Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  The Marquess was sitting in a winged chair by the fireplace, reading a book. The white glare from the snow outside made his pale face seem even whiter. He did not look up as Annabelle quietly entered, and she studied him for a few seconds before going forwards.

  He had none of his friend Lord Sylvester’s studied elegance. He exuded a powerful aura of virility and his hands holding the book were strong and square, unlike Lord Sylvester’s very white, long-fingered ones.

  Neither had he any of his lordship’s cool, mocking mannerisms which made Annabelle’s heart beat so fast. Although Annabelle had seen her sister clasped in Lord Sylvester’s passionate embrace, she had shut that scene from her mind as much as possible. It was the perfection of Lord Sylvester’s dress and his seeming absence of sexuality which attracted her so forcibly. But Annabelle did not know this. She considered herself the hot-blooded passionate one and Minerva the cool, aloof spinster, not knowing that deep in her maidenly soul she, Annabelle, was, in fact, very prudish. Although she had responded to Guy Wentwater’s embraces, she did not realize her ardour was the result of triumph at having caught a beau so young. Also, she liked to think of herself as being superior to Minerva in every way, and so did not suspect that if Lord Sylvester had treated her to one iota of the passion which he bestowed on Minerva, then she would immediately have recoiled in horror. It would be as if a very beautiful and much admired statue had suddenly sprung to life and started sweating and panting.

  She gave a little cough and the Marquess immediately lowered his book.

  ‘Why, Miss Annabelle!’ he exclaimed, struggling to his feet and clutching the chair-back for support.

  ‘Please be seated, my lord,’ said Annabelle. ‘You are not well.’

  He sank back down into the chair and gave her a rueful grin. ‘I confess I am as weak as a kitten. What brings you here?’

  ‘I came to see you, my lord,’ said Annabelle softly. ‘I thought I might read to you.’

  ‘I have not lost the faculty of sight,’ he said, looking amused. ‘Which is just as well or I could not appreciate the beautiful vision you present.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ Annabelle curtsied demurely.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he smiled, ‘it would afford me a great deal of pleasure to hear your voice, and I confess to a feeling of wanting to be spoiled by a pretty girl.’

  Annabelle pulled forwards a chair and sat next to him and held out her hand for the book.

  ‘Letters!’ said Annabelle, who had been hoping for a novel.

  ‘I find them very interesting,’ said the Marquess. ‘They are written by a Mr Edward Burt who was General Wade’s agent in the last century. He describes the Highlands of Scotland very well. I have never been as far north as the mountains of Scotland, and I am fascinated by his travels.’

  Annabelle resigned herself. ‘Where shall I begin?’ she asked.

  ‘Just there. Letter XXII. Where it begins, “The common habit”.’

  He settled back in his chair and Annabelle began to read.

  ‘“The common habit of the ordinary Highlanders is far from being acceptable to the eye; with them a small part of the plaid is set in folds and girt round the waist to make of it a short petticoat that reaches half way down the thigh, and the rest is brought over the shoulders, and then fastened before, below the neck, often with a fork, and sometimes with a bodkin, or sharpened piece of stick, so that they make pretty near the appearance of the poor women in London when they bring their gowns over their heads to shelter them from the rain.

  ‘“In this way of wearing the plaid, they have sometimes nothing else to cover them, and are often barefoot; but some I have seen shod with a kind of pumps made out of a raw cowhide with the hair turned outward, which being ill made, the wearer’s feet looked something like those of a rough footed hen or pigeon; these are called quarrants, and are not only offensive to the sight, but intolerable to the smell of those who are near them. The stocking rises no higher than the thick of the calf, and from the middle of the thigh to the middle of the leg is a naked space, which being exposed to all weathers, becomes tanned and freckled; and the joint being mostly infected with the country distemper, the whole is very disagreeable to the eye.

  ‘“This dress is called the quelt ; and for the most part they wear the petticoat so very short, that in a windy day, going up a hill, or stooping, the indecency of it is plainly discovered.

