Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  After some internal debate, she sent a note round to Lady Godolphin’s asking Deirdre to be prepared to go for a drive in the Park that afternoon.

  By the time Deirdre hopped into the barouche beside her, Annabelle’s amour propre was much restored, and she forebore from sending Deirdre back indoors to take down her hair and take off the huge poke bonnet with which she had chosen to grace the outing.

  Annabelle had forgotten how clear and carrying Deirdre’s voice could be. No sooner had they joined the line of carriages all heading in the same direction, than Deirdre began to exclaim how strange it was that Annabelle should be free to go on a drive on the day after her wedding.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Annabelle, trying to look poised and indulgent as an older sister should.

  ‘I thought you would be passionately wrapped in each other’s embrace,’ replied Deirdre.

  ‘On ne dit pas ces choses devant les domestiques.’

  Deirdre wrinkled up her pert nose in concentration. ‘Oh, don’t speak in front of the servants!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was fashionable to just ignore them. Everyone in London speaks bad French, Bella, so you must be all the crack. I don’t know why I had to slave so many hours over my grammar. They all just translate literally. I was looking at a girl’s fan at the wedding reception and she said, “Donnez-moi ça dos,” and I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about until she said she meant, give it back.

  ‘I laughed and laughed until I choked, and I told Sylvester and he was so amused.’

  ‘If you don’t keep quiet, I shall take you straight home, miss,’ said Annabelle fiercely.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Deirdre, immediately contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned his name, for we all know what a . . .’

  ‘Deirdre!’

  ‘Very well. Is your marriage one of those arranged ones after all, Bella? I would not like one of those for myself for I am deeply romantic.’

  ‘Now I really am taking you home.’

  ‘No, don’t. I will be quiet. How pretty the Park looks. See the leaves are just peeping out. I would love a dress of just that colour. I was rather disappointed in the great Mr Brummell. Not at all what I had been led to believe. Did you see him at the wedding? His face is rather long and his whiskers are sandy. He is neither plain nor handsome. Do you think he is famous simply becaust he introduced starch to cravats, Bella?

  ‘You know what they say,

  ‘All is unprofitable, flat,

  And stale, without a smart Cravat

  Muslined enough to hold its starch

  That last keystone of Fashion’s arch.’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Annabelle repressively. ‘Now, not another word.’

  They had entered Rotten Row and Deirdre fell silent as she eagerly studied all the hairstyles and bonnets and dresses.

  But Deirdre could never remain silent for very long. ‘I say, Bella,’ she began, ‘I feel dowdy and countryish, and although you are wearing one of Minerva’s gowns, you do not look very tonnish. Why is that, do you think? Perhaps we are too young. But Minerva has acquired a great air.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ hissed Annabelle. ‘I wish I had never brought you.’

  For she too, had been uncomfortably aware that the other fashionable ladies had a certain something which she herself lacked. Some of them were dressed in the minimum, thin draped muslin exposing glimpses of bosom and thigh. There was also something in their carriage, the way they handled their stoles and fans, that made poor Annabelle feel like a country bumpkin by comparison.

  ‘But do look, Bella, there is a lady who is so dashing and . . . oh, dear, don’t look! Isn’t that a fascinating tree over there?’

  But Annabelle did look and her face went quite cold and set.

  The lady was admittedly pretty and dashing enough to turn all heads. She had a ridiculously frivolous little bonnet of feathers and coloured ribbons perched on her glossy brown curls. Her round and rosy face was all dimples and creamy skin with a huge pair of sparkling brown eyes. The thin muslin of her gown revealed a pair of generous breasts, the nipples straining against the cloth.

  It was her escort who made Annabelle freeze.

  Beside her in a dashing high perch phaeton, handling the ribbons to perfection, sat the Marquess of Brabington. As they passed the two sisters, the Marquess turned and said something to his pretty friend and she put a possessive little gloved hand on his sleeve and dimpled up at him.

  ‘Oh, you saw,’ whispered Deirdre.

