Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  Lord Sylvester was anxious to return to his own estates to deal with matters there, since he had promised his bride a travelling honeymoon through such countries as were left free of Napoleon’s rule.

  Annabelle had become accustomed to life at the Abbey. It was like living in a very grandly equipped village, she thought. She had explored everywhere, from the rich state apartments inside to the granary, dairies, stables, pottery, carpenter’s shop, gardens, succession houses, and deer park on the outside. The vicarage loomed very dark, small and poky in her memory. But Minerva had received a letter from Mrs Armitage who complained bitterly about her failing health brought about by the onerous duties of the parish.

  Deirdre and Daphne were in trouble. They had dressed Farmer Baxter’s prize pig in one of Frederica’s gowns and had driven it across the village green. This had fortunately happened when the vicar was at the Abbey and his wrath had not been quite what it might had he been present at the time.

  Now the vicar was home and it was time for the girls to return as well. Annabelle had begged Minerva to extend their stay, but Minerva had pointed out that the Duchess would not appreciate their presence a day longer, and for her part, she did not want to stay on when her fiancé was planning to leave.

  And so the two sisters set out for home on a bitterly cold day. The snow which had fallen on the day that Annabelle had talked to the Marquess in the library had thawed and frozen and thawed and frozen so that the roads were full of treacherous, hard ruts. The maid, Betty, had contracted a severe cold and was to follow later.

  The wedding was to be held in St George’s, Hanover Square, in London, with full pomp and circumstance. Annabelle knew that the Duchess could hardly be expected to furnish a wedding dress for her and was fretting over the idea that she would be outshone by Minerva who would be wearing several thousands of guineas’ worth of Brussels lace.

  As the carriage jolted along, she cast a sideways glance at her sister’s pensive face. ‘Glad to be going home, Merva?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, particularly as Sylvester is leaving as well,’ said Minerva calmly. ‘It will not be long until we are both married, Bella. I wish it were not going to be such a grand wedding. I wanted to be married by papa in the church at home, but her grace insisted on a big London wedding, and Sylvester pointed out that it does not matter where we are married so long as we are married.’

  ‘Church weddings are not at all fashionable,’ sniffed Annabelle. ‘We could both have been married at the Abbey.’

  ‘We could hardly do that when father is a minister of God,’ pointed out Minerva.

  ‘Oh, it’s easy for you to be so calm about it all,’ snapped Annabelle. ‘You will be very fine in that grand gown the Duchess is giving you. What am I to wear? Something from the village dressmaker?’

  ‘But I thought Peter would have told you . . .’ began Minerva.

  ‘Lord Brabington to you,’ said Annabelle in order to get revenge for the time Minerva had corrected her when she had called Lord Sylvester Comfrey, ‘Sylvester’.

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Minerva severely, ‘I am amazed Lord Brabington did not explain to you how matters stood. I had discussed the wedding arrangements with him and explained my own gown was to be very fine, and I was worried about providing you with something which would at least look as good. He promptly said he would write to Madame Verné in London – she is the best dressmaker you know – and ask her to send sketches to Hopeworth. We are to travel to London, a month before the wedding, and stay with Lady Godolphin so that your gown may be made very quickly.’

  ‘I am not a child!’ exclaimed Annabelle. ‘Why were such arrangements made behind my back? And I have hardly had any occasion to speak to my fiancé in private since we announced our engagement,’ she added, her voice beginning to rise with temper, forgetting that she had carefully avoided being alone with the Marquess. ‘How did you come to be so intimate with him!’

  ‘I merely went to see him to discuss the arrangements.’

  ‘Where? Where did this discussion take place?’

  ‘In his bedchamber.’

  ‘WHAT!’

  ‘Annabelle, do not be so missish. I am the eldest of the family and you know I have long been accustomed to organizing things for us. It was natural I should go to see Lord Brabington. Since he was convalescing, I could not very well have an audience with him anywhere else.’

  ‘I,’ said Annabelle passionately, ‘was warned by that bat of a Duchess that I must not go near Peter’s room because it was not comme il faut – or comma fault as that stupid, gross travesty of a woman, Lady Godolphin, called it . . .’

