Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  She rose and made her way slowly downstairs, wondering what on earth she could say.

  Annabelle stopped short on the landing. Lady Godolphin stood in the hall, facing Colonel Brian.

  ‘Liar!’ she was saying. ‘You led me to believe you were still married. Auditor!’

  Annabelle stood frozen to the spot. She felt she should flee, that she should not be listening, but shame and worry and fear kept her where she was.

  ‘My sweet,’ began the Colonel.

  ‘Don’t use endearments to me. I am no longer your sweet,’ retorted Lady Godolphin, putting the back of her hand to her brow in a manner strongly reminiscent of Mrs Siddons. Annabelle let out a little sigh of relief. Lady Godolphin was beginning to enjoy the drama of the situation.

  ‘But I love you,’ pleaded the Colonel pathetically.

  ‘Follicles!’ roared Lady Godolphin. ‘You have broke my heart.’

  ‘Then if you will not listen to me, there is nothing left!’ cried the Colonel, snatching a paper knife from the hall table and holding the point against his heart.

  ‘No! Don’t!’ screamed Lady Godolphin. ‘I will listen. Arthur, why did you deceive me?’

  The Colonel lowered the knife. ‘Until I had met you, you ravishing creature,’ he said intensely, ‘I had led a life of dull and blameless respectability. For the first time in my life I had a real liaison. Then my wife, poor Bertha, died. I should have proposed marriage but I could not bear to let go of the ecstasy of my first illicit affair.

  ‘If you spurn me, then there is nothing left for me. If you marry me, there will be no happier man in London.’

  ‘Oh, Arthur!’ cried Lady Godolphin, throwing herself against his slight figure with such force that he nearly shot backwards through the door and out into the street. ‘Arthur, of course I will. I have never heard anything quite so ravaged.’

  Annabelle came to her senses and skipped neatly and quietly back upstairs to Deirdre’s room.

  ‘All is well,’ she sighed. ‘They are to be married. Lady Godolphin has forgiven her Colonel. What a scene, Deirdre! They are very well suited! Quite like the Haymarket. He even threatened to kill himself.’

  ‘You are lucky,’ said Deirdre. ‘Only imagine if she had not forgiven him. It would be all around the town how she found out from that well-known tittle-tattle, the Marchioness of Brabington. You are a shameless gossip, Bella.’

  ‘I?’ demanded Annabelle furiously. ‘I? When you were dragging every word out of me.’

  ‘That is not true. Don’t blame me because you simply don’t know how to keep a secret.’

  Annabelle made a dive at her sister. Deirdre jumped over the bed to the far side, Annabelle plunged after her, and both rolled over and over on the floor, clawing and punching and kicking.

  ‘My lady?’

  Both girls stopped their fighting and sat up. Annabelle’s hair was tumbled about her ears and the lace fichu of her gown was torn.

  The Marquess of Brabington was leaning against the door jamb watching them, his face quite expressionless.

  Annabelle leapt to her feet. ‘I am sorry you find me thus, my lord,’ she gasped, ‘but Deirdre needs schooling. She is quite unbelievably spoilt.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Peter,’ cried Deirdre. ‘She started it.’

  ‘Peter?’ said Annabelle awfully. ‘Pray address my husband by his title in future, miss!’

  ‘She may call me Peter if she wishes,’ said the Marquess lazily. ‘It makes me feel quite one of the family. I came to tell you, my lady, that our presence is requested this evening at the Duke and Duchess of Allsbury’s.’

  ‘What do they want?’ demanded Annabelle rudely.

  ‘This gets more like a nursery scene every minute,’ said the Marquess coldly. ‘They wish the pleasure of our company.’

  Deirdre was staring, wide-eyed, from one to the other.

  Annabelle flushed and bit her lip. ‘Very well,’ she said.

  ‘Good, I shall expect you at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At home, of course. Now I must leave. You may carry on.’

  ‘I am not in the habit of brawling,’ said Annabelle stiffly. ‘The provocation was great.’

  But the infuriating Marquess had left.

  ‘You really don’t like each other much, do you?’ said Deirdre, round-eyed.

  ‘That’s quite enough from you, miss,’ said Annabelle crossly. ‘Marriage is something you will never understand.’