  ‘Oh, ’tis nothing,’ said Annabelle. ‘The lady is his cousin and he was obliged to show her the Fashionables.’

  ‘His cousin? Why wasn’t she at the wedding?’

  ‘An oversight. That is why he is trying to make it up to her.’

  Deirdre looked doubtful. ‘What is her name?’ she asked.

  ‘I cannot remember. But Peter will no doubt remind me when we go to the opera tonight.’

  ‘Which opera?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Annabelle crossly. She tried to affect a worldly-wise air. ‘My dear child, one goes to the opera to be seen, not to listen to the music.’

  ‘I should not like that at all. But there is only one performance and that is at the Haymarket. Catalini is singing. Lady Godolphin is taking us, so we shall see you there.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Annabelle. She would ask Peter to take her. He could not refuse. He surely did not mean to leave her completely alone. Who was that woman? And so her thoughts churned and turned.

  Annabelle was glad to be rid of Deirdre when she at last dropped her at Lady Godolphin’s in Hanover Square.

  By the time she reached Conduit Street Annabelle had somehow persuaded herself that the Marquess had really been entertaining a relative.

  It was inconceivable that the man who had looked at her so warmly and tenderly should feel nothing for her at all.

  She hovered nervously in her room, waiting for her husband to return, so that he might tell her which social event they were to attend that evening and so that she could decide what best to wear. At last, the housekeeper entered with a menu for my lady to inspect.

  ‘It looks very well,’ said Annabelle. ‘You are sure there is nothing here my lord dislikes?’

  ‘Oh, no, my lady, but seeing as how your ladyship will be dining alone, Cook wondered if you would care for any special dish?’

  ‘Dining alone!’ screamed a voice in Annabelle’s head. But she said aloud, ‘No, this will do very well. Stay! My lord told me of his engagement for this evening but it has slipped my memory.’

  ‘My lord is attending the Duchess of Ruthfords’ ball, my lady.’

  Annabelle schooled her face. ‘Ah, yes, of course. I was not going because I was indisposed but since I am recovered, send Betty to me, and I will join my husband at the ball.’

  ‘Very good, my lady,’ said the housekeeper. ‘My lord seemed to expect you to dine at home, my lady.’

  Annabelle looked at her coldly. ‘Then he was much mistaken. He will be delighted to see I have recovered.’

  Of course, the Marquess’s servants knew all about the incident in the Park, the ones at the back of Annabelle’s carriage gleefully relating the encounter.

  If Annabelle had not been so buoyed up with rage, even she would have quailed before the idea of attending her first aristocratic London ball on her own. She knew that unaccompanied ladies usually arrived with some male friend or with an elderly chaperone. But she was going to meet her husband and it was his right to take care of her.

  Then she thought that he must return home to change for the ball. She decided to sit by the window and wait. The minutes ticked away into half hours and then hours but there was no sign of his carriage rumbling over the cobbles below.

  At last she rang the bell and asked Betty to find out if my lord had come home to change. Betty returned shortly with the intelligence that the Marquess had arrived back on foot an hour and a half ago and had changed and left.

  Annabelle’s courage
deserted her. He knew she was not ill. He did not want to see her. If only he would ask for an explanation. She would tell him that since Sylvester was her brother-in-law, it was natural that his name should rise to her lips.

  At such a moment? jeered her uneasy conscience.

  She stood by the window of her sitting room, holding back the curtain, and looked through a blur of tears at the deserted street below, hoping against hope that he would return for her.

  All at once, she heard a rattle of wheels and stood very still, her heart beating hard.

  An open carriage passed under the window. But it did not contain the Marquess. Instead it carried two young men and two young women. They were in full evening dress, jewels blazing. They seemed very merry and carefree and the sound of their laughter driftedup to where Annabelle stood in the silent room.

  She decided then and there to go, and rang for Betty and demanded to be helped into her ballgown. Annabelle had not been much in the way of noticing the misery of others, but for the first time she became aware of the maid’s distress. Betty’s eyes were still swollen with crying, she had lost her springy step, and her shoulders drooped pathetically.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Annabelle abruptly.