  ‘That is quite enough,’ interrupted Minerva in glacial tones.

  ‘Don’t come Miss Prunes and Prisms with me!’ howled Annabelle. ‘I, at least, can wait till my wedding night.’

  The old Minerva would have blushed from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, but the new Minerva had an uncomfortably shrewd look in her eye.

  ‘And what gave you the idea, miss, that I was beforehand in my behaviour?’

  ‘One has only got to look at you,’ said Annabelle sulkily.

  ‘I am surprised that you have so much time to worry about my morals,’ said Minerva. ‘Look at me, Annabelle! Are you in love with Lord Brabington?’

  ‘Of course I am, you widgeon. I’m marrying him, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Minerva, half to herself. ‘But if you are so very much in love, then why is your wedding gown so important to you?’

  ‘Having already got a very beautiful one yourself, you can have a mind above such petty matters,’ sneered Annabelle.

  ‘I have, perhaps, become too accustomed to speak to you as if you were a child,’ said Minerva slowly. ‘I do worry about you, Annabelle. Mama’s frequent illness, imagined or no, had put certain responsibilities on me. I still look on you as a child in my charge. Seventeen is not so very old after all.’

  ‘Old enough to resent your perpetual lecturing and moralizing.’

  ‘Do I?’ said Minerva sadly. ‘I suppose I do. Sylvester tells me I am the real preacher of the Armitage family.’

  ‘Does he, indeed,’ said Annabelle, brightening. ‘Tell me, Minerva, do many of the fashionable ladies have affairs?’

  ‘I am afraid they do,’ said Minerva in a low voice. ‘You should see them, Bella. They are poor things; restless, hungry. It is as well for us that we shall never have to contemplate such a life. Why on earth did you ask such a question?’

  ‘Because,’ said Annabelle, leaning across the carriage and giving her sister a warm hug, ‘I wanted to change the conversation. I am such a bear and you must forgive me. I am frightened of all the fuss, Merva, and that is what makes me such a crosspatch.’

  ‘Oh, Bella, so am I,’ said Minerva with relief as she hugged her sister back. ‘Never mind, at least we shall be together.’

  Annabelle settled back in her corner of the carriage, her thoughts busy. Lord Sylvester would soon tire of Minerva. And perhaps he would be glad to flirt a little with such a delicious young matron as the new Marchioness of Brabington. Almost she could hear him saying, ‘You bore me, Minerva. I wish I had married your sister instead!’

  She was just settling down to enjoy this rosy fantasy when she realized with irritation that Minerva was speaking again.

  ‘And you should not be so harsh about Lady Godolphin,’ Minerva was saying. ‘It is extremely kind of her to invite us to London.’

  ‘And who is footing the bill, pray?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Sylvester said he would pay her for any expense incurred on our behalf, but she does not need to invite us.’

  Annabelle sniffed. ‘I suppose she can be amusing. She is a sort of walking parlour game. It became quite fun seeing which one of us could guess what she meant by one of her terrible Malapropisms. But no one guessed the last one. What did she mean when she said that the portrait at the end of the Long Gallery, just above the Meissen figures, was “catter chintzy”
? No one could guess and Mr Frampton was offering a prize of five guineas to anyone who found the right answer.’

  Minerva smiled. ‘My lady meant quattrocento. Lord Sylvester was the winner.’

  ‘Well, I was glad papa did not stay overlong. He was making quite a cake of himself over Lady Godolphin. Colonel Brian was not amused.’

  ‘Papa was merely being gallant,’ said Minerva. ‘I do wish Colonel Brian and Lady Godolphin would legalize their arrangement.’

  ‘Legalize? You mean marry? You mean he . . . she . . . oh, tish, Minerva. They are too old.’

  ‘It seems some of us never outgrow our passions,’ sighed Minerva. ‘But what worries me is . . . you must promise not to tell a soul, Bella, not even Peter.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Annabelle eagerly, delighted to find her prim sister was not above gossip.

