfort.
He tried to think of Rosamund and found suddenly he could not bear the idea of being shackled to a silly little girl for life, no matter how distinguished her name or large her dowry.
He could always accept the continuing life of a bachelor, sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon and going to prize fights and curricle races. On either side of him stood the silent and shuttered shops. He would no doubt settle down into middle age, sedately buying his groceries from Fortnum and Mason, his coal from Findlater’s, his drugs from John Bell, his soda water from J. Schweppe & Co. of Berners Street, his snuff from Mr. Fribourg, his silver from Rundell and Bridge, his hats from Lock’s, his boots from Hoby’s, his newspapers from Mudie’s, his books from Hatchard of Piccadilly, and his confectionery from Gunter’s. He was rich and could command the best of everything… except, said a mocking voice in his head, love and affection and a pair of warm lips and a vulnerable and pliant body that made his senses race.
He put his hand in his pocket and felt the stiff paper of the special license. His steps took him toward Clarence Square. He stood outside the house and looked up. He had treated her badly, mauled her instead of wooing her. All his pampered life, he had taken what he wanted. He had enjoyed the army almost up until Waterloo when he suddenly found himself sick of carnage and bloodshed.
There was a light burning in one of the bedrooms. Was it Annabelle? Had he worried and frightened her so much with his bullying that she was lying awake?
It took a great effort not to go over and hammer on the door and demand to see her. She did not have to marry him now. There was no scandal. She was free to either marry again or to take up that dressmaking career. He thought of her married and could not bear it. He thought of her sitting in some cold attic slaving over dresses and pelisses, ruining her looks and eyesight, and found he could not bear that either.
It broke on him that any prospect of a future without Annabelle Carruthers was a desert. He turned and walked toward his home, wondering what to do.
Annabelle and Miss Davenant found out next day about their restoration to the ranks of the respectable. They received an interesting number of callers. Lady Kitson came bringing Cressida and apologized most warmly. No sooner had she gone than Matilda arrived, braving her husband’s anger, to say how some elderly female had told everyone that Miss Davenant had been res
ident at the earl’s town house while Annabelle was there, and Matilda had seen the opportunity of clearing Annabelle’s name and had jumped at it. Miss Davenant revealed how she had engineered it, and Annabelle laughed and said she must have a party and invite all Miss Davenant’s elderly friends to it. And then, while Matilda was still there, Emma, Comtesse Saint Juste arrived, looking glowing and beautiful.
She demanded to be told the whole story and listened amazed to Annabelle’s adventures.
“So you do not need to marry your earl,” said Emma, “and we three ladies are together again.”
“Except,” said Matilda, “that you, Emma, are married to the love of your life. Annabelle is a widow and free, and only I am still in chains.”
She began to press Emma for details of her marriage and travels and neither Emma nor Matilda noticed a shadow had fallen across Annabelle’s face.
It was that word “free.” How beautiful it should sound, how glad she had been at first when she had learned that there was no reason now for the earl to have to marry her. She would not admit that she was in love with him. But she sadly admitted that she was bewitched by him, that she could still feel the imprint of his lips and the strength of his arms.
Downstairs the earl waited impatiently. He had been informed that Mrs. Carruthers had callers, but he did not want to see her again while anyone else was in the room.
He will no doubt call soon, thought Annabelle sadly, and tell me in that stiff and severe way that I have nothing to fear, and then he will go off and propose marriage to Rosamund Clairmont. I hate Rosamund Clairmont. But would it not be splendid if, instead, he came into the room and dropped down before me on one knee and said, “Annabelle, I love you and want to marry you.”
“And you are looking radiant, Annabelle,” she realized Emma was saying. “This Darkwood is supposed to be a rake, but you must admit he has proved very kind.”
“Oh, yes,” fluted Miss Davenant, “but he can be brutal. Show them what he did to you, Mrs. Carruthers.”
“I beg your pardon?” Annabelle looked bewildered.
“Where he tried to strangle you,” said Miss Davenant eagerly. Annabelle was wearing her hair swept up on one side of her head and hanging in loose tresses on the other to cover the bruise on her neck. Before she could guess what Miss Davenant planned to do, that lady lifted her heavy tresses and pointed triumphantly to the bruise.
“Fie, for shame, Annabelle,” said Emma and began to laugh. “Is it like that? Is there to be a marriage after all?”
“What do you mean?” demanded Matilda while Miss Davenant looked bewildered. Matilda had slept with her husband two times since their marriage, and it had been a cold, clinical affair each time. Marks of passion were unknown to her.
“Come with me,” said Emma, still laughing. “I shall call on you very soon, Annabelle.”
“What could she have meant?” demanded Miss Davenant.
Annabelle blushed, but was saved from replying by the arrival of the Earl of Darkwood.
“Please leave us, Miss Davenant,” said the earl.
“Oh, no,” said that lady stoutly. “For you are not to lay hands on her again.”
“My dear aunt…”
“Yes, see where you tried to strangle her?”
“It is all right,” said Annabelle, blushing harder. “I actually struck my neck on a corner of the mantelpiece and forgot to tell you.”
“But why did the Comtesse Saint Juste laugh like that?”
“She knows me of old and knows I am very clumsy.”
“Well…” Miss Davenant edged to the doorway.
“And shut the door behind you,” said the earl pleasantly.
