Minerva

by M C Beaton

  Lady Wentwater had not mentioned Guy’s name for weeks with the result that Annabelle found her thoughts turning in that young man’s direction more than she cared. Jimmy, the Osbadiston’s butler, had died only the day before. He had died of old age, the doctor had said, much to everyone’s surprise, being ignorant of the fact that black does not age so noticeably as white. The much mourned and much loved Jimmy had taken with him to the grave the only black contact in the county of Berham, and with him any immediate human understanding of the horrors of the slave trade.

  The attentions of Guy Wentwater seemed more fascinating to Annabelle now that distance lent tham a certain enchantment and also because no young man had surfaced to take his place.

  Annabelle had found herself becoming increasingly bored and frustrated.

  She had avidly read Minerva’s letter which had arrived only that morning, but had shrewdly noticed that Minerva had not mentioned the name of one single gentleman.

  Probably read them a sermon, thought Annabelle. Minerva’s a good sort, but oh, how much better I would do there, and how much better she would do here!

  Annabelle had fondly expected her mother to take over some of Minerva’s calls, but the very suggestion had brought on one of Mrs Armitage’s famous Spasms.

  Minerva had only been gone a few days and already Annabelle was fretting under the weight of the parish chores. Why had Minerva done so much? Now all the parishioners expected Annabelle to do the same.

  ‘I am little better than a servant,’ mourned Annabelle to herself. ‘Now take Mrs Jeebles. When she was sick with the ague, Minerva minded her children. Mrs Jeebles is not sick now but has come to expect the vicarage to supply an unpaid child minder on a daily basis. And if I don’t go, and tell father I have, then Mrs Jeebles will call at the vicarage, mewing and whining. Perhaps it would all be bearable if Josephine and Emily didn’t keep calling to show off their new gowns for London. Both of them to have a Season. It’s just not fair.’

  But gradually her anger began to subside. Annabelle’s tantrums were always of short duration. It was not long before her usual sunny nature asserted itself.

  It was a beautiful late spring day with the spires of the old horse chestnuts shining waxy white in the early evening light. Swallows swooped and dived overhead, and a light haze of fairy green lay over the cornfields, showing where the new crop was already pushing its way up through the brown earth. The air was sweet with hawthorn blossom and damp weedy smells from the ditch beside the road. The evening was golden and very still. A busy duck ploughed across the village pond with her ducklings stretched out in an arrow behind her.

  Annabelle stopped on the hump-backed bridge over the River Blyne and threw leaves down into the brown, foaming water, running to the other side of the bridge to watch her small armada sailing underneath.

  She was wearing a light blue cambric gown, spotted with dots of darker blue. On her rioting gold curls she wore a little handkerchief, folded, the point towards the back of the head, decorated with artificial cornflowers and blue ribbons. Although this headgear was really fashionable wear for evening, Annabelle had worn it because she knew it to be becoming, and five o’clock was really the beginning of the evening when you thought about it. Her cheeks were rouged by a cosmetic made from her own preparation. Annabelle often made herself a little pin money by selling cosmetics to the women of the village. She had made the rouge from a mixture of 18 parts vermilion, 12 parts tincture of saffron, 30 parts powdered orris root, 120 parts precipitated chalk, 120 parts zinc oxide, 2 parts camphor, 9 parts essence bouquet, 2 parts oil of peppermint, and a sufficient quantity of almond oil.

  Annabelle had put it on after leaving the vicarage since she kept her cosmetics hidden in a box in the carriage house.

  After a while she became tired of throwing leaves over the bridge and set off once again in the direction of Lady Wentwater’s mansion.

  The trouble with Lady Wentwater, reflected Annabelle gloomily as she settled down in a battered armchair in Lady Wentwater’s drawing room, was that she handed over simply splendid novels to be read to her, ones that she had already read most of herself. It was maddening to have to start at the middle or the end. With a little sigh, she began to read:

  ‘“Prithee,’ whispered his Lordship, “is that queer woman your mother?”

  “Good Heavens, Sir, what words for such a question!

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Your maiden aunt, then?

  “Whoever she is, I wish she would mind her own affairs; I don’t know what the devil a woman lives for after thirty; she is only in other folks’ way …”’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Lady Wentwater crossly. ‘That Fanny Burney’s so sharp she’ll cut herself.’

  ‘But it’s funny,’ wailed Annabelle, clutching the copy of Evelina. ‘And I have only just begun to read.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Lady Wentwater in a milder tone. ‘Guy’s back.’

  ‘Why?’ Annabelle’s eyes strayed to the book on her lap. ‘Is he looking for white slaves?’

  ‘Don’t be impudent. Why should anyone want a white slave when the British ones only fetch £20 and you can get as much as £144 for a good black.’

  ‘British ones?’ demanded Annabelle faintly.

  ‘Oh, do you never read the newspapers? There were some silly women at Bow Street t’other day. They were offered transportation where they would fetch only a small price each, or they could stay here and be hanged for their crimes. And do you know that one quarter of those silly women chose hanging?’

  ‘Perhaps a quick death was preferable to a slow one on those dreadful ships,’ said Annabelle with a shudder.

  ‘Well, well, let us not gloomify ourselves with such matters. Guy is now a gentleman of great means. He no longer trades.’

  ‘How splendid! I hope he sleeps quiet o’nights.’

  ‘I thought his trade was the only barrier to your engagement.’ Lady Wentwater’s doughy face was a white blur in the deepening shadows of the room.

  ‘My friendship with Mr Wentwater is over,’ said Annabelle firmly. She lit a candle on a table next to her and began to read,

  ‘“Shall you be at the assembly?”

  “I believe not, my Lord.”

  “No! – why then how in the world can you contrive to pass your time?”

  “In a manner that your Lordship will think very extraordinary,” cried Mrs Selwyn; “for the young lady reads.”’

  Lady Wentwater played with the ivory sticks of her fan and studied her young companion’s face. Let her read: Guy would contrive to afix her attentions again.

  Annabelle at last let herself out of Lady Wentwater’s mansion into the cool evening air.

  All that was left of the sun was a faint pink line on the horizon.

  Sleepy birds chirped drowsily from the ivy which covered the house walls. The warmth had gone from the day and the great iron gates at the end of the short drive felt chilly and damp to the touch.

  Annabelle turned over in her mind the intelligence that Guy was back. She reluctantly remembered the feel of his lips against her own. It had seemed so … so sloppy then. Why should the memory seem so exciting now?

  She hurried homewards in the gathering dusk. As she approached the gates of the Hall, she could hear the shrill sound of laughter. Emily and Josephine tried hard to achieve silvery tinkling laughs. They had not yet reached their goal, only managing a sharp-edged sort of titter on a descending scale. Then came the deep sound of a masculine laugh.

  Emily and Josephine were talking to a tall, elegant gentleman who had obviously been calling, and was taking his leave.

  Guy!

  His back was to her. Emily and Josephine affected not to see Annabelle and went on talking feverishly.

  But he heard the sound of her light step on the road and turned around.

  Annabelle had forgotten until that moment how very handsome he was.

  He swept her a low bow.

  ‘I trust you are w
ell, Miss Armitage?’

  ‘Very well, Mr Wentwater,’ said Annabelle, dropping him a curtsy.

  He gave a little nod and turned back to Emily and Josephine, who flashed Annabelle triumphant looks.

  Annabelle flushed faintly, tossed her head and walked off quickly down the road.

  So he had lost interest in her!

  And he was courting those cats Emily and Josephine.

  Well, if his taste ran to silly long-nosed drabs, she wished him well.

  But he no longer traded in slaves. And he had looked so handsome. And she simply could not bear to lose the only beau she had ever had to Emily and Josephine.

  She remembered the feel of his hands on her waist. But she should forget him. Once a slave trader, always a slave trader.

  But oh! it was so boring in Hopeworth. Why should Minerva have all the fun, flirting and laughing with all those delicious beaux? Annabelle paused, trying hard to imagine her sister flirting and laughing, trying to imagine her being held in a man’s arms, and failing completely.

  Minerva was, at that very moment, being held tightly in a man’s arms.

  Lord Sylvester had told his tiger to hold his horses, climbed down and had held up his arms to assist Minerva.

  Minerva meant to place her hands lightly on his shoulders so that he could swing her down from the high perch seat of his phaeton.

  She was wearing slippers of gold-coloured cloth with bronze tassels, and one of these treacherous tassels caught on a sharp piece of wood under the seat. She stumbled and fell down into his arms, leaving one slipper still wedged in the carriage.

  For a brief second she was amazed to discover that a man as cool and elegant as Lord Sylvester could emanate such a throbbing feeling, like one of the new steam mechanisms. His whole body seemed to pulse with life and sensuality and masculinity. That beautifully sculptured mouth seemed so very near her own as he held her tightly to his breast. Minerva closed her eyes.

  ‘What a terrible lady you are!’ came his cool mocking voice. ‘Always plunging headlong on top of me.’

  He swung her to the ground and called on his tiger to retrieve the slipper. He courteously supported her around the waist while she bent and put the shoe on.

  Once again, he was mannered and unruffled. Minerva, feeling breathless and shaken, could only think that all the emotion she had imagined coming from him had, in fact, emanated from herself.

  ‘I shall see you tonight,’ he said, ‘at the ball.’

  ‘Yes. Tonight,’ said Minerva, turning away.

  ‘Perhaps I shall find myself a wife this Season.’

  Minerva swung round, eyes wide and startled. Then she dropped her heavy eyelashes to veil her eyes.

  ‘Why not?’ she laughed.

  He nodded and sprang up into his phaeton and picked up the reins.

  Minerva felt depressed and sad. Since Lord Sylvester did not want to marry her, she had not considered that he might want to marry anyone else.

  Oh, how terribly tiresome this London Season was!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Countess Lieven was an expert at titillating the jaded appetite of the ton.

  Her ball at the Russian Embassy promised to be one of the most exciting events of the year.

  In various parts of London, guests who had been honoured with an invitation were fretting over their toilets.

  The three Dandies, Barding, Yarwood and Fresne, had gloomily decided that the bet was off, Barding and Yarwood maintaining that their married state was too much of a handicap. But the bet remained in the betting book. Nonetheless, Mr Hugh Fresne was urged to try to take the field. It was unthinkable that such coxcombs as Bryce and company should succeed.

  Bryce and company were faltering in their resolve, since they felt they could not compete against Lord Sylvester. It was left to Mr Silas Dubois to point out Comfrey’s reputation as a rake and his well-known expertise in escaping marriage.

  Minerva had managed to throw Lady Godolphin into despair by insisting on reading a chapter of the Bible to that lady while she dressed.

  Minerva was merely trying to strengthen her own character before going to the ball where she was determined to flirt and ogle with the best of them. But Lady Godolphin at length cut short the reading by explaining that all those begats made her head ache and brought on a fit of the ‘vapids’.

  When they were at last ready to go, Minerva was horrified to find that Lady Godolphin was intending to wear damped transparent muslin, and somehow Lady Godolphin, who had previously considered herself a very strong character indeed, found she had agreed to wear a petticoat under dry muslin without quite knowing how Minerva had managed to make her agree to it.

  Minerva, she at last decided sourly, was very good at making people feel guilty.

  Lady Godolphin had to admit that her charge was in looks. Minerva was wearing a white tunic dress edged with a gold key pattern. Her midnight black curls were caught up on top of her head with a handsome tortoiseshell comb. The wedge heels of her sandals gave her added height. The tan acquired walking her father’s hounds had quite faded, leaving her skin delicately tinged with a healthy pink on the cheeks.

  Lady Godolphin was looking forward to the ball with all the anticipation of a debutante. Colonel Arthur Brian had promised to be there and had promised to partner her in the waltz, that deliciously naughty dance which had not yet been sanctioned by Almack’s.

  Lady Godolphin and her charge were forced to leave their carriage some distance from the Russian Embassy as they found their coachman could not make his way any nearer through the tremendous press. Coachmen swore and fought and struck out at each other with their whips.

  Minerva was soon to find out the reason for the Countess Lieven’s social success. No one else in London could display quite such ingenuity.

  The ball was held in the grounds of the Embassy, various marquees and hothouses being used for dancing and refreshments and the inevitable cards.

  The walls of the hothouses were tapestried with different coloured moss and the ground was strewn with new-mown grass out of which flowers seemed to grow. Little lamps were placed at the base of each flower stalk, making the blossoms look like jewels. Lamps marked the walks between the hothouses and a clear full moon rode serenely in the sky above, looking almost like an extravagant part of the decoration.

  The scented air seemed to throb with excitement. It was an evening made for intrigue, a setting for amorous glances and stolen kisses. It was an evening when it was possible to rid oneself of one’s chaperone, for it was quite in order for your gallant to escort you along one of those mysterious walks to provide you with refreshment and to show you the wonders of one of the hothouses.

  The air was balmy and warm. Thin muslins fluttered above the illuminated flowers, making Minerva send up a silent prayer of thanks that Lady Godolphin had put on a petticoat, but the clever lighting shining up from underneath revealed that quite a number of the ladies had not.

  Lord Sylvester appeared to have worked quickly, for some debutantes giggled and teased Minerva over having made such a game of them all at the Aubryns’ ball. The romantic setting was beginning to act on Minerva’s senses and, when the dancing started, she could not help watching Lord Sylvester as he danced with a very pretty lady and wishing that he might look in her direction.

  Still, he had thought of her, and he had done his best to restore her reputation, and she must be good and remember the needs of her family. So, aided by the moonlight and the soft air from the pretty gardens, Minerva flirted and laughed and never a serious word did she utter.

  It was only when Lord Chumley had danced with her twice and had squeezed her hand too hard and when Mr Fresne had come to claim his second dance, that Minerva remembered what Lord Sylvester had said about the Dandies.

  And so when Mr Fresne with many smouldering glowing looks offered to take her on a tour of the hothouses, she accepted in order to try to find out if these gentlemen were serious in their attentions.

&nbs
p; Mr Fresne looked handsome in a brooding kind of way. But his evening coat was so padded on the chest and nipped in at the waist that he looked like a pouter pigeon. Moreover, he was wearing fixed spurs which Minerva considered a downright dangerous fashion to adopt for a ball. Also it meant her companion had to adopt a straddling rolling walk, rather like a sailor.

  ‘I do so despise the Dandies, don’t you?’ she began as her escort led her from the ball out onto one of the pretty walks.

  Mr Fresne, who had just been beginning to think Miss Armitage a very decent sort of girl and not the moralizing prig he had been led to believe, stopped short and looked down at her in astonishment.

  ‘But the Dandies are the leaders of Society,’ he said when he could find his voice.

  ‘Oh, Mr Brummell is very well,’ said Minerva. ‘But it is the ones who wear so much padding and paint that I cannot bear.’

  Mr Fresne looked down at the glory of his buckram wadded chest and felt like strangling her.

  After all, a lot of the ladies wore fake bosoms of wax or cotton and one was not allowed to say anything about that!

  ‘Of course I do not mean you,’ went on Minerva, glad that the night was dark enough to hide her blushes. It was so difficult to lie!

  Mr Fresne preened. Of course he should have guessed that, with his manly build, any lady would think his chest was all his own.

  ‘I agree with you, Miss Armitage,’ he said firmly. ‘But you must have pity on the fellows who do not have the … er … build necessary to cut a dash. I say, Miss Armitage, you look deuced pretty in the moonlight.’

  And she did, thought Mr Fresne in surprise. All this idea of humiliating her and all that rubbish was unnecessary. He would steal a kiss and carry the tale of it in triumph back to his cronies. Perhaps he might rip a little bit of her dress to show as a souvenir.

  But in order to steal a kiss without interference, he would need to lure her away from the lights and into the darkness of the shrubbery. The walks were fairly deserted since at that moment most people seemed to be in the refreshment room or in the ballroom.