Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  Annabelle felt so weary after her confession that she felt she could sleep for days. She did not see what she or anyone else could do to mend matters, but she obeyed the Squire and left them to their discussion.

  ‘He went too far,’ began the vicar wrathfully.

  ‘My dear Charles, pray calm yourself,’ said Squire Radford. ‘I am persuaded the Marquess had no hand in this so-called trick.

  ‘You are not thinking coolly. Now, we will go over Annabelle’s story again, bit by bit.’ They turned it this way and that; Annabelle had told them about everyone she had met and about the two humiliations of Sir Guy Wayne.

  ‘Now don’t you think,’ mused the Squire, half closing his eyes against the sun and putting the tips of his fingers together, ‘that either Sir Guy or Lady Coombes would have more of an interest in tricking Annabelle? It must be someone who knew the marriage very well, else why would they not think that the Brabingtons would confront each other. Annabelle did not even tell Brabington that the woman had called. I think he should be told that.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the vicar, ‘we’ll write to him.’

  The squire sighed and looked around his sunny garden. ‘No,’ he said reluctantly, ‘we must go, Charles. Today.’

  ‘A pox on all daughters,’ grumbled the vicar, heaving himself out of his chair. ‘They’re worse than foxes any day. Now foxes at least give a man some sport.’

  ‘Well,’ smiled the Squire, ‘this is in the nature of a hunt. Come Charles. There is no need to tell Annabelle our plans.’

  But the pair met with a setback as soon as they arrived at Conduit Street. The Marquess had already departed for his estates in the country and had left no word when he would be returning.

  ‘There you are,’ said the vicar with gloomy satisfaction, ‘that shows he ain’t got his eye on any lightskirt. Mind you, ’tis no wonder they quarrelled. A saint would quarrel faced with the mausoleum atmosphere of this house. Did you ever seen anything so cold and gloomy?’

  ‘Where to now?’ asked the Squire.

  ‘Lady Coombes,’ said the vicar. ‘I have her direction.’

  Lady Coombes was startled to receive a call from the vicar of St Charles and St Jude but concealed her surprise under her usual haughty manner.

  But she could not conceal her surprise or anger when this clergyman asked her abruptly, ‘D’ye know a lightskirt called Harriet Evans?’

  ‘Really sir,’ said Lady Coombes. ‘You should ask your son-in-law. He was once épris in that direction.’

  ‘Were you?’ demanded the vicar, studying her closely. ‘Were you taken with Brabington?’

  She flushed to the roots of her hair, then closed her mouth like a steel trap, and called two footmen to eject her unwelcome visitors at the double.

  ‘Now what?’ said the vicar crossly. ‘That one’s mean enough for anything.’

  ‘She might consider flirting with another woman’s husband,’ said the Squire, ‘but she is too proud to approach a Cyprian for any reason.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I think we pay a call on Miss Evans.’

  But Miss Evans was gone from London, said the grumpy housemaid, a piece of news which depressed the hunters no end, their first thought being that the Marquess had taken his Fancy to the country.

  But the housemaid could not resist adding, ‘But my lips are sealed.’

  ‘So are mine,’ said the vicar. ‘Sealed with dust. So let’s all repair to the Barley Mow and see if we can remedy the defect. It’s a while since I’ve had a pretty wench on my arm.’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ giggled the housemaid, tossing her huge mob cap so that it fell over her eyes. ‘And you a vicar!’

  ‘Which means you’ll be safe with me,’ said the vicar, leering awfully. ‘Come along. I ain’t going to ask you to speak.”

  Giggling shrilly, the housemaid allowed herself to be propelled through the doors of the Barley Mow, and after eight glasses of gin-and-hot winked at the vicar, and said she could tell him a thing or two.

  ‘No, you couldn’t,’ said the vicar cheerfully. ‘I’ll tell you something, my gel, you ain’t got one secret in that pretty cockloft o’ yours.’

  ‘I ’ave so.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the vicar with a yawn. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘You won’t tell a soul?’

  ‘My word as a man of God,’ said the vicar piously. ‘“Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” Proverbs, Chapter 9, Verse 17.’

  ‘Not apt,’ muttered the Squire.