Miss Davenant went reluctantly. She was about to listen at the door as usual when she heard a screaming altercation from the hall. Two housemaids were squabbling and pulling each other’s caps. She gave a cluck of irritation and went down to deal with the matter.
“I have a special license in my pocket,” said the earl, “but it appears the damage has been repaired and there is no need for it.”
“You must be very relieved,” said Annabelle. “It appears Miss Davenant has saved the day for us by insisting she was with me all along.”
“I am also come to apologize for my rough handling of you.”
“Your apology is accepted,” said Annabelle bleakly. “No man surely likes the idea of being trapped into an unwelcome marriage.”
She was sitting in a small gilt chair by the window, the soft muslin folds of a lilac gown edged with gray showing the lines of her body. She pleated a fold of the muslin between her fingers and wished he would go away and leave her alone. So much for dreams. This haughty earl would never stoop to ask such as she to marry him.
And then she realized he was dropping to one knee in front of her. He took her hand in his, his green eyes looking deep into her own.
“Mrs. Carruthers… Annabelle,” he said. “Last night when I received the intelligence that I was a free man, I felt quite miserable. I kept remembering all sorts of things, your voice when you read to me, your cool hand on my brow, the way there are fiery little lights in your brown hair when the sunlight falls on it, your grace and beauty and courage, and the infinite sweetness of your lips. I would consider myself the happiest of men if you would allow me the very great honor to care for you the rest of my life.”
“As your mistress?”
“As my wife. As my dearest love.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and smiled at him, feeling the years of misery and fear roll away.
“Yes,” she said simply. “I will marry you and be your wife.”
He stood up and drew her to her feet and folded her in his arms and kissed her gently on the mouth.
Miss Davenant waited at her post outside the door to which she had returned after dealing with the housemaids. She could not hear a word from inside. The silence was unnerving her.
Plucking up her courage, she gently opened the door. The earl and Annabelle were wrapped in each others arms. They were deaf and blind to anything else but each other.
Miss Davenant softly closed the door again and leaned againt the panels.
“Thank God,” she said. “Oh, thank God!”
Matilda, Duchess of Hadshire, considered herself the most fortunate of women. She had not told her husband of the invitation to Annabelle’s wedding, hoping against hope that he would choose that day to be absent from London. She could not believe her luck when the chilly duke announced his plans to travel to Paris to buy a new cloth for his waistcoats. Right up until the last minute, she feared he might command her to accompany him, but he left taking Rougement with him.
On the morning of Annabelle’s wedding, Matilda dressed in her finest and then crept down the stairs to let herself quietly out of the house. If one servant saw her leave, then he would report her to the house steward, who would have her followed. It was very lowering to be a duchess and have to arrive at a fashionable wedding in a hack, but the pleasure at being free of the duke and being able to see Annabelle married outweighed any unfashionable discomforts.
The wedding was in St. Catherine’s Church in Westminster under the shadow of the Abbey. It was to be a quiet wedding, but there already seemed to be quite a large number of people gathered including a party of elderly females. The grateful Annabelle had invited all Miss Davenant’s friends. Cressida was there, overcome with gratitude at having been chosen to be maid of honor along with the Comtesse Saint Juste. Lady Trompington was in attendance, looking as if she were hating every minute of it. She had hoped up until the last minute that it would all prove to be a bad dream and that the earl would come to his senses and marry Rosamund. But Rosamund had been taken off to the country by her furious parents as soon as the wedding had been announced.
Matilda found herself very affected by the ceremony. She could not help remembering her own wedding and of how, although she did not love the duke, she had hoped, oh so much, that love would come. Although of stern
character, she found she was weeping like a child as the bells finally rang out and Annabelle, glowing and radiant in white Brussels lace and pearls, came down the aisle on the arm of her husband.
The wedding breakfast was held at Clarence Square, the elderly ladies with their huge reticules thieving goodies happily right, left and center, although no one could match Miss Primms, who helped herself to coals from the scuttle as well just in case Miss Davenant forgot her promise.
The married couple were to spend their wedding night in a posting house on the Dover road as the earl was taking Annabelle to Paris for their honeymoon. They all crowded out into the square to send the happy couple on their way. Cressida was bursting with pride, quite convinced she had engineered the whole thing, and was to embroider that story in the years to come so that her husband, a gentleman still waiting in the wings of her life, was to become heartily tired of it.
Emma and Matilda clutched each other as the carriage moved out of the square, Emma because she herself was so happy and Matilda because she could not bear to leave this joyful scene and return to her own bitter life. Miss Davenant was annoyed because the rice they had had ready to throw at the happy couple had disappeared and she guessed, correctly, that it was reposing in one of her old friends’ reticules.
Miss Davenant was, however, too happy to complain. She had expected to be on her own again, but the earl had suggested she choose one of her friends to live with her, and she looked forward to a tranquil well-fed life.
But inside the carriage, Annabelle did not look like a bride anymore. She looked like a frightened girl. She kept remembering those terrible cyprians in the earl’s hall and wondered nervously what would be expected of her in the marriage bed.
The earl stole a look at his wife’s downcast features and gave a little laugh. He pulled down the blinds of the coach and jerked her into his arms and began to kiss her passionately. “You have nothing to fear,” he said between kisses. “Do you think I would hurt you or do naught but bring you pleasure?”
