Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘I say, I am sorry,’ babbled Mr Worth. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Don’t say anything like that again,’ said Sir Guy pleasantly, ‘or I shall have you horsewhipped within an inch of your cringing, miserable life. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very.’

  ‘Now what shall I do with the fair Marchioness, I wonder? Hurt wives or bored wives like to philander or gamble. Either would do.’

  ‘She is a vicar’s daughter.’

  ‘That does not endow her with any virtue, mark you. All our beloved clergy care about are their hounds and horses. I have yet to meet a man of the Anglican church who had a mind above the material things of life. Shall I ask her to dance? Ah, no. Her husband has deigned to notice her. Let us watch.’

  The Marquess of Brabington bent over his wife’s hand and deposited a kiss somewhere in the air two inches away from it.

  ‘You must forgive me, my lady,’ he said, ‘I was so sure you were indisposed. And who shall blame me for thinking thus? That terrible white mask glaring at me across the breakfast table, those staring reddened eyes, those . . .’

  ‘It pleases you to jest, Brabington,’ rejoined Annabelle in a thin little voice. ‘I am persuaded you know very well that I was not ill.’

  ‘But you told me you were,’ pointed out the Marquess. ‘I trust your memory is not failing you. If you cannot remember things you say or things you do, you must write them down. Ah, we are about to begin. A Scotch reel. Splendid!’

  He whirled Annabelle off into the dance at a breathless pace. There was hardly any opportunity to talk, as they were constantly being separated by the figure of the dance. The Marquess began an infuriating conversation as if there were no interruptions.

  ‘You know, my lady . . .’

  Pas de bas

  ‘. . . that girls of your age . . .’

  Figure eight

  ‘. . . are subject to the strangest humours which . . .’

  Pass and repass

  ‘. . . Lady Godolphin would no doubt describe as a load of follicles. Nonetheless . . .’

  Hands down the middle

  ‘. . . since my time is too much taken up with affairs of . . . er . . . business, I would feel happier if you . . .’

  Grand chain

  ‘. . . would consult a physician.’

  And so it went on, Annabelle finding that as soon as she was about to reply, the dance separated them again.

  She gritted her teeth and decided to seize her opportunity when the dance was over.

  But no sooner had she risen from her curtsy than the Marquess propelled her firmly across the floor and introduced her to their hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Ruthfords. ‘Your Grace, allow me to present my wife, Lady Brabington. My dear, her grace, the Duchess of Ruthfords. Ruthfords, my wife. The Duke of Ruthfords.’

  ‘You are from Berham county, I believe,’ said the Duchess, fixing Annabelle with a frosty stare. ‘How is old Osbadiston?’

  To Annabelle’s fury, the Marquess had put an arm around the Duke’s shoulder and was strolling away.

  She forced herself to reply to the Duchess’s questions, and then turned in relief as a handsome and dissipated man came to claim her hand for the next dance.

  ‘My name is Wayne,’ he said. ‘Your Grace will surely give me permission to dance the waltz with Lady Brabington?’

  The Duchess gave a chilly nod. Annabelle had been taught the waltz by Minerva, but this was the first time she had danced it with a man. It was all very shocking having a man’s hand at your waist in the middle of a room full of people. She should have been dancing this with her husband. But at least, he would not be dancing it with anyone else. And then Annabelle’s blue eyes widened with shock. For the Marquess was swinging a very dashing matron into the waltz and he was holding her much too closely.

  Anger blazed up in Annabelle and she gave her partner a radiant smile.

  Sir Guy smiled back. ‘You should not look at me so, Lady Annabelle,’ he said in a mocking, caressing voice, ‘or I shall be in danger of forgetting you are newly married. You are by far the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.’

  ‘Really, sir, you exaggerate,’ said Annabelle, although his compliment was balm to her wounded soul.

  ‘No, I never exaggerate,’ he said lightly. Despite her pain, Annabelle was beginning to enjoy herself a little. He was a beautiful dancer. He was older than her husband, thought Annabelle, stealing a look at him from under her eyelashes. But he was exciting with his worldly manner and his pale, almost colourless eyes which surveyed her so mockingly from under their heavy lids. His nose was straight and thin, and his mouth small enough to be fashionable with well-moulded lips. His skin was very white, like coarse grained parchment, and he wore no paint. He gave her, somehow, a feeling of danger, an awareness of another world of infinite sophistication. She began to forget about her husband for quite two minutes at a time.

  ‘I would beg you to go for a drive with me tomorrow,’ said Sir Guy, ‘But, alas, one so fair and so lately wed will be doing that most unfashionable of all things, going everywhere with her husband.’

  At that moment, the Marquess smiled quite bewitchingly at his partner and Annabelle gritted her teeth.

  ‘We go our own ways, sir,’ she said lightly. ‘If you would care to call for me on the morrow, I should be pleased to accompany you.’

  ‘I consider myself the most fortunate of men. I will be the envy of the ton.’

  ‘You flatter me too much, sir.’

  He briefly held her a little more tightly. ‘On the contrary, my lady, I tell only the truth.’

  When they were walking about after the dance, Annabelle forced herself not to look around for her husband. ‘I trust you have no wife, sir,’ she said.

  ‘No, I have never seen any woman who could keep my interest above a fortnight.’

  ‘Then I shall enjoy your company while I may,’ laughed Annabelle.

  ‘We shall see,’ he replied. Annabelle’s hand was claimed for the next dance and she soon began to worry about something else. She was extremely hungry. Couples were drifting towards the supper room from which wafted a tantalizing smell of food. Her stomach gave a great rumble which she hoped was drowned by the sound of the music.

  Her husband should have been on hand to take her to the supper room, she thought angrily. And where had he gone? For there was now no sign of the tall Marquess.

  Her partner on this occasion was a Mr Bassington. He was a shy young man with a hesitant manner and rather unprepossessing features, but when he stammered out that he would deem it an honour to escort my lady to the supper room, Annabelle glowed at him as if he were an Adonis.

  Feeling quite faint with hunger, she watched as he heaped her plate with Westphalia ham and slices of reindeer tongue, cauliflower and sausages. With a great sigh of satisfaction, she raised her fork.

  ‘Up. Up. Up, and away!’ said a voice at her ear. Her husband was smiling down at her, weaving slightly. He seemed to have become suddenly and inexplicably drunk.

  ‘But I am about to eat, Brabington,’ said Annabelle in exasperation.

  ‘Mr Bassington – oh, this is Mr Bassington. Mr Bassington, my husband. Mr Bassington and I were . . .’

  ‘Were what?’ demanded the Marquess with sudden truculence, his tawny eyes boring into Mr Bassington’s quivering face.

  ‘Nothing!’ gasped Mr Bassington, looking desperately from one to the other. He rose to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste. ‘I’m off!’

  ‘Come along, my dear,’ said the Marquess in a loud voice. ‘You must not eat and eat and eat all day long or I shall have to put you on a strict regime of boiled potatoes and vinegar.’

  He put an arm under her elbow and hoisted her to her feet.

  Annabelle realized that the only way to prevent a scene was to go with him.

  With one last longing look at her untouched plate of food, she allowed herself to be escorted out of the house a
nd into the carriage.

  She rounded on her husband as soon as they were seated. ‘Well, sirrah,’ she said, ‘I trust you enjoyed your drive this afternoon?’

  Snore.

  She stared at the Marquess in disbelief.

  His face illumined by the bobbing carriage lamps showed he had fallen neatly asleep.

  Furiously, Annabelle poked him in the ribs with her fan. He went on slumbering gently.

  When they arrived home she snapped at the footman, ‘Rouse your master,’ and holding her head high, she marched into the house.

  But as she ascended the stairs, a mocking voice began to sing behind her.

  ‘Oh, Annabelle, fair Bella,

  Oh, turn and let me see

  Thy shining, saucy, wanton face,

  Thy delicate dimpled knee

  Thy . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ said Annabelle, over her shoulder. ‘Have consideration for the ears of the servants.’

  ‘I do not sing loud enough?’ came the Marquess’s tipsy voice. ‘Then that can be remedied. I will begin again.’ And he began to sing at the top of his voice.