  ‘Well,’ said the maid, ‘I’m that worrit with duns on the doorstep and t’ain’t fair, them being in Brighton and leaving me to cope though they paid my wages.’

  ‘Them?’ asked the vicar softly.

  ‘My mistress and her gentleman friend, Mr Persalt. Some rich friend let them ’ave his villa at Brighton.’

  ‘On the Marine Parade?’ asked the vicar with seeming indifference.

  ‘Naw, nothing so grand for the likes o’ them. Some square it is. James Square, number nine, that’s it.’

  The vicar, having got what he came for, would have left immediately. But Squire Radford was more softhearted and insisted that they stayed for at least two more rounds of drinks.

  ‘Brighton,’ groaned the vicar. ‘Let’s rack up for the night and set out tomorrow, Jimmy. I’m mortal tired.’

  But the Squire was tougher than his frail build suggested. ‘Have you considered,’ he said, ‘that if we do not solve this problem quickly, Brabington may rejoin his regiment, and Annabelle may soon be a widow of the war?’

  ‘Oh, whoresons of lovers. Why do you plague me?’ cried the vicar, waving his fists at the sky. ‘Very well, Jimmy. Let’s away.’

  They took the stage and arrived in Brighton very late in the evening. Even the Squire decided that they should begin their investigations at first light.

  The vicar was clever enough to ask for an audience with Mrs Persalt the following morning, since his memory told him that tarts removed from their customary milieu were apt to appear as married woman as soon as they got out of town.

  Mrs Persalt was pleased to see the vicar. She assumed he had come from a local church to ask for funds and it gave her a warm feeling of respectability.

  The vicar cunningly fostered this idea until he saw a good bottle of port being produced. He held his fire until he had downed one glass in a gulp and filled up another.

  ‘Well, Miss Evans,’ he said. ‘You’ve done pretty well for yourself.’

  Harriet’s face blanched.

  ‘You wouldn’t want all them duns and creditors to know your direction, now would you?’ pursued the vicar, his little eyes boring into her. ‘So you be a good girl and tell me who set you up to that trick you played on the Marchioness of Brabington?’

  ‘No one set me up,’ said Harriet. ‘It was Brabington himself. Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Marchioness of Brabington’s father and the Marquess of Brabington’s father-in-law and I take leave to tell you, madam, that you have been telling a monstrous pack o’ lies. What you did was shameless. Do you know that my daughter has separated from her husband, believing every vile word you said?’

  ‘I needed the money,’ said Harriet, beginning to cry. ‘I was sure it would all be sorted out and they would talk to each other about it.’

  ‘Who paid you to do this thing?’ put in the Squire, his voice soft and gentle.

  Harriet turned away from the bullying vicar and whimpered to the Squire, ‘It was Sir Guy Wayne. He thought that I had had a liaison at one time with Brabington, but I swear that is not true. But, you see, Brabington took me driving in the Park the day after he was wed, and his bride saw us, so naturally she believed . . .’

  ‘So much for our plots,’ muttered the vicar.

  ‘You see,’ went on Harriet desperately, ‘Sir Guy guessed aright after all. He said he was a student of human nature. He told me that Brabington might come looking for me, and he offered me this house in Brighton f
or a month. It was too tempting. I had to get away. How did you find me?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said the vicar. ‘My daughter told the servants not to tell Brabington of your visit, so you were lucky in that respect.

  ‘Now, see here, I don’t like to cause a pretty lady distress,’ went on the vicar, shooting an appreciative look at her ankles, ‘so you just be a good girl and tell me where to find Sir Guy.’

  ‘He will take revenge on me!’

  ‘By the time I have finished with him,’ said the Reverend Charles Armitage, ‘he won’t be fit to take revenge on anyone.’

  ‘He had lodgings in St James’s Street, 158 St James’s Street.’

  ‘Come along, Jimmy,’ said the vicar. ‘There’s work to do.’

  Squire Radford thought he had never seen his friend look so grim.

  But when a weary Squire Radford and the vicar called at Sir Guy’s lodgings, it was to find he had left town.

  They repaired to a coffee house to mull over the matter.

  ‘Do you think perhaps he has fled the country?’ asked the Squire.

  ‘Not he,’ said the vicar roundly. ‘Why should he? He doesