Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  “Have you seen my godmother?” she asked the Captain, looking up anxiously into his eyes.

  “Oh, she’ll be all right,” he said carelessly, drawing Annabelle closer in his arms. “I say, let’s speed things up a bit. This dance is dashed slow!”

  He began to spin faster and faster until Annabelle could not tell which way she was going. She finally managed to focus her eyes and notice that they were spinning rapidly towards a bower dedicated to Venus rising from the sea. A statue of the goddess on her shell stood in the middle of a small pool of water.

  “Stop!” cried Annabelle frantically. The Captain paid no heed. He was tum-tumming the music of the waltz so loudly that he could not hear anything other than the sound of his own voice.

  Annabelle wrenched herself free just in time. There was a tremendous splash as Captain MacDonald tripped over the flower-bedecked edge of the pool and tumbled headlong in.

  The dancers stopped dancing and clustered round, laughing and cheering. The Captain heaved himself to his feet and pretended to wash himself while the admiring crowd urged him to further efforts. Annabelle wished fiercely the silly clown would disappear. She was pink with embarrassment. It was worse than being affianced to Grimaldi.

  With a final bow and flourish Captain Jimmy MacDonald climbed out of the pool to go and change. The interrupted waltz started up again. Annabelle heard a quiet amused voice in her ear. “Shall I partner you for the finish of the dance, Miss Quennell?” Lord Varleigh was looking down at her, his eyes alight with mockery.

  She drew back. “No, my lord, I am now convinced I cannot waltz.”

  “Then I shall unconvince you,” he said, taking her firmly in his arms. “I am less energetic than Jimmy, but you will find my quieter steps easier to follow.”

  What a peculiar world, thought Annabelle, where gentlemen could not seem to take a simple “no” for an answer. But Lord Varleigh was remarkably easy to follow, although she felt almost painfully conscious of the pressure of his gloved hand at her waist.

  “And what do you think of your first London ball, Miss Quennell?” Lord Varleigh asked the red-gold head bent beneath his. She raised her head, and he was again startled by her beauty. “If I were a less experienced man,” he thought, “my heart might be in some danger!” He suddenly realised that she was not giving the conventional return to his greeting.

  “It’s their eyes,” Annabelle was saying, and he wondered what she had said before. “I suppose that is what distinguishes the ton from the ordinary people. They have such hard, insolent eyes. Who is that vastly pretty lady over there?”

  Lord Varleigh followed her gaze. “Lady Jane Cherle,” he said shortly. Annabelle looked at the dashing brunette she had noticed earlier in the evening, blushed and said “oh” in a small voice.

  He swore under his breath. So Lady Emmeline had been gossiping, had she? Well, what did it matter? Jane was no milk and water miss. She was all fire and passion. She … He looked fondly over to where his mistress was standing, surrounded by her customary court of gallants, and frowned. She was surely older than he had thought.

  “I did not know she was your particular … er … friend,” Annabelle was saying. “Or I should not have asked.”

  “All the world knows Lady Jane is my … er … particular friend,” he said lightly. “That is a vastly becoming gown.”

  Now what had he said to make the girl blush. He had only spoken the truth. The foaming white inset of lace at her bosom was vastly alluring in a very feminine way, a great improvement on the scandalous gown she had worn to the opera.

  His eyes strayed again to where Lady Jane was standing, and Annabelle had a sudden feeling of pique. She sought for some way to regain his attention.

  “I have seen Mr. Brummell,” she ventured, “and he seems a very unassuming young man.”

  “Appearances can be very deceptive,” murmured Lord Varleigh, executing a neat turn. “Take yourself, for example, Miss Quennell. Can it be that you are not the shy, sedate country miss you appear?”

  His eyes again strayed in the direction of his mistress.

  “And can it be that my Lord Varleigh is not the libertine he would appear to be?” countered Annabelle sweetly.

  He looked down at her with his pale eyes narrowed. “Do not confuse impertinence with wit, Miss Quennell. I can think of nothing more boring.”

  “Then perhaps you would rather dance with some other lady,” snapped Annabelle.