  ‘I am sure I shall be married myself quite soon,’ said Deirdre airily.

  ‘You!’ said the Marchioness of Brabington gathering up the rags of her dignity. ‘Who on earth would want to marry you.’

  Deirdre’s mocking shout of ‘Someone who loves me,’ followed her down the stairs.

  Annabelle fumed silently on the road back to Conduit Street. How could she have been so silly as to tell Deirdre the gossip about Lady Godolphin? Thank goodness, everything seemed well in that direction. She shuddered to think what the Marquess would say if he found out.

  She sent Betty away so that the maid could begin her preparations for the journey to Hopeworth, and sent for the butler, Jensen, and asked him to employ a lady’s maid as soon as possible.

  The butler said that a certain Lady Habbard’s maid was looking for new employ and had a good reputation, and that he would try to engage her services. Then he handed Annabelle a note, said it was from the Marquess, and withdrew.

  Annabelle opened it, wondering what he had to say to her that he had not seen fit to say in front of Deirdre. The note was short and curt. ‘My lady,’ she read. ‘It is my wish that you forego your drive with Sir Guy Wayne. He is not a suitable escort. I trust you will oblige me in this matter. B.’

  Annabelle crumpled up the note in a fury, and then slowly smoothed it out and read it again.

  A little smile curved her lips. Peter was jealous! There could be no other explanation.

  If Sir Guy Wayne were not respectable, he most certainly would not have been invited to the ball last night, thought Annabelle naively, unaware that the ballrooms and drawing rooms of London held a great many villains who were invited for their bloodline and not their character. She turned her attention to the little pile of cards and bouquets which had arrived from her partners of the night before. Nearly all had called in person as was shown by the neatly turned-down corner of each card.

  She decided to dress with especial care for the outing.

  But while she was waiting for Sir Guy to arrive, she began to experience some qualms of doubt. Just suppose the Marquess was right? Just suppose Sir Guy had an unsavoury reputation?

  But the sight of him driving up in a swan-necked phaeton, very much a man of the world, looking beautifully tailored and urbane, put her fears to rest.

  When she was seated beside him he complimented her gracefully on her gown of jonquil muslin and said she outshone the sun. Annabelle glowed at the compliment and hoped her errant husband would be in the Park to see how admired she was, and how she had ignored his letter.

  It was a beautiful spring day, warm enough to feel like summer. A brisk little breeze sent the new green leaves turning and glittering in the lazy afternoon light. Annabelle felt very much on display, perched as she was on the high seat of the phaeton. She saw the Misses Abernethy and gave them a stately bow.

  They had made the round and were coming back along Rotten Row at a smart pace and Sir Guy Wayne was wondering if he should squeeze Annabelle’s hand, or if that move would be too bold, too soon. He had chatted to her easily and paid her many light compliments, all of which, he noticed with gratified surprise, were gratefully welcomed. He would have thought a girl of Annabelle’s beauty to be quite in the way of receiving fulsome praise from a host of admirers.

  They were bowling along, well pleased with each other, when Sir Guy said, ‘Here come two of the most formidable patronesses of Almack’s, Lady Castlereigh and Mrs Drummond Burrell.’

  Annabelle sat up very
straight. Vouchers to Almack’s Assembly Rooms were a must during the Season. Any female who was refused vouchers could consider herself a pariah.

  At that moment, one great yellow wheel detached itself from Sir Guy’s phaeton, and, the next instant, the carriage keeled over. Sir Guy landed face down in the mud of the still spongy ground. Annabelle, who found herself shooting through the air, seized hold of a projecting branch of a lime tree with the agility of a monkey and hung there, waving her legs around looking for a foothold. Her dress had ridden up around her knees, exposing to the common gaze a very saucy pair of lace pantalettes.

  Mrs Drummond Burrell and Lady Castlereigh came abreast. ‘Dear me,’ said Lady Castlereigh. ‘Who is that gel swinging around the trees?’

  ‘That, I believe, is the new Marchioness of Brabington,’ replied Mrs Burrell with a shudder.

  Both ladies turned their heads away from the offending sight, and therefore failed to notice the broken carriage which had caused the mishap.