  ‘It is all very scandalous, you see, but rather sad in a way, for Colonel Brian was married and his wife was an invalid. But Lady Godolphin does not expect Colonel Brian to propose marriage because . . . because she does not know his wife died last summer. Of course, he should observe at least a year’s mourning, but Sylvester tells me Lady Godolphin has been kept in ignorance of Mrs Brian’s death, the Colonel going so far as to keep the intelligence of it from the newspapers.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Annabelle, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘Wouldn’t the fur and feathers fly if she ever found out!’

  ‘Lady Godolphin will not find out unless the Colonel himself tells her.

  ‘Sylvester came upon the truth of the matter by accident. He would never dream of telling her anything so cruel, nor would I, and you certainly must not. Don’t look so . . . malicious, Annabelle. I wish I had not told you.’

  ‘I? I have no interest in what she does,’ shrugged Annabelle. ‘At her age, it is disgusting.’

  Minerva looked at her sister but did not reply. Annabelle fell back into her fantasy of luring Lord Sylvester away from Minerva, and Minerva fought down strange new feelings that were welling up inside her. She was appalled to find that she was almost beginning to dislike Annabelle.

  The thought was so painful, so treacherous, that she immediately fought it down and turned her attention to the passing countryside.

  After a long and weary journey, they arrived at the vicarage. Annabelle did not even stay to put off her bonnet but immediately ran off to the Hall to tell her triumph to Josephine and Emily.

  Minerva was surrounded by her younger sisters. She answered their questions automatically, looking through the vicarage window at Annabelle’s flying figure, a little crease of worry between her brows.

  Mrs Armitage trailed languidly in, a chiffon scarf drooping from one hand, and a limp ostrich feather fan from one wrist. She was a short, slightly plump woman, so there was not really enough of her to supply a dramatic droop. She only succeeded in looking rather round-shouldered. Minerva listened patiently while Mrs Armitage went on at length about all the gamut of emotions she had run on hearing the news of Annabelle’s success.

  At last, the vicar cut her short by jerking his head in the direction of his study and saying impatiently, ‘Come along, Minerva.’

  Minerva went reluctantly. She hoped she was not going to be asked for her views on Annabelle’s engagement.

  She began to relax as the vicar made no mention of it. He discussed arrangements for the wedding. Minerva and Annabelle were to go alone, Mrs Armitage feeling she could not endure a whole month in London, and even the lure of London chemists and London physicians was not enough to encourage her to face the prospect.

  The rest of the family were to arrive a week before the wedding.

  ‘Got quite a shock when I saw Lady Godolphin,’ said the vicar meditatively. ‘Quite a belle she was in her day. Still, she’s lost none of her old charm, quite fascinating in a wrinkled and flabby kind of way.’

  He pulled himself together with a jerk, flushed slightly, and said, ‘Is that colonel her lover?’

  ‘My dear papa,’ lied Minerva. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘I suppose he is. She told me she had become quite demin-mundane and was living a life of oddity. I assume she meant adultery.’

  ‘Perhaps she really meant oddity,’ suggested Minerva, anxious not to be drawn on the subject. ‘She often uses the right word.’

  ‘Perhaps. Well, off with you, miss. There’s still work to be done around here. Brabington has been very generous in the matter of the marriage settlement, and he don’t want no dowry, so it looks as if we can hire some sort o’ governess for the gels.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ said Minerva. ‘Deirdre is still too young and a trifle wild to take over my duties.’ She kissed him on the cheek and turned to go.

  ‘Minerva!’

  Minerva turned round. The vicar had risen and was standing with his back to the fire, his coat tails hitched up over his bottom. ‘Don’t worry about Bella,’ he said.

  ‘I am very happy for her.’

  ‘No, you ain’t. You’re worried sick because you feel sure she’s marrying Brabington just because she wants to be a marchioness. And you’re right. She’s got another worse reason for doin’ it in that cockloft o’ hers. But it’ll all work out in the end. Brabington’ll school her, you’ll see.’

  ‘But I don’t want him to have to school her,’ said Minerva. ‘I want it to be a love match.’

  ‘Well, them sort o’ marriages is deuced rare. Women are not all as lucky as you, my puss.’

  ‘What is the other reason?’ asked Minerva.

  ‘Tell you some day,’ said the vicar. ‘Off with you!’

  But as Minerva softly closed the door behind her, she thought she heard him mutter, ‘Hope you don’t find out first.’

  Annabelle returned from the Hall in a pensive mood. Of course, Josephine and Emily had been wildly jealous. She had not expected anything else. But they had concealed it in an admirable way. They had affected kindness, they had affected deep concern over poor little Annabelle’s rustic manners and dress and had told her terrible stories about ladies who were forced to rusticate in the country forever because they had done something quite awful like crossing their legs in public. Annabelle had quickly uncrossed hers.

  Was she never to achieve one little bit of the triumphs she had dreamed of?

  But there was the wedding. All society would be there. All London – that was the London bounded by St James’s Square and Grosvenor Square – would be watching her. Annabelle’s mind refused to take in the realities of marriage and what lay after the wedding. That was a vague and pleasant world of balls and parties with a complaisant Marquess somewhere in the background, someone to take her there and bring her back while she danced with Lord Sylvester.

  It was balm to her soul to find a very respectful Deirdre waiting for her. Annabelle sat down at the toilet table and unpinned her bonnet while Deirdre sat on the bed behind her.

  ‘It is a very fine thing to be marrying a marquess,’ said Deirdre with a flattering tinge of awe in her voice. ‘You know, I s’pose you really are quite pretty, Annabelle.’

  ‘Beautiful is the word,’ laughed Annabelle. ‘And Madame Verné is to make my bride gown, Deirdre; she is the best in London. I think I shall have a very long train and the twins can be my pages. A little seed pearl embroidery, I think. I wonder whether the Prince Regent will come.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ urged Deirdre, sitting in a half crouch.

  ‘I am, amn’t I?’ said Annabelle crossly. ‘Did the sketches arrive yet from Madame Verné? Oh, and will she be making the bridesmaids’ gowns as well? Pink would be pretty. But you have got such an unfortunate colour of hair that pink would not suit at all.’

  ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear,’ said Deirdre scornfully. ‘I want to hear about love.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Annabelle carelessly, patting her blonde curls. ‘You are too young.’

  ‘Not I. Perhaps it is you who are too young, Bella. You are like a child with a glittering toy. What will you d
o with your Marquess once the novelty has worn off? You can’t very well put him away in the attic.’

  ‘Get out of here!’ screamed Annabelle, in sudden rage. ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  Deirdre stuck out her tongue and scampered to the door.

  Annabelle sat breathing heavily for a few moments after she had left. She felt a sudden stab of unease, and then shrugged. The Marquess had said nothing about selling his commission. The war was still going on. With any luck he would soon be back on the high sierras of Spain.

  The few weeks before their departure to London were exhausting. The parish rounds had to be performed as if the two girls were not just about to marry into the nobility. Bundles of blankets and food had to be collected for the poor and distributed at the parish hall. The poor had to be visited, cordials and medicine and calves’ foot jelly carried in a heavy basket.

  Lady Wentwater had gone off on some mysterious visit so at least she didn’t have to be read to.

  Sketches had arrived, not only for the bride’s gown but for the bridesmaids’ dresses. Annabelle had gone into alt, demanding that the girls would wear what she chose.

  The vicar put an end to the row by gathering up the precious sketches and departing with them to his study. To Annabelle’s horror, she found out that he had chosen the gowns himself and had sent them off post-haste to London. To all her rage, he had merely replied calmly that if she persisted in behaving like a child, then she would be treated like one.

  He then punished her by making her exercise his hounds, adding that he had a good mind to give her a beating instead.

  Annabelle felt very ill-used. The budding conscience about tricking the Marquess which was beginning to nag her was quickly nipped by her fury at her father’s treatment of her. Now more than ever did she wish to be married and become her own mistress.

  The Marquess’s face grew fainter in her mind, and soon she dreamt only of Lord Sylvester, perpetual dreamlike ballrooms sailing through her head, endless routs and parties where they would exchange passionate, meaningful looks across the room.