At last, a casement window was pushed open upstairs and a dusty-looking housemaid in a huge print mob cap asked him what he wanted.
‘Sir Guy Wayne,’ he replied impatiently, ‘come to see your mistress.’
She looked at him doubtfully and then drew her head back in again and slammed the window.
Sir Guy forced himself to be patient. These whores kept late nights or worked all night so they were more likely to be abed at this hour than the more respectable female.
At last there came the sound of bolts being drawn back and the same housemaid appeared at the door and bobbed a curtsy. ‘The mistress will see you now,’ she said.
She led him into a small, overcrowded parlour and left him. He looked about curiously. Everything was very neat and clean. The little occasional tables were crammed with snuff boxes and ornaments and miniatures on stands. The walls were covered from top to bottom with oil paintings, depicting various rural scenes. One large looking glass was suspended over the crowded mantel.
He heard a light step behind him.
Harriet Evans was in her undress. A lacy nightcap balanced on her glossy, pomaded curls, and her bodice and petticoats were imperfectly concealed by a frivolous peignoir.
‘Sir Guy,’ she smiled, extending a dimpled little hand. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘You look enchanting this morning,’ he said, bending over her hand.
‘And what brings you here? Pray take a seat and I will ring for refreshments. Madeira? Port?’
‘Madeira will do splendidly,’ he said, sitting down on a small plush chair. She arranged herself on a diminutive sofa opposite and looked at him with the open and innocent friendliness which constituted the major part of her charm.
‘Are you still with young Persalt?’
‘Mr Harry Persalt,’ she murmured. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. I have a business matter I wish to discuss with you.’
A shadow crossed her face and she opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment the housemaid slouched in with wine and cakes, so Harriet contented herself by twisting the lace edges of her peignoir between her fingers until the girl had left.
As the door closed, she raised her eyes to his. ‘I am no longer in the way of . . . er . . . business,’ she said.
‘The world well lost for love,’ sneered Sir Guy, and then, noticing the lift of her chin and the hardening of her face, he amended quickly, ‘You deserve a good and regular life, Harriet. You were made for naught else.’
‘Then what is the nature of your business?’ said Harriet sharply.
‘I assume you have need of money.’
‘Not in the least,’ said Harriet with a careless laugh.
‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’ He sipped his madeira, watching her over the rim of his glass, like a cat watching a mouse.
An Irish drunk outside the Barley Mow public house hard by began to sing in a lilting tenor,
‘Of all the girls that are so smart
There’s none like pretty Sally,
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.’
‘Pretty,’ said Harriet, swinging a pink stockinged foot from which dangled a frivolous feathered slipper. ‘I wonder who wrote that.’
‘Harry Carey wrote it,’ said Sir Guy, still watching her. ‘That precious alley was in Clerkenwell. He lived in Warner Street. He was a bastard of the Marquis of Halifax.’
‘It’s still pretty,’ said Harriet with a toss of her curls.
‘So I gather you have no need to hear my business proposition?’ he pursued.
‘Well, it depends what it is.’
‘Would five hundred guineas interest you?’ he asked.
She gave a scornful laugh. ‘I shudder to think what I would have to do for that.’
‘Simply play a trick on a friend . . . an old friend of both of us.’
‘There must be more to it than that. Who is this old friend?’
‘Brabington.’
‘Ah, there’s a man,’ sighed Harriet.
‘You have been seen driving with him recently.’
‘That’s all it was . . . driving. He arrived a few days ago by chance and offered to take me to the Park at the fashionable hour.’
‘Did it not strike you as strange, and he so lately wed?’
She laughed deep in her throat. ‘Why should it seem strange to me of all people? When did society ever marry for love?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said with a thin smile.
Harriet looked at him curiously. ‘What is it you would have me do?’
‘I wish you to gain an audience with his wife and tell her you are with child by the Marquess of Brabington and that you love him. You played that scene once on the boards in your acting days with touching pathos, as I recall.’
