by M C Beaton
Her view of the battle was, perhaps, a strange one and Lord Sylvester had to turn his head quickly away when Lady Godolphin enthusiastically described how the British had scaled the French ‘fornications’.
It was all very foreign to Minerva. In Hopeworth, the villagers did not seem to be aware of the war. Spain was so very far away and Napoleon an ogre who had terrified them for so long that they had quite forgotten he was still a menace.
‘But I do not understand,’ she cried. ‘If the French are so despicable, if we are at war with them, if we despise them so much, why then do we adopt their fashions and why does everyone in society interlard their conversation with French phrases?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘But chaçun à son goat, as we say at St James’s.’
‘Gout,’ corrected Minerva, weary of her hostess’s malapropisms.
‘Goo where?’ demanded Lady Godolphin in surprise.
‘Miss Armitage was merely wondering if you had any social engagements this afternoon,’ said Lord Sylvester maliciously.
‘Not for this afternoon,’ replied Lady Godolphin with a puzzled look at Minerva. ‘You must be very careful not to let your accent slip, Minerva. Go, not goo. Rustic voices are not the thing.’
‘Very well, my lady,’ said Minerva, throwing a cross look at Lord Sylvester whose shoulders were shaking with laughter.
‘Now I must lie down for a nap before this evening. I am quite exhausted with all my activities,’ said Lady Godolphin without a blush. ‘I trust you will behave yourself, Comfrey?’
She waddled out.
‘You should not encourage her,’ said Minerva severely. ‘Her language is appalling. French fornications indeed.’
‘I think her ladyship meant fortifications.’
‘Oh.’
‘You have such a wicked mind, Minerva.’
‘That is not true. Now if you will excuse me …’
He bent over her hand and kissed it and stood holding it looking down into her eyes. She felt that strange melting feeling. Overcome with an agonizing longing to throw herself into his arms, Minerva fought it by rudely snatching her hand away and walking over to the fireplace and standing with her back to him.
And yet she was even angrier when she at last turned around and found that he had gone.
Two days after Minerva’s discovery of Lady Godolphin’s adultery, a calm sunny morning arose over the village of Hopeworth.
Annabelle stretched her long limbs and turned over in her mind what she should wear to church. She felt sure Guy Wentwater would be present, even though he had not put in an appearance at Evensong during the week. Although Josephine and Emily were to leave for London on Monday so that they could be present at Almack’s opening ball on the Wednesday, she wanted to see if she could reanimate Guy’s feelings towards her. It would be infuriating to find that either of Sir Edwin’s daughters had secured him as a beau.
Annabelle was weary of household and parish duties and wished Minerva had not set such a precedent. There were the calls, the parish bags of bedclothes and linen to be made up for the poor and kept on hand for sickness, there was the household budget to balance, Annabelle’s unformed sprawling hand looking untidy under the neat lines of Minerva’s crabbed script in the household accounts.
At last, attired in a pretty sprigged muslin, she shepherded the children together for Mrs Armitage’s languid inspection. Annabelle fretted in a sudden access of impatience as Mrs Armitage sent the twins to clean their ears, and Deirdre to take her hair down again and braid it.
At last they were ready to take the short walk to the church.
There had been a shower of rain the night before and the new green grass rolled and glistened like silk. Cows stood placidly in puddles in the marshy pasture and a frisky breeze sent drifts of fading hawthorn blossom dancing down to a muddy grave in the waterlogged road. Annabelle had had to wear her pattens over her pretty shoes because of the mud; she wondered whether it would be possible to slip them off before they reached the church.
All Annabelle heard at the vicarage from morning till night was money, or rather, the lack of it.
She was weary of pinching and scraping when the sale of one one of Papa’s splendid hunters would have relieved the strain. She longed for pretty things and sophisticated surroundings. Guy was rich, Guy was handsome, Guy could provide all those delights.
Annabelle began to wonder if she had been too top-lofty in repulsing him. The conscience that had screamed at her that he had been a slave trader was becoming drowned under the clamouring desire for some money and security.
The church was chill and damp after the sunshine outside. There were the usual rustics touching their forelocks as they shuffled past Squire Radford’s pew; a host of old men and women in the body of the church who could not read and always looked at their Books of Common Prayer with expressions of blank amazement; and a lot of hobble-de-hoys of farm boys in the gallery. The choir was, as usual, accompanied by the blacksmith on the big bass viol, the barber on the clarionet, the miller on the bassoon, and the baker on the flute, all ready to lead the congregation through some of the Sternhold and Hopkins Old Version of the Psalms.
Marble plaques in memory of dead Armitages and Radfords shone palely in the light streaming through the long glass windows. The stained glass had been shattered by the soldiers of Henry VIII and had never been replaced. One brave fragment remained at the top of the chancel window, casting its prisms of harlequin light down onto the rich altar cloth, embroidered by Minerva.
Josephine and Emily, seated beside their mother and father, were all fuss and feathers and wriggles and giggles. The Armitage family took up two pews, Mrs Armitage shepherding the younger children into one and Annabelle with the older ones in another. Lady Wentwater was alone in her pew, across from the Armitages. Annabelle looked gloomily down at the muslin of her dress and tried not to feel disappointed.
She had automatically begun to go through the ritual of the service when she felt a slight prickling on her right cheek. She knew instinctively Guy had arrived.
She stole a glance under the shadow of her bonnet and flushed as she met his amused pale blue gaze.
Annabelle was not blessed – or cursed, whichever way you look at it – by Minerva’s overactive conscience, and so she did not consider her thoughts sacrilegious.
She did not think her father a very devout man, and was at times cynically amused by his obsession for the chase. It would have surprised her very much to know that her father was, in his eccentric way, a pastor who cared more for his parishioners than most.
Still, she was not to be blamed for her ideas, for the vicar’s speech from the pulpit was in his usual vein.
He started off with that well known text from Matthew, ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.’ From there he went on to point out that it was essential for man and beast to work hard. His hounds, for example, had earned their summer rest. Men should work like fox hounds, that is together and in concert.
‘It is characteristic of foxhounds to aid each other. If one makes what he supposes to be a discovery, the rest rush to see if there is anything in it.’ And so in a muddled way, the vicar compared the villagers to the pack, urging them to be ready when the last great horn blew.
There was a murmur of approval from the less literate body of the congregation. This was something they could understand more than any of Minerva’s high-flown sentiments.
When the service was over, Annabelle ushered her charges out in front of her to where her cousins and their parents, Sir Edwin and Lady Armitage, were standing among the sloping gravestones. Guy Wentwater came out with Lady Wentwater on his arm. He gave Annabelle a brief bow and then went to join Josephine and Emily.
‘I wonder he dares show his face in church,’ hissed Deirdre. Annabelle muttered, ‘Do be quiet. He does not trade any more.’
She comforted herself with the thought that Guy Wentwater had not jo
ined her, for he must know he would receive a rebuff from her family. Annabelle once more found Guy attractive. She did not know she was competing with Emily and Josephine to such an extent that the very spirit of rivalry would have made any man seem attractive.
Annabelle straggled along at the end of the family party, feeling let down and depressed.
The freshness of the day was going and a thin haze was covering the sun.
‘Pssst!’
Annabelle quickly turned her head and saw the grimy face of one of the village boys framed in the leaves of the hedge.
‘What is it Jem?’
The boy silently held out a crumpled note and put it into Annabelle’s hand.
Annabelle glanced furtively up and down the narrow road. The family party was well ahead and just about to turn a bend in the road.
Quickly she opened the note. ‘Dear A,’ she read. ‘I cannot speak to you in front of your family. Please meet me in the copse at the corner of the six-acre. G.’
For a moment, Annabelle’s heart sang like the lark above, and then plummetted to earth. It was one thing to be courted by a young man with the approval of one’s family. But to meet him in this clandestine way was wrong. She wished Minerva was home. Minerva would not let her go and so would take the decision out of her hands. But it was Sunday, and Minerva was in London and probably attending church …
Poor Minerva found her first visit to a London church very strange. It seemed more like a rout than a religious service. She and Lady Godolphin were lucky in that they could simply walk across the square and did not have to wait while their coachman queued up in the press. The fashionable dress of the ladies, the singing, the loud sound of the organ, the distraction caused by a certain elderly lord who sang in a high cracked voice, quite off key, and whether anyone else was singing or not, and the constant flirtatious undercurrent as eyes peeked over the edge of prayer books among the young people, and the loud snores which came from the elderly made the service seem very strange indeed.
Her seven courtiers were there, however, and remarkably soberly dressed. They seemed to quite stun their acquaintances with their devout singing and their solemn attention to the service. They had decided that Minerva had not been making fun of society, but was as strait-laced as they had first thought.
Outside the church, after the service was over, they clustered about her, affording Minerva many envious glances from the other females and much irritation to herself. Try as she would, she could not find any of them attractive, even the smouldering Mr Fresne.
To add to her consternation, Lady Godolphin invited them all back for wine and biscuits. But she followed Lord Sylvester’s instructions and flirted as best she could. For she must marry somehow. Her family demanded it of her. And the boys’ school fees must be paid.
Three of her other partners of the night before called to pay their compliments, but were outflanked by the seven who moralized so much that Minerva was in danger of losing her social reputation again.
They finally left. Minerva felt tetchy and irritable. To ease her mind, she read Lady Godolphin part of an improving volume called Death Bed Scenes, choosing one of her own favourites which was the tale of the Infidel Farmer.
At last it became evident to Minerva that Lady Godolphin was not listening. She put down the book with a sigh.
‘My lady,’ ventured Minerva, ‘do you believe that those who commit adultery burn in the Eternal Fire?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lady Godolphin, all puzzled innocence. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Think now,’ urged Minerva intensely.
The paint on Lady Godolphin’s face creased into quite horrible wrinkles as she concentrated. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said again, ‘but when I get to hell, I’ll let you know.’
‘My lady!’
‘Minerva, you should not be thinking of such gloomy things. I think that with all these beaux, you will soon be wed. Why, we’ll soon be thinking of your torso. I had a beautiful torso when I was married to Godolphin. All lace and satin, it was. Even my husband was wont to turn it over in his fingers and say he had never seen anything so fine.’
‘Do you mean trousseau, my lady?’
‘Torso, trousseau, ’tis all the same. Lord Chumley is your best bet, I would say.’
‘He reminds me of a sheep.’
‘Most of ’em have something up with ’em. It’s a pity Comfrey ain’t the marrying kind. You’ll have to make the best with what you’ve got. Chumley is comparatively young. You can fall in love after you marry. That’s what most society women do.’
But Minerva shook her pretty head. ‘When I am married, I will remain faithful to my husband, no matter what.’
‘Well, think about Chumley. Any woman can think herself into love if she puts her mind to it.’
But can she think herself out of it? thought Minerva, suddenly depressed. Yet she could not be in love with Lord Sylvester. She could not.
With a little sigh, she made her excuses and went off to her room to write letters home. How immensely Annabelle would have enjoyed the Season! What a pity she isn’t here instead of me, thought Minerva for the hundredth time.
CHAPTER NINE
The vicar tilted his large head on one side and listened appreciatively to the music of his hounds in their summer kennels. The hounds were apt to add singing to their other performances, especially on a bright sunny day. Their voices rose and fell in chorus and the vicar thought it the sweetest music on earth.
Like Theseus, he thought his hounds: ‘… matched in mouth like bells, Each under each, a cry more tunable Was never hollo’ad to, nor cheered with horn.’
The vicar was sitting on a tree stump at the edge of his orchard, lazily enjoying the morning weather.
There seemed signs that there might be a bumper harvest after all. He thought briefly of his eldest daughter. He should never have sent Minerva. She was vastly pretty, but even her fond father had to admit to himself that she was made to be an ape-leader.
Besides, he missed her already. Things did not run as smoothly. The children always seemed to be squabbling. On the other hand, he trusted Lady Godolphin to make sure that Minerva married someone with money. For Lady Godolphin had always had a weakness for exacting monetary return. His conscience jabbed him at the thought of Minerva dutifully married to a man she did not like. Then he comforted himself by thinking that that was the way of the world. He was sure his own wife did not like him overmuch. He thought of all the couples he had married who had stood before him at the altar, smelling of April and May, and who had been fighting like cat and dog before a year was up. The more placid ones seemed to settle down better.
‘Mr Armitage!’
The vicar looked up, annoyed to have his moment of quiet thought interrupted.
Mr Pettifor, his curate, stood in front of him, the end of his long red nose twitching nervously.
‘Yes, Pettifor, what is it?’
‘I do not believe in tale-bearing,’ began the curate piously.
‘Then don’t,’ said the vicar reasonably. ‘Listen to those hounds, Pettifor. Celestial music, that’s what it is. Celestial music.’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Armitage. But I feel I must … I should … tell you. It concerns Miss Annabelle.’
The vicar, who had been idly kicking a piece of turf with his boot, stopped, and looked up sharply at the curate, his eyes narrowed under the shade of the brim of his shovel hat.
‘Annabelle, heh! Out with it then. Oh, come on. I’m ordering you, if that eases your conscience.’
‘On Sunday,’ said the curate, bending down and beginning to whisper, ‘Miss Annabelle was seen in the copse at the corner of the six-acre with Mr Wentwater. On Sunday afternoon. They were seen in an amorous position.’
Faint beads of sweat appeared on the vicar’s brow, but he said in a level voice, ‘Be more explicit.’
Mr Pettifor looked down at him nervously. ‘Mr Wentwater was … er … pressing her hand
, warmly, and then he … kissed her on the mouth!’
The vicar removed his hat and mopped his brow.
‘And how did Annabelle receive these attentions?’
‘That is what was so terrible. She was laughing and flirting.’
‘And that’s all there was? A kiss and a press of the hand?’
‘Merciful Heavens! Your innocent daughter! Is it not enough?’
‘Oh, yes, yes. Who told you, Pettifor?’
‘Young Jem Parsley.’
‘Ah.’
‘Jem told me that earlier on Sunday Mr Wentwater had given him a shilling to deliver a note to Miss Annabelle.’
‘Well, forget about it. Don’t talk about it, Pettifor.’
‘But Mr Armitage …’
‘Forget about it, man. I’m going to call on Squire Radford. Not another word. I know how to handle my girls.’
But I don’t, thought the vicar, as he swung down from his horse a bare half hour later outside Squire Radford’s house. Jimmy Radford had a daughter, as I recall. Doesn’t do any harm to ask for advice before I horsewhip that young puppy and cause a scandal. And I never could manage Annabelle.
The squire was a gnarled, little old gentleman who had once been a great traveller. His cottage ornée was filled with marble from Italy and brass from India, silks from China, and carved cedar from the Lebanon. No one could clearly remember Mrs Radford, and sometimes it seemed as if the squire had always been a bachelor. He led the vicar into the garden to a table under a spreading sycamore and sent his Indian manservant to fetch a bottle of port.
‘You are worried, Charles,’ said the squire in his thin, high voice. He perched on a chair opposite the vicar, his thin, stick-like legs in their clocked stockings neatly crossed at the ankle, the sun winking on the silver buckles of his shoes. He wore an elaborately curled and powdered wig which dwarfed his small, wrinkled face.
The vicar leaned forward and tapped the squire on the knee. ‘I need your advice, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘It’s about Annabelle.’
‘Let me see,’ said the squire, handing the vicar a glass. ‘You’ll like this, Charles. Excellent port. Ah, yes, Annabelle. That’s the one who was almost engaged to Lady Wentwater’s nephew, but you discovered he had been slave trafficking and so it was off. If I remember, you did not have to say anything to Annabelle. She took against the young man herself.’