  Annabelle clapped her hands over her ears and fled.

  ‘A chase!’ whooped the Marquess, pounding up the stairs after her.

  He caught up with her at the door of her room and swung her round to face him. She tried to push him away but he clipped her hands behind her back.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he said softly, ‘whoever you are.’ He looked at her with a puzzled frown. ‘Where did we meet?’

  ‘Let me go! I am your wife,’ said Annabelle, near to tears.

  ‘Then I will kiss you.’ He pulled her suddenly into his arms and kissed her long and langourously.

  Annabelle, who had decided to submit to the kiss rather than enrage this madman, found herself caught up in a wave of hot excitement. Her lips had begun to part, to open under his, when he suddenly released her, and clapped a hand to his forehead.

  ‘By George, I’m tired,’ he said. ‘Better go to bed.’ And he strode off down the corridor without a backward look.

  Annabelle leaned weakly against the door. How on earth had he managed to become so drunk in such a short space of time?

  Betty was sitting waiting up for her. The bed and Annabelle’s nightdress had been thoroughly warmed, and the toilet table carefully arranged.

  ‘I am a little shaken, Betty,’ confided Annabelle, as the maid helped her out of her gown. ‘My lord is in his altitudes.’

  ‘Gentlemen are often so, my lady,’ said Betty, reaching up to take the pins out of Annabelle’s hair.

  ‘Are they really? Is your John thus?’

  ‘Only very rarely, my lady.’

  Annabelle looked around the carefully arranged room.

  ‘You have done very well, Betty,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you do not wish to stay?’

  ‘Oh, I’m that torn,’ sighed Betty. ‘I want to go to Hopeworth, that I do, but I don’t want to leave you here.’

  ‘I shall do very well, Betty,’ said Annabelle. ‘I will take you round to Lady Godolphin’s in the morning and tell mother to prepare to take you with her. She will be very pleased to have you back, Betty, and so will the girls.’

  Betty looked curiously at her mistress. noticing the sadness in Annabelle’s large eyes. It would be a terrible shame, thought Betty, if all those rumours that had been circulating at the vicarage turned out to be true, that Miss Bella was in love with Lord Sylvester and had only married the Marquess because she couldn’t get him. But something had to change Miss Bella, something had to happen to make her grow up. The Annabelle of only a week ago would not have noticed or troubled about her, Betty’s, distress.

  She asked Betty to rouse her at ten so that they might proceed after breakfast to Lady Godolphin’s home. Annabelle fell wearily back against the pillows and searched in her mind for one of those rosy fantasies about Lord Sylvester. But it all seemed so remote. Instead, she seemed to be back in the library at Haeter Abbey with the Marquess while the snow fell outside. His eyes were warm and golden and full of love.

  She fell asleep despite her hunger pangs, with a niggling uneasy thought that she had lost something very precious but was not quite sure what it was.

  SEVEN

  Since she first met Lord Sylvester, Annabelle’s every waking thought had been of him. But this morning, she found her one waking thought was to try to catch her husband at breakfast to see if he could explain his behaviour of the night before. And did he mean to ignore her? She must explain away that dreadful use of Lord Sylvester’s name on their wedding night. But how could she explain it?

  Betty was all smiles, now that her London ordeal was nearly at an end. She bustled efficiently around the room and soon had Annabelle attired in a pretty sprigged muslin.

  The Marquess of Brabington was just finishing his breakfast as Annabelle entered the room. He smiled at her vaguely and put down his napkin.

  ‘Well, Brabington?’ said Annabelle, in what she hoped were dowager tones. ‘How are we this morning?’

  ‘I am in fine fettle,’ he said politely. ‘As to how you are, my lady, I fear I do not know.’

  ‘You were very drunk last night.’

  ‘Indeed! I have no recollection of last night.’

  ‘But perhaps you remember yesterday afternoon?’

  He smiled a singularly sweet smile. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘The charms of your inamorata were perhaps more memorable than mine.’

  ‘I think it is, perhaps, that she never forgets who I am,’ he said reflectively. ‘But I shall take you driving this afternoon, my lady, and perhaps we can endeavour to repair both our memories.’

  Annabelle flushed guiltily. ‘I fear I have made other arrangements. A certain Sir Guy Wayne was kind enough to . . .’

  ‘Then that leaves me free for other pleasures.’ He rose to his feet.

  ‘Stay!’ said Annabelle desperately. ‘There is something I must explain . . .’

  His eyes mocked her and she found she could not go on. He bent over her hand and said, ‘I hoped to proceed in your affections, but old and infirm as you now see me, I have no other way of avoiding the force of such beauty but by flying from it.’

  And with that, he quit the room.

  Annabelle had a sudden longing to burst into tears. Then anger began to mount in her. He was determined to show the world he did not care a fig for his bride. He would find that two could play the game. She would charm Sir Guy Wayne as he had never been charmed before.

  When she arrived at Lady Godolphin’s home,it was to find her mother and sisters in a welter of packing. Ribbons and laces, dresses, mantles and hats lay from one bedroom to the other in mounds of disarray.

  Maids were bustling about, trying to bring order out of chaos, but no sooner had they managed to get some items into the trunks than Mrs Armitage instantly demanded they must be brought out again.

  The girls and Mrs Armitage were delighted when Annabelle told them that Betty was to return with them to Hopeworth. ‘That’s a relief,’ sighed Mrs Armitage, pushing a damp wisp of hair out of her eyes. ‘For I had meant to train Hannah from the village but I am inclined to think it will take years to teach her how to go on. Papa has advertised in the newspapers for a governess for the girls so that they need not go to school in Hopeminster any more. The boys are to commence their studies at Eton in the autumn and Dr Brown is convinced that they will manage to pass the entrance examinations. Minerva has written such a charming letter.’

  Annabelle had a bitter memory of Minerva saying she would write every day. Had she, Annabelle, managed to disguise her shock and despair when she had learned Lord Sylvester was going away? Minerva had not written to her and Annabelle was suddenly dismally sure it was because Minerva knew. She felt very small and grubby.

  All Minerva’s many kindnesses came back to her. How she wished she had never been so silly. Then she could have written to Minerva and asked her for her a
dvice.

  ‘Come into my room, Bella,’ called Deirdre, ‘and I will show you what Lady Godolphin has given me!’

  Annabelle left her mother to her disorganized packing and followed Deirdre’s sprightly figure into the girl’s room which she shared with Diana.

  Deirdre proudly exhibited a fan with mother-ofpearl sticks and painted with a pretty pastoral scene.

  ‘She actually gave it to you?’ said Annabelle. ‘No doubt she will send the bill to Lord Sylvester.’

  ‘I have no doubt she will, too,’ laughed Deirdre. ‘She really is the most shocking old quiz, but I must confess to an affection for her. I would certainly like to be able to attract the attentions of the gentlemen in the way she does when I am her great age. Colonel Brian is quite épris.’

  ‘But not enough to marry her,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Well, you know,’ said Deirdre, ‘it is all very shocking. He is married, you see. I know, for Lady Godolphin told me.’

  ‘He is no longer married,’ said Annabelle, forgetting her promise to Minerva.

  ‘But how . . . who told you?’ gasped Deirdre.

  ‘Minerva told me. Colonel Brian’s wife died last summer and he kept it a secret, did not even have a notice of her death put in the newspapers.’

  ‘Is Minerva sure of this?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. For Lord Sylvester told her. He found it out quite by chance.’

  ‘Oooh!’ said Deirdre, delighted at such a piece of gossip.

  Her cry of ‘Oooh!’ was echoed from the doorway, and both sisters swung round.

  Lady Godolphin was standing in the doorway, her hand to her heart.

  Even with her layers of paint, it was possible to see she had turned deathly white.

  ‘It is not true,’ cried Annabelle, desperate to repair the damage she had unwittingly caused.

  Lady Godolphin gave a faint moaning sound and turned and fled.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Deirdre, beginning to cry. ‘What on earth are you going to do? If Minerva told you about Lady Godolphin, I’ll bet she swore you to secrecy.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped Annabelle, her face flaming.