  ‘“A Highland gentleman told me one day merrily, as we were speaking of a dangerous precipice we had passed over together, that a lady of noble family had complained to him very seriously, that as she was going over the same place with a gilly, who was upon an upper path leading her horse with a long string, she was so terrified with the sight of the abyss, that, to avoid it, she was forced to look up towards the bare Highlander all the way long”.’

  Annabelle giggled and the Marquess looked up with a start and held out his hand for the book.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Annabelle,’ he said. I was so engrossed with the sound of your bewitching voice that I had forgot the subject matter might not be suitable for the eyes of a lady.’

  ‘Is he describing the kilt?’ asked Annabelle, who was in fact rather relieved to find some fact could be as entertaining as fiction.

  ‘I believe so. He spells the word phonetically. Quelt means kilt.’

  ‘I am so disappointed,’ mourned Annabelle. ‘From the poems of Mr Walter Scott I had formed a more romantic picture of the Highlander.’

  ‘Some of the chiefs and lords I met in Edinburgh look very fine in their national dress. This describes the dress of the poor Highlander, and I gather from friends that the poverty in the North is still appalling.’

  He spoke seriously and Annabelle dropped her eyelashes to mask her expression of total indifference. The Highlands of Scotland and their inhabitants seemed to her as remote as the West Indies.

  ‘But,’ went on the Marquess in a rallying tone, ‘if the gossips in this house have it aright, it was you who seemed to have a charming capacity for putting the company to the blush.’

  ‘I did use some terrible cant,’ said Annabelle with a charming air of candour. ‘But in truth I did not know what I said. I thought it was fashionable to use cant.’

  ‘Not in ladies and not in mixed company for anyone.’

  ‘I should have known better,’ sighed Annabelle, ‘than to listen to a couple of back gammon players.’

  ‘My dear Miss Annabelle!’

  ‘Oh, dear, what have I said now?’

  ‘I could not possibly explain.’

  ‘But it was a very respectable coachman who said that. He said, “Them back gammon players makes me want to flash my hash.”’

  ‘Worse and worse,’ said the Marquess, burying his head in his hands.

  ‘Now, you must tell me or I shall ask Minerva.’

  ‘Do. She will not know – fortunately – what you are talking about.’

  ‘But she will ask Lord Sylvester.’

  ‘Very well. It is either my blushes or Sylvester’s, and I am informed that my face lacks colour. I will translate.

  ‘Back gammon players are gentleman who prefer the company of their own sex.’

  ‘As do most men,’ said Annabelle, surprised. ‘Else why do you all congregate in coffee houses and clubs?’

  ‘That is as far as I am prepared to go. To flash your hash means to vomit.’

  ‘Well, that is not so bad. What does old hat mean?’ said Annabelle provocatively, as if she did not know – now – what it meant.

  ‘Miss Annabelle, if you persist in sullying that pretty mouth of yours with disgusting language, I shall be tempted to kiss it clean.’

  Annabelle raised her fan to make one of the many gestures with which a lady received an overwarm remark from a gentleman. She could rap him playfully on the wrist or raise the fan to cover her blushes.

  Instead, she stopped with the fan half-raised and looked at him with wide blue eyes.

  ‘Then why don�
�t you?’ she said.

  ‘Brazen hussy!’

  ‘Ah, you were funning. And I heard you called a very brave man.’

  He leaned forwards and took her chin gently in his hand. Annabelle closed her eyes. The Marquess kissed her gently on the mouth and then drew away murmuring, ‘I thought Sylvester held your affections.’

  ‘He is engaged to my sister, sir!’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It is you, my lord, who . . . who . . . I have formed a tendre for you, my lord.’

  ‘You are so very young, Annabelle.’

  ‘It seems the Armitage girls are destined to fall in love with men in their dotage.’

  He looked deep into her eyes. Annabelle conjured up Lord Sylvester’s face, imagined it was he who was gazing into her eyes, and her own glowed with warmth and love.

  The Marquess took a deep breath and said half to himself, ‘I would be a fool to let such a moment go by.’