‘And this is your idea of a joke! ’Tis monstrous!’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a wager. Brabington wants his flighty wife taken down a peg, but if . . .’
‘Wait! Do you mean this trick is with Brabington’s approval?’
He smiled at her caressingly. ‘Now, Harriet, Harriet, would I ask you to do it an I did not have my lord’s approval?’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Then why not come himself?’
‘You must admit. It is a rather . . . er . . . delicate matter.’ Harriet sat frowning and thinking of the mountain of debt that was piling up over her head.
She thought of the security five hundred guineas could bring. She thought tenderly of the young wastrel she loved more than anyone in the world.
She did not for a moment think that the Marquess knew anything about it. She was sure Sir Guy was using her to get revenge. But on the other hand, Brabington could charm any woman, even an angry wife, and, as soon as it was over, she would confess she had only been play-acting for a joke.
As if reading her mind, he said, ‘Part of the agreement would be that you must never admit it was a trick or tell how it came to be arranged.’
‘But you said it was with Brabington’s approval.’
‘Exactly, but he still wishes it to remain a secret.’
Well, he was only confirming what she had guessed, that he was merely playing a vicious trick on the Brabingtons. But, oh! how she needed that money!
‘But it will cause such a scandal,’ protested Harriet, ‘and people may call here and ask awkward questions.’
‘I had thought of that,’ he smiled. ‘I have a house at Brighton you could use for a month until the heat dies down. Just think, Harriet, sea breezes, fashionable company, no rent to pay, no duns or creditors on your doorstep . . . and five hundred guineas.’
Harriet chewed a fingernail and looked at the floor. She had played tricks on members of society before. One young lord had paid her handsomely once to turn up on his brother’s doorstep, claiming to be the rightful wife. They were all mad, these society men. Too little to do and too much money. She had never had an affair with Brabington. He had escorted her to a couple of outings and to the theatre once, but his interest in her seemed to pall quickly. She had been very surprised when he had called to take her for a drive.
She had been halfway to being in love with him when he had dropped her so abruptly, and a little bit of that still rankled.
She thought of Harry Persalt, thought of the joy on his face when she told him they would be able to leave town for a little.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said suddenly. ‘When?’
‘In a little,’ he smiled. ‘I will let you know.’
Harriet was suddenly anxious for him to be gone before she changed her mind. The very air of the little room seemed to be filling with suffocating malice.
To her relief, he rose and made his bow.
Sir Guy Wayne stood smiling outside the villa, drawing on his dogskin gloves and breathing in the morning air of Islington. Far away across the fields, borne by the wind, tolled the deep, booming clang of the great bell of St Sepulchre’s heralding another condemned man
’s road to the gallows.
He swung himself up into his phaeton and picked up the reins. He felt quite exhausted. He could not remember having worked so hard of a morning for quite a long while.
Annabelle was spared her husband’s presence at the breakfast table and did not know whether to be glad or sorry.
She called at Lady Godolphin’s to say farewell to her family as they set out for Hopeworth. To her surprise, she found her father and Squire Radford had agreed to stay on in Town. The way her father’s shrewd little eyes kept fastening on her face made her uneasy. It was hard to feel like a mature married woman in front of a parent who so obviously still considered her a hoydenish schoolgirl.
She kissed her sisters and her mother goodbye, promised to visit the boys at their preparatory school in the King’s Road, and waved a tearful farewell as the ancient Armitage coach with John Summers beaming on the box and the maid, Betty, beaming inside turned the corner of Hanover Square and disappeared.
When she returned to Conduit Street there was a new lady’s maid, found by the enterprising Jensen, to interview.
She was called Holden, a wiry middle-aged woman with a stultifying air of gentility. But she seemed to combine briskness with deference and had brought beautiful examples of her skill with the needle.
Annabelle engaged her, and Holden said she was prepared to begin her duties at once. So that was that. Holden set about preparing my lady to receive afternoon callers, setting and arranging her blonde hair with such artistry that Annabelle realized Jensen had found a treasure.
She entertained various callers, the gentlemen she had danced with the night before, Lady Godolphin who was very welcome, and the Duchess of Allsbury who was not. Annabelle was just beginning to rejoice over two things – the first, that her husband had sent a message to say he would be escorting her to the opera that evening, and the second, Mr Wayne had not called. But as far as the latter was concerned, her joy was to be short-lived. For no sooner had the grim Duchess taken her leave than Sir Guy was introduced.
But again Annabelle found all her doubts melting under the pleasant warmth of his manner. He implied, without going quite so far as to say so, that he had drunk too much the previous evening. He made the story of his ducking in the pool so amusing that Annabelle found herself laughing and secretly admiring him for being such a good sport.
He did not stay above ten minutes, but asked her on leaving if he would have the pleasure of seeing her at any of the social engagements in town that evening. Annabelle hesitated slightly and then confessed that she would be at the opera. She found herself hoping he would not promptly say that he would be there too, for she felt if she did not spend some time alone with her husband, the difficulties of their marriage would never be resolved. But, almost as if he had read her thoughts, he spread his hands in a deprecatory movement and sighed that unfortunately he was otherwise engaged.
His manner towards her was amused as well as amusing; his pale eyes cool and mocking. Despite her better nature, Annabelle found herself beginning to flirt a little, for she was intrigued by his changes from hot to cold.
After he had left, she found herself thinking about him and wondering if he could possibly be used to make her infuriating husband jealous. But that would never do. She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had been formed. Her duty was to convince her husband that the mention of Sylvester’s name had been a mere slip of the tongue, nothing more.
Annabelle fretted over what to wear for the opera. Then she found that her experienced lady’s maid had, of course, selected the right dress. It was a rather plain frock of amber satin shot with white and ornamented around the bosom and waist with a rich white silk trimming, called frost work. A long row of pearl buttons fastened the dress at the back. The white lace sleeves were very full and fastened about the middle of the arm by a broad band of ‘letting in’ lace. The gown ended in a demi-train.
Annabelle found herself wondering whether her lord would consider her over-extravagant if she ordered new gowns. The dresses Minerva had given her were very fine, but they were Minerva’s, and it would be so pleasant to have brand new ones, all of her own.
To her surprise, Holden, the maid, came back with a heavy chest from which she proceeded to take out an amethyst tiara and matching necklace.
‘How did you come by these, Holden?’ she asked.
‘From the master, my lady. My lord left the jewels with Jensen. They are the Brabington jewels.’
It says much for the new Annabelle’s chastened state of mind that she did not fly over to the box to see what else was there. For the moment it was enough to accept the gift of the jewels as a token that he had forgiven her behaviour of the night before.
‘But what about his behaviour?’ thought Annabelle suddenly, as the maid carefully arranged the tiara on her blonde curls.
‘What of Lady Coombes? What if she is at the opera, looking for a chance to tell Peter he has the best legs in London?’
She was so engrossed in this new worry that she was halfway down the stairs with Holden following her, carrying her cloak, her reticule and her fan, before Annabelle realized that, for once, she had forgotten to paint.
Her hand flew nervously to her face which felt all at once young, and, somehow, naked.
After all, going to the opera was every bit as terrifying as going to Almack’s. The opera was a social function which entirely outclassed anything of the sort at Court after the retirement of poor, mad George III. There was no question of getting in by the mere payment of money. A committee of ladies supervised the issue of every ticket, and a gentleman or a lady went to the opera or did not, depending on whether their social position was or was not considered worthy of that honour by the Lady Patronesses.
The performance did not matter in the least. One went to see the peerless Mr Brummell with his satellite Exquisites in Fop’s Alley. The ladies of the grand tier were more anxious to gain his attention than that of the Prince Regent. The interest of the evening was not, ‘How good is the production?’ but rather, ‘How well got up is Mr Brummell?’
The Dandies displayed their graces with as much thought as the ladies – Mr George Darner, Lord Foley, Mr Henry Pierrepoint, Mr Wellesley Pole, Mr Charles Standish, Mr Drummond and Mr Lumley Skeffington.
She waited nervously at the door of the drawing room for her husband to make some comment on her appearance, but all he said was, ‘I see you have the jewels,’ and then motioned to Holden to help her mistress into the cloak.
On the road to the opera Annabelle said, ‘Brabington, perhaps I could be advised ahead of time as to which social engagements we are to attend.’
‘As you wish,’ he replied indifferently.
There was a silence between them. And then he said casually, ‘I had forgot. You had best employ the lightning talents of Madame Verné. We are to attend the Queen’s Drawing Room next week.’
‘The Queen!’ shrieked Annabelle. ‘I will need a court dress.’
‘Exactly. Jensen tells me you have a new lady’s maid. Take her with you to the dressmaker.’
‘Will you be going with me?’
‘Of course.’
‘And how long have you known this?’
‘Some time. You must forgive me. I am afraid it slipped my memory.’
Annabelle tried to read his expression in the darkness of the carriage. All at once, she wanted to tell him that her forthcoming court appearance frightened her, that she felt nervous and unsure. She had a sudden longing for the vicarage, and for Minerva’s quiet voice, telling her that everything would be all right. But Minerva was bucketing about on the high seas by now.
Annabelle did not think of Lord Sylvester at all.
The opera was a blaze of candlelight and jewels. It was a performance of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, billed as an opera buffa in two acts.
As they ascended the staircase, the Marquess kept stopping to introduce her to various acquaintances. Lady Coombes’ hard sophisticated face seemed to le
ap out of the crowd. She laid her gloved hand on the Marquess’s arm, talking to him eagerly of friends and places that Annabelle did not know. At last, the Marquess murmured something about being late for the performance, and Lady Coombes flashed Annabelle a thin, hard smile and sank into a curtsy.
Looking out between the red curtains of the Marquess of Brabington’s box, Annabelle found herself viewing a sea of jewels, bare shoulders, taffeta, feathers, lace, uniforms, quizzing glasses and curving top hats, all moving and glittering under the hot lights of thousands of candles.
She was lucky in that she had a relatively clear view of the stage. Some of the other boxes had their view nearly totally obscured by a chandelier full of lighted candles hung between them and the stage.
The short overture was soon over and the curtains drew back to plunge Annabelle into another world. Had she been an ardent music lover, had she known more of Mr Mozart’s operas, and had she been more in the way of going to London performances, then she might have been appalled at the production and the difficulties of concentration.
Up in the galleries footmen, tradesmen and sailors whistled and howled and cracked nuts while the ladies of the night plied their trade, selling themselves for a shilling and a glass of rum.
In the main body of the audience the candlelight winked from quizzing glasses and opera glasses as society studied each other and ignored what was going on on the stage.
And it is doubtful if Mozart would have recognized parts of his opera. From time to time, his beautiful music was interrupted by one of the characters bursting into a well-known English popular song – wildly applauded by the audience – before returning to the theme of the opera.
But to Annabelle, it was magic. Eagerly she followed the complications of the plot, sympathizing with the sisters, Fiordiligi and Dorabella. Secretly she thought she would never forgive any man for the sort of trick the sister’s fiancés played on them – pretending to be two other men to test their fidelity. But she sighed with pure happiness when the four lovers were at last reunited.
She turned a radiant face to the Marquess. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said simply.
‘I had more enjoyment, I confess, watching your face than the production,’ he said. For a moment she caught a glimpse of the old warmth and affection in his face and a hand seemed to clutch her heart, followed by a yearning to keep him looking at her in just that way.
Taming of Annabelle Page 15