  ‘Nothing, my lady.’

  The uncharacteristic meekness of Betty’s reply made Annabelle look at her with sudden concern.

  Betty could be sly, gossipy, irritating and impudent. But she was usually happy and good-natured and she had been with the Armitage family since she was a mere ten years old.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Annabelle quietly. ‘I am late already so a few more minutes won’t matter. There is something sadly wrong, Betty. Tell me, there’s a dear. I do not like to see you in such distress.’

  Betty’s mouth fell open ludicrously at this unexpected sympathy from her mistress and then she burst into noisy tears.

  Throughs gasps and chokes, Annabelle was able to make out that Betty was homesick. The upper servants treated her with contempt. She longed to go back to the vicarage. She missed John Summer. John Summer was the vicarage coachman who also acted as groom, kennel master and whipper-in.

  ‘Are you in love with John, Betty?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Bella,’ sobbed Betty, forgetting Annabelle’s title. ‘Ever so.’

  ‘Then dry your eyes,’ said Annabelle. ‘I will tell mother in the morning that when she returns to Hopeworth, she is to take you with her. There! You can be comfortable again.’

  ‘Miss Bella!’ cried Betty, beginning to weep with happiness this time. ‘I’m that grateful. But it do go hard to leave you here with all these strangers.’

  ‘I have my husband.’

  ‘Yes, of course, mum,’ said Betty, staring at the carpet.

  ‘Well, that’s settled,’ said Annabelle brightly. ‘Now find me that fan with the mother-of-pearl sticks that Lady Godolphin gave me.’

  Annabelle was wearing the gossamer satin robe of celestial blue with the lace vandyked hem and pearl clasped sleeves which Minerva had worn on her first debut. She clasped the necklace the Marquess had given her around her neck, and then pirouetted in front of Betty, laughing and saying, ‘How do I look?’

  ‘You look beautiful, my lady,’ breathed Betty, and Annabelle glanced at the maid in surprise, for she had expected the usual sniff, followed by ‘handsome is as handsome does’.

  But Betty had not the words to explain that for once Annabelle was beautiful inside as well as out.

  ‘It don’t seem right you going on your own,’ added Betty. ‘I’ll fetch my bonnet and cloak and come with you in the carriage, my lady, as far as the door.’

  ‘No,’ said Annabelle, ‘that will not be necessary.’

  On impulse, she gave Betty a hug, and then left the room and made her way downstairs.

  The carriage with its two tall footmen standing by the steps was waiting outside. They assisted Annabelle into the carriage, folded up the steps, and hung on the backstrap as the coachman cracked his whip.

  A great deal of Annabelle’s fears fell from her shoulders. She was young and she was out in the West End of London at night where the flambeaux blazed and crackled outside the great houses and the lights of the carriage lamps bobbed like fireflies through the dark.

  Since her husband had already arrived, she was not asked to produce an invitation card.

  She left her cloak in a downstairs ante room, squared her shoulders, and slowly mounted the curved staircase towards the sound of music from the rooms on the first floor.

  She let out a little sigh of relief. The Duke and Duchess were no longer waiting to receive the guests but had joined the party in the ballroom. She could slip in unnoticed.

  But members of society had started to return to town and although there were a number of the rather effete gentlemen that Annabelle had already met, their ranks had been swelled by a good few dashing gentlemen. Mr Brummell was in Town, and where Mr Brummell went, society followed. Quizzing glasses were raised in her direction, eyes stared, heads swivelled. The much chastened Annabelle did not realize that this interest was caused by her startling beauty.

  Her first thought was that everyone recognized the ballgown as being the one her sister had worn last Season and she coloured and looked right and left for her husband.

  She could see no sign of him and could only be glad when a thin, tall man with cavalry whiskers and stick-like legs asked her to dance. They exchanged a few pleasantries when the figure of the dance brought them together. But when they were strolling about before the next dance as was the custom, her partner said, ‘May I introduce myself. Name of Bryce. There’s something about you that seems deuced familiar.’