  He took her hand in his. ‘Annabelle,’ he said. ‘We hardly know each other, and, yes, your youth is a great disadvantage. No. Let me speak. The man you will want at twenty-one may not be the man you want now. We shall get to know each other, first as friends, and then, if I am convinced that your mind is set, I shall write to your father and ask his permission to pay my addresses.’

  A heady feeling of triumph assailed Annabelle. She had won! Now all she had to do was to play her cards aright and soon she would be able to plead prettily that she be married at the same time as Minerva.

  He rested his head against the wing of the chair, his face suddenly white and drawn.

  ‘Leave me now, my child,’ he said faintly. ‘I am curst weak.’

  Annabelle stood up. ‘I shall send help,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘Simply ring that bell over there and I shall do the rest,’ he said. ‘Go now. I shall see you again soon.’

  Annabelle rang the bell and then hurried from the room. She would not tell Minerva or anyone until it was a fait accompli. Now she would need to bribe Betty with a scarf or some trinket to make sure that upstart miss kept her mouth firmly shut.

  After she had left, the Marquess of Brabington was helped by two stout footmen to his bedchamber. He lay back against the pillows staring up at the canopy, his hands behind his head. What did he really know of Miss Annabelle? Had he been too precipitate? But somehow he found he could not think beyond her beauty. He had been dazzled from the first moment he had set eyes on her. Then her memory had faded a little. He was always conscious of the difference in their ages.

  But he loved her, he thought with a smile. And that was too rare and beautiful a thing to be picked over and analysed. He closed his eyes and settled down for sleep, seeing his life stretching out in front of him, one long, sunny road with Annabelle on his arm; a laughing, enchanting, adoring Annabelle, forever beautiful, forever happy, and quite, quite uncomplicated.

  The following days were to be passed without a glimpse of the Marquess. It was said he had a high fever and Annabelle fretted as the physician came and went. Lord Sylvester always seemed to be watching her curiously, and she had to endure the fact that her love for him had not abated one whit.

  At last came the glad news that the Marquess’s fever had abated and that he was recovering quickly. The ladies of the house, with the exception of the Duchess, had quite warmed to Annabelle since she now appeared quiet and reserved, seeming to take no interest in the gentlemen whatsoever.

  And then after a thaw and a following driving wind, the Reverend Charles Armitage, vicar of St Charles and St Jude, made his arrival.

  Annabelle heard his loud voice as she was descending the stairs and peeped over the bannisters.

  The vicar was standing in the hall, clutching a letter in one hand, his face grim. Before him stood the Duchess of Allsbury.

  ‘What’s this here,’ the vicar was demanding, ‘about Bella behaving bad?’

  ‘I think she should answer for herself,’ said the Duchess coolly. ‘Her behaviour has been quite pretty of late but one shudders to think of a recurrence of her disgraceful manners.’

  Annabelle heard a step behind her and swung around to find the Marquess of Brabington smiling down at her.

  Down below in the hall, the angry vicar had been joined by Minerva and Lord Sylvester. Annabelle shuddered before the wrath of her father to come; like a child, she turned and pressed her face into the Marquess’s coat and whispered, ‘I’m afraid. Papa will horsewhip me.’

  The Marquess put an arm about her and held her close. He knew his worth on the marriage market. He knew the one way to allay any parent’s wrath was to present himself as a future son-in-law. And yet . . . and yet . . . it was a great step to take.

  He raised her face and looked down into her eyes. ‘If he knew we were to be married, he would no longer be angry,’ he murmured half to himself.

  Annabelle’s beautiful blue eyes blazed with hope as she put up her hands and clung to his lapels.

  ‘Do you love me?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Annabelle desperately. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then let us greet your father,’ he said, tucking her arm in his.

  All faces turned up to them as they descended the stairs.

  ‘See here, Bella . . .’ began the vicar.

  ‘Ah, Mr Armitage,’ said the Marquess smoothly. ‘You are arrived just in time. It is rather a public place to ask you for your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter, Annabelle, but that is what I wish to do.’

  ‘What!’Anger was chased away by amazement to be replaced by a look of joy. His Bella to marry a marquess. The vicar dropped the Duchess’s letter on the floor, held out his arms and Annabelle rushed into them.