  “Perhaps,” he rejoined lazily. “But then, I am a poor slave to the conventions, and it would not do your social consequence any good if I walked from the floor and left you standing.”

  “Are you then so socially powerful?” demanded Annabelle.

  “Yes,” he replied with infuriating simplicity. And then, “I do wish the Egremonts had thought to employ the services of a chimney sweep before embarking on this ball. There is a dreadful smell of smoke. Why, it is like a…”

  But whatever else Lord Varleigh was about to say was drowned by a piercing scream.

  Black smoke began to swirl across the ballroom. Several hysterical voices shouted, “Fire!” and Lady Jane Cherle in the neatest way possible staggered across the short distance that separated her from Lord Varleigh and fainted into his arms.

  Then Annabelle heard cries of “Lady Emmeline! It’s Lady Emmeline!”

  She plunged in the direction of the smoke which was pouring from Diana’s bower. A figure, dimly recognisable as Lady Emmeline, was being rolled across the floor by two young officers trying to extinguish the flames on her dress. Footmen were hurrying forward with wooden pails of water and throwing them on the still blazing silk hangings which hung behind the now soot-begrimed marble statue of Diana.

  Unmindful of her ballgown, Annabelle knelt beside the grotesque figure of the Dowager Marchioness. “Oh, what happened?” she whispered. Lady Emmeline slowly opened one eye and then the other. “I was waiting for him, my dear, you know, like the letter said. Then all of a sudden I seemed to be surrounded with flames. But perhaps he is now here. Is it you, my dashing friend?” Game as ever, Lady Emmeline leered awfully at one of the young officers who had helped to extinguish the flames.

  “Must be the shock. Addled her wits,” muttered the officer.

  Lord Varleigh arrived with Lady Jane on his arm. “Come, Miss Quennell,” he said, “and I will assist you home.”

  But Annabelle had recognised the familiar figure of Captain MacDonald who had returned from changing his clothes.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Jimmy will look after me.”

  The Captain looked surprised and gratified at the familiar use of his Christian name. “Besides,” added Annabelle sweetly to Lord Varleigh, “you must be very busy with your own concerns.”

  The Captain was already helping Lady Emmeline towards the door. Annabelle tripped quickly after them before Lord Varleigh could think of anything to say.

  “Little cat,” shrugged Lady Jane. “But I wish I knew the name of her dressmaker.”

  AT the house in Berkeley Square Lady Emmeline was helped to bed and a footman dispatched to bring the doctor. Annabelle gave the Captain a hurried “good night” and quickly bobbed her head so that his kiss landed on the top of her hair.

  In the privacy of her room she sat down to compose a long letter to her sisters.

  Mary, the seventeen-year-old, would want to hear about the gentlemen; Susan, fifteen, must hear about the jewels; and Lisbeth, the ten-year-old, would want to hear all about the food Annabelle had eaten, particularly the sweets.

  There must be nothing in the letter to excite the ready envy of her sisters. On the other hand they would be fearfully disappointed if it were dull. She did not mention her engagement. It all seemed so unreal. Perhaps some miracle would happen in the next few days and both Aunt Emmeline and the Captain would come to their senses. She would leave the matter for at least two days, and then write to her father and explain how it had all come about.

  As she was preparing fo
r bed, she remembered she was to attend a breakfast in the company of her fiancé the following afternoon. Horley had indicated that she should wear a sea-green silk gown which bore the hallmarks of all Madame Croke’s depraved ingenuity. The wearer would leave little to the beholder’s imagination. Annabelle bit her lip in vexation as she held it up to the candlelight. Then she remembered a package of lace curtains in the bottom drawer of a closet in the powder room. She brought them out of hiding, fetching her work basket, and began carefully and surely to snip and stitch until the sea green gown was covered in a delectable lace overdress with long prim sleeves.

  She thought briefly of Lady Emmeline as she stitched away busily. Her godmother had escaped with only a few minor burns. It was almost as if the letter had been a deliberate ruse to entice the Dowager Marchioness into a trap. Shaking her head over her lurid fantasies, Annabelle finally snuffed out the candles and went to bed.