  ‘Perhaps you know my husband,’ ventured Annabelle, ‘The Marquess of Brabington. In fact I wonder if you have seen . . .’

  Mr Bryce stood stock still. ‘I say,’ he said, running a finger around the inside of his collar. ‘You ain’t Minerva Armitage’s sister, her that’s married to Comfrey?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I . . .’

  ‘The devil!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t want a cold ball of steel put in me.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Oh, you know, Comfrey fought a duel with Mr Dubois over your sister. I was Mr Dubois’ second. I must say it was the neatest bit of shooting I ever did see. Comfrey shot the pistol right out of his hand!’

  ‘My sister told me nothing of this!’ Annabelle looked at him wide-eyed.

  ‘May I have the honour?’ A young man with a cheerful face and curly hair had stopped beside Annabelle. The next dance was just being announced. Mr Bryce surrendered her to her new partner with a patent air of relief, and Annabelle watched him as he walked off to join a group of men and began talking busily.

  A duel fought over Minerva, the respectable Minerva, thought Annabelle in amazement. And she never said a word!

  She felt a pang of jealousy and tried to conjure up the face and figure of beloved Sylvester in her mind.

  But at that moment, she saw her husband.

  He was dancing with a pretty, dark-haired girl. She was laughing and gazing up into his eyes. He looked easily the most handsome man in the room, his evening dress moulded to his tall body. The romantic image of Lord Sylvester shimmered in Annabelle’s brain and was gone.

  She kept looking over at her husband, willing him to notice her, and answering her partner’s questions mechanically.

  At that moment, Sir Guy Wayne emerged from the cardroom and leaned against a pillar and surveyed the dancers. He had a handsome dissipated face and hard mocking eyes. He wore his hair powdered, despite the fact that that fashion had largely gone out of style, thanks to the iniquitous flour tax.

  He was in his thirty-eighth year and had never married. His fortune was small but his skill atcards was great, and so he was able to live comfortably on the follies of others. He had never lacked female companionship, specializing as he did in discontented young wives.

  He raised his quiz
zing glass and studied Annabelle for several moments. At last he became aware that his friend, James Worth, was standing at his elbow.

  ‘Who’s the blonde beauty?’ he drawled, waving his quizzing glass in Annabelle’s direction.

  James Worth gave an effeminate titter. ‘That’s the new Marchioness of Brabington,’ he said. ‘Quite pretty if you like Dresden.’

  ‘Oh, I do. Very much. See how her eyes keep following her husband. And see how the brave Marquess is somehow well aware that she is there and yet will not look,’ mused Sir Guy. ‘I think I see sport.’

  ‘They were wed yesterday!’ exclaimed Mr Worth.

  ‘Definitely not a love match,’ said Sir Guy, tapping the end of his quizzing glass against his teeth. ‘On his side anyway. Brabington was always a cold fish.’

  ‘I would not meddle with Brabington,’ cautioned Mr Worth. ‘You know what these great hairy impetuous lumps of cannon fodder are like. Always challenging one to a duel on the slightest pretext.’

  ‘No one has ever challenged me to a duel,’ said Sir Guy, his pale eyes fastened on the dancing figure of Annabelle. ‘I am too discreet and I do not philander unless I am sure the husband is disaffected. In this case, I think I would try to make trouble whatever Brabington may feel for her. I wish revenge on him.’

  ‘Faith! How Gothic you sound! I never credited you with such strong feelings. Why? What happened?’

  ‘It was some years ago. I was playing cards at the Bell at Newmarket after the races and was just removing the last of young Evanton’s fortune from him when Brabington leaned forward and snatched my cards and ran his thumb over them.

  ‘He called out that they were marked, and before I could protest my innocence, he picked me up and carried me out to the duck pond and threw me in.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘My dear friend,’ said Sir Guy gently,‘Ihave just told you of my dire humiliation. Have you nothing to say?’

  ‘Were they?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cards. Were they marked?’

  ‘Such a question from such a friend,’ said Sir Guy, swivelling and fixing Mr Worth with a hard stare.