  ‘Hey, my pretty puss,’ said the vicar, rumpling her bright curls. ‘Couldn’t wait for a Season before you got wed?’

  He released her and went to shake hands with the Marquess. ‘Of course, you have my blessing,’ he said, striking that young man jovially on the shoulder. ‘I thought I had made a mistake letting you go, Bella, but I cry peccavi.’

  ‘And there is more marvellous news,’ said Annabelle, smiling at Minerva. ‘Peter has agreed that we shall have a double wedding. I will be married in the same church and at the same time as my dear sister!’

  Lord Sylvester noticed a strange, rather quizzical expression crossing the Marquess’s face.

  But Minerva rushed forwards, her face radiant, and enfolded her sister in a warm embrace.

  ‘I am so happy, Annabelle,’ she said with tears in her eyes.

  Annabelle drew back a little and frowned. ‘You are not mad at me, Merva, for arranging to share your wedding?’

  ‘Mad? Of course not. It is the most wonderful thing. Now my wedding day will be doubly blessed!’ said Minerva, clasping her hands as if she were praying.

  Hearing the commotion, the rest of the guests crowded into the hall to find out what was going on.

  Annabelle was soon surrounded by a sort of bewilderment of congratulations. Her heart hammered as a voice nagged over and over in her brain, ‘Minerva did not mind at all. I have not scored one hit. And I am affianced to one man and – God help me – in love with t’other!’

  FOUR

  Perhaps if the Marquess of Brabington had not been so ill, he would have managed to see more of his fiancée before her departure to Hopeworth.

  As it was, it was only after Annabelle had left that the Marquess realized they had never been alone together. Such moments as they had had were usually spent in one of the many rooms of the Abbey while the rest of the guests sat around.

  He had taxed her on her wish to be married at the same time as her sister, but Annabelle had only fixed him with an innocent blue stare and had said, ‘Peter, I told you, I’m sure I did. It is certainly very rushed. Do you want to wait?’

  And the Marquess, of course, did not want to wait. He was very much in love, so much in love that he forebore from pointing out that she had no time to tell him about wedding arrangements during a te
n-second proposal.

  His illness had robbed him of much of his commonsense and humour, and so he was out of balance. He had been in love before, at a time when he had neither title nor money. The lady had encouraged his affections only to turn him down in favour of an elderly lord. He had acquired his title and fortune a week before her wedding, and had been appalled when she had called at his house, saying that she had always loved him, and begging him to rescue her from a loveless marriage. Her motives were dreadfully plain. Since then, he had thrown himself into his army career, viewing society women from then on with a certain detached amusement.

  But Annabelle had caught him at a weak moment. Certainly he had been enchanted with her from the first time he set eyes on her, but, in normal circumstances, his natural prudence would have told him not to rush into too hasty a marriage.

  He was also much influenced by the fact that his friend, Lord Sylvester, was to marry into the same family. He trusted Sylvester’s cool judgement and never paused to think that two very different birds could come from the same family nest.

  He was tired of wars and adventures and was anxious to settle down. He was prepared to resign himself to a round of London amusements first, since he considered it would be unfair to deprive his young bride of all the pleasures he had himself begun to find wearisome.

  Lord Sylvester, after lazily offering his congratulations, had spoken no more on the subject of his friend’s marriage and the Marquess took his subsequent silence for approval. He would have been amazed had he known that Lord Sylvester was extremely worried.

  In Minerva’s case, commonsense had been overridden by family loyalty, and she assured Lord Sylvester that Annabelle was deeply in love with the Marquess.

  Lord Sylvester was anxious to believe Minerva. But there was one thing he could not bring himself to tell her.

  He had been all too well aware of Annabelle’s infatuation for him. And although he had thought it quickly over, he could not rid himself of the impression that she was jealous of Minerva and was marrying Peter simply in a spirit of sisterly rivalry.

  The Marquess had planned to leave Haeter Abbey at the same time as Annabelle, but he had been summoned to Horseguards to give evidence in an enquiry into the sufficiency, or insufficiency, of army rations, and was too much of a soldier to beg liberty for personal reasons.