  Chapter Four

  Annabelle entered her godmother’s bedchamber late the following morning. At first she thought Lady Emmeline was dead. The waxy face on the pillow was bound tightly in bandages passing under the chin and ending in a bow on the top of her head. Her blond curls hung on a wig stand in the corner. Every available flat surface of the room was crammed with phials and bottles and boxes of creams and oils and unguents. A large gray and scarlet parrot wiped his beak against the bars of his cage and looked Annabelle over with all the hauteur of a patroness of Almack’s.

  The room was stiflingly hot. Lady Emmeline opened her eyes, saw Annabelle, and began to strip off her bandages.

  “This is the best way to firm the chin,” said that redoubtable old lady as soon as she could. “And stop staring at my face, child. ’Tis only oatmeal and water. The best cure for wrinkles there is.”

  Horley appeared like a grim shadow beside the bed. “Ah, Horley, hand me my hair,” said Lady Emmeline as Annabelle tried not to stare at her hostess’s shaven pate. “No, not the blond one, silly. ’Tis all smoke. I think the red will do to welcome my callers.”

  With all the expertise of a magician Horley popped a curly red wig on her mistress’s head. “Now, fetch my chocolate and my appointments. I shall not be stirring today,” said Lady Emmeline. “But there are engagements for Miss Quennell to fulfill. Ah, here we are. You and Jimmy are to attend the Standishes’ breakfast. It is time you attended to your duties as a fiancée. Pray see that Jimmy does not drink too much. You will meet several of his fellow officers. Ah! how I envy you! When I remember the days … well, never mind.”

  In the short time before her departure for the Standishes’ breakfast, Annabelle found herself worrying over the fact that she had not thanked Lord Varleigh for his gift of the novel. Would he be at the breakfast? Should she send him a letter by one of the footmen? A letter would perhaps be best.

  A STRENGTHENING wind was pushing ominous-looking clouds across the sky when Lord Varleigh and Lady Jane Cherle arrived at the Standishes’ imposing mansion at Henley. The crowd of guests bore witness to the fact that it was now easier to attend engagements out of town with the advent of faster and better sprung carriages and Macadam’s hard, smooth-surfaced roads.

  “They have surely room enough in that great barracks of a place to serve our food instead of pushing us into a drafty tent in the garden,” pouted Lady Jane. The “drafty tent” was a smart red and white striped marquee capable of housing a hundred. “But then,” went on Lady Jane, “Maria Standish always was an ambitious woman. You know, if I don’t ask the Bloggs, then the Togs won’t come, and if I don’t ask the Fints, the Wints won’t bring the Mints to meet the Bloggs and the Togs. Shall we go in? I am still shaking after last night. Of course, your brave little friend, Miss Quennell, plunged all unheeding into the smoke but then, some of these country-bred girls have no sensibility,”

  “And you have an excess of it,” teased Lord Varleigh. Jane was wearing a flamboyant velvet gown in flaming scarlet which was intricately gored and flounced and ruched. She looked just like an elaborately wrapped Christmas present, he reflected with fond amusement. She had more than hinted the previous night that she wished to legalise their relationship, but as usual Lord Varleigh had shied away from the idea of marriage and had bought his mistress a magnificent rope of pearls by way of consolation. These now adorned Lady Jane’s bosom, almost hidden in the multitude of tucks and frills.

  Jane tugged at his arm and then looked up at Lord Varleigh in surprise. He was standing quite still, gazing across the lawns with an arrested look on his face. Jane followed his gaze. Annabelle Quennell was entering the gardens on the arm of Captain Jimmy MacDonald. Despite the chill of the day she only wore a silk shawl over her shoulders. The wind whipped at the lace overdress, sending it dancing and swirling round her body, revealing tantalising glimpses of the slim green dress underneath. She was wearing a frivolous little white straw bonnet with the brim lined with pleated green silk.

  The Captain and his two cronies, Major Timothy Wilks and George Louch, appeared to be teasing Annabelle in a rather heavy manner for she suddenly blushed painfully and looked down at her shoes. Lord Varleigh was sorry for the girl. The Captain was a good sort, but there was no denying his humor was fit more for a tavern wench than for a gently bred girl. He would have started towards her had he suddenly not become aware of the vise-like grip on his arm. He looked down at his partner.

  “I want to get out of this wind, Sylvester,” she pouted prettily, “and you stand gawking at our country maiden.”

  Lord Varleigh felt himself becoming irritated by Lady Jane for the first time. Her possessive manner smacked more of the wife than the mistress.

  Nevertheless he led Jane towards the marquee. It was arranged with flower-decorated tables, a long buffet with hundreds of delectable dishes, and in the center of them, in pride of place, the Standishes’ enormous silver punch bowl. Most of the guests were already sampling the hot punch as the tent, like the day outside, was unseasonably cold.

  Annabelle could only be glad that her fiancé had become engrossed in a conversation with his friends and had, for the moment, forgotten his heavy flirtatious manner.

  The Captain and his friends seemed capable of betting on the most ludicrous things. The latest was a proposed cricket match to be held by the Greenwich pensioners, the eleven on one side to have but one arm each and both their legs; and the other to have both their arms and only one leg each. This strange match was to be run by a nobleman and a would-be member of the Jockey Club. The gentlemen were loudly debating whether to back the “legs” or the “wings” and roaring with noisy laughter at their own wit.

  The talk of legs and the pressure against her own under the table made Annabelle wish Captain Mac-Donald would keep his own limbs to himself. No matter where she sat, he seemed to manage to press his legs against hers in the most embarrassing way. She suddenly felt his large hand on her knee and slapped it with the ivory sticks of her fan only to receive a reproachful look for her pains.

  Annabelle was unaccustomed to liquor, and the two glasses of punch she had consumed had immediately gone to her head. She even began to find some of the Captain’s jokes, which consisted of quite terrible puns, extremely funny and began to laugh very hard, wiping her streaming eyes with her lace handkerchief.

  “Why, I believe they are well suited,” said Lord Varleigh thoughtfully.

  “Who?” said Jane impatiently. She did not like to be interrupted when she was eating.

  “Annabelle Quennell and her Captain.”

  “Oh, I am glad your mind is at rest,” said Jane acidly and then murmured, “but I must find out the name of her dressmaker.”

  But Lord Varleigh had caught the undertone. He raised his quizzing glass. “Yes, Miss Quennell has a very individual style and a good sense of color,” he remarked.

  “Never mind her—have you heard the latest on-dit,” said Jane. “’Tis said, on Sunday two pairs of turtle doves took flight from Ingleton to Gretna Green; but by the nimble exertions of some pouncing hawk
s, the cooing pair were overtaken near Shap and very impolitely conducted back to their respective homes!”

  “If you mean young Honeywood and the Clermont girl, then why not say so?” said Lord Varleigh in a bored voice. “I detest the sleazy innuendo of the scandal sheet.”

  Lady Jane hunched a ruched, tucked, and embroidered velvet shoulder on him and began to talk loudly to a young man at the next table.

  Lord Sylvester Varleigh found his gaze straying back to Annabelle. The girl was getting quite bosky and should not have been allowed on the Town with only Captain MacDonald as escort, affianced or not. But she had style, unusual in a girl unaccustomed to the intricate world of high fashion. Now Jane appeared most attractive in the bedchamber, after she had divested herself of her too elaborate toilette. He had a sudden vivid picture of Captain MacDonald and Annabelle in the bedchamber and shook his head to dispel the image.

  Annabelle caught his glance in her direction, and the sudden look of distaste on his face, and sobered almost completely. She became aware that her face was flushed and that her hair was coming down at the back. The Captain was interspersing his now very racy conversation with frequent demands for more punch. Annabelle remembered her godmother’s warning and tugged at the Captain’s braided sleeve. “Do you not think,” she queried timidly, “that you have had enough to drink?”

  The Captain gave her an outraged look, and his friends stared at her with their mouths open. “Had enough to drink?” echoed Mr. Louch in a high penetrating voice which carried round the marquee. “Had enough to drink. Jimmy could drink that whole punch bowl and walk from here a sober man.”

  Annabelle looked at the punch bowl in amazement. It was the size of a young bath, made of solid silver and embellished with various embarrassing scenes from the Greek myths such as the Rape of Iphigenia.