  Throwing all dignity to the winds, Annabelle wrapped her legs around the trunk of the tree and slid to the ground.

  Sir Guy had scrambled to his feet and was trying to make light of things. A crowd had gathered around the broken phaeton. Someone was holding the horses’ heads. The traces had been cut, and the frightened horses were still rearing and plunging. Soon the air was loud with descriptions of what had happened, what could have happened, and what might have happened.

  Annabelle was jostled and pushed by the crowd. She looked hopefully in Sir Guy’s direction for assistance, but he was engaged in arguing with the fellow who had caught the horses and quieted them, and who obviously expected to be paid for his trouble.

  Remembering that Conduit Street was not very far from the Park, Annabelle turned on her heel and walked away.

  To her relief, her husband was not at home when she arrived, looking hot and dishevelled.

  The clock in the hall told her that it was six-thirty and that she had only an hour and a half to get ready to go out with her husband.

  Betty and two of the housemaids worked like troopers, carrying up a bath and cans of water, washing Annabelle’s hair, and running hither and thither to assemble all the things she needed for the evening.

  Annabelle wondered what type of evening it was to be.

  Would it be a rout, or a musicale? At last she decided to wear a white lingerie gown under a straw-coloured tunic with a pale blue spotted scarf over her shoulders. Once again, she wore the necklace the Marquess had given her, reflecting, as she felt its weight, that there were other jewels belonging to the Brabington family, but so far he had shown no sign of giving her any more.

  With Betty’s help, she managed to achieve a Grecian effect by piling up her hair and threading it with thin silk ribbons.

  Her eyes in the looking glass looked very dark. She painted her face delicately, no longer caring whether Betty knew she used cosmetics or not. Betty stood in open-mouthed fascination, watching Annabelle’s clever hands.

  At last it was time to join her husband. Annabelle found herself feeling breathless and uneasy and wished with all her heart she had not gone driving with Sir Guy. Now she would have to face up to the prospect of a row.

  Her husband was standing by the fireplace, one arm along the mantel, his eyes gazing into the flames.

  He was not aware she had entered the room, and she hesitated in the doorway, watching him. He looked very handsome. His thick black hair was fashionably dressed à la Titus. He was wearing a blue silk frock coat with a stand-fall collar and straw-coloured knee breeches, very tight and very fitting.

  His white silk stockings moulded his calves without a wrinkle and his flat-pumps had small diamond buckles. Diamonds winked among the snowy folds of his cravat and sparkled on his fingers, the massive, heavy design of his rings suiting his strong, square hands.

  The firelight flickered in his strange eyes, making them look topaz, somehow predatory, like the eyes of a hawk.

  As he looked up and saw her he surveyed her in silence, his face quite set and grim.

  And then he smiled at her. A blinding, bewitching smile, so unexpected, so devastating in its effect, that Annabelle found she was babbling out excuses. ‘I-I’m so sorry, Brabington. I forgot to tell Sir Guy not to call, but he did, and y-you s-see . . .’

  He came forwards and took her hands. ‘You look divinely,’ he said. ‘And I am relieved to hear that you did not really mean to go driving with Sir Guy. I had thought that you might go just to spite me.’

  His voice held a faint question and Annabelle dropped her eyes quickly. ‘Furthermore,’ he went on when she did not reply. ‘Sir Guy does not often look after his carriage or his cattle very well.’

  ‘No,’ said Annabelle. ‘There was an accident. And . . . and the wheel fell off. And . . . and I just walked away. I was so embarrassed. Everyone was shouting and staring, and two of the patronesses of Almack’s chose that very moment to drive past, and it would be when I was hanging from that tree . . .’

  ‘Let me see, I did hear you aright? You were hanging from a tree?’

  ‘Yes, it was quite terrible. You see, I was catapulted over Sir Guy’s head. He fell in the mud and I found myself flying through the air and caught a branch of a tree, and I was hanging there and Mrs Burrell and Lady Castlereigh they did not seem to notice the accident. They looked at me in disgust, you know, and then they just turned their heads away.’

  ‘I doubt very much whether you will be receiving vouchers for Almack’s this Season, my love,’ said the Marquess, trying not to laugh.

  ‘Oh, but I must!’ wailed Annabelle, involuntarily clutching his hands. ‘I would die if I did not go.’

  He dropped her hands, a shade of disappointment crossing his face. ‘These things are very important to you, my lady,’ he said flatly. ‘I will see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Annabelle, peeping up at him from under her lashes. She wished he did not look so stern.

  He seemed to recover his spirits on the road to the Duke of Allsbury’s. ‘What kind of entertainment is it to be?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘We are invited for dinner. Then there will be some cards and dancing.’

  ‘I wish, somehow, we did not have to go.’

  ‘You forget,’ he said quietly. ‘They are now your sister’s relatives by marriage.’

  ‘Yes, I do forget,’ said Annabelle candidly. ‘They are not at all like Lord Sylvester.’

  ‘Ah, Sylvester,’ he said.

  There was a little silence.

  ‘Peter,’ said Annabelle desperately. ‘I should explain . . .’

  ‘Yes, I meant to ask you,’ he replied. ‘The day I gave you that necklace, before we were married, you suddenly said you wanted to tell me something, and then we were interrupted by the arrival of Sylvester and your sister. What was it?’

  Annabelle remembered vividly that that was the very moment she had been planning to cancel the wedding. ‘I forget,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Then what were you about to tell me now?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you,’ said Annabelle, clasping her hands tightly in her lap, ‘that . . .’

  At that moment the carriage door was opened and the steps let down.

  ‘You may tell me later,’ he said. ‘We are here.’

  The Duchess of Allsbury gave the Marquess a very warm welcome and all but ignored Annabelle. She did, however, fix her with one brief, chilly glance and asked her if she had heard news from Minerva.

  ‘No,’ said Annabelle, miserably aware that the Marquess was watching her intently. ‘She has not written to me yet. I believe my mother has heard from her.’

  Annabelle was then further mortified to find that Sir Guy was not only numbered among the guests but that he had been placed next to her at dinner, the Duchess firmly believing that all married couples should be immediately separated.

  To her relief, he seemed in good spirits and made such a joke of the whole thing that she found herself l
aughing gratefully.

  ‘But the strangest thing happened,’ he went on, ‘when a man came to repair the damage.

  ‘You see, someone had sawed nearly through the axle. Is it not strange? Now who would wish me ill? I am such an inoffensive fellow.’

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Annabelle, casting an involuntary look in her husband’s direction.

  ‘Where was Brabington this afternoon?’ asked her companion.

  ‘I do not know that either.’

  ‘What an odd pair of newly-weds you are,’ he laughed. ‘Or are you merely being terribly fashionable?’

  ‘I do not discuss my husband,’ said Annabelle, looking at her plate and therefore failing to notice the rather reptilian look which had just flicked across Sir Guy’s pale eyes.

  ‘Then we shall talk of other things,’ he said lightly. He proceeded to tell Annabelle all the latest gossip. It was slightly malicious, but always amusing, and she found herself beginning to relax, to enjoy the fact that such a sophisticated man was paying her so much attention.

  Nonetheless she was resolved to be an attentive and loving wife. But this transpired to be a very hard thing to do. When they retired to the drawing room and were joined by the gentlemen, the Marquess promptly attached himself to Lady Godolphin who was also one of the guests. Annabelle found herself surrounded by a small court of admirers, and, although she laughed and flirted, her eyes kept straying to where the Marquess sat in the corner. She prayed that Lady Godolphin would not tell him how she came to find out that Colonel Brian wasn’t married, but, at one point, Lady Godolphin’s turbaned head bent very close to the Marquess’s black one and she began to whisper intensely. For a brief moment when she had finished, the Marquess looked straight across the room and his eyes locked with those of his wife, his gaze cold and assessing.

  Then he turned back to Lady Godolphin and made some light rejoinder as he rose to his feet. The guests were beginning to drift through to the music room where dancing was to be held.

  Annabelle became aware several gentlemen were asking her to dance. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, still watching her husband. ‘Perhaps my husband . . .’ And then she broke off. The Marquess was bowing in front of Lady Coombes. She smiled at him, her rather hard face softening, and she looked almost coquettish as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her through into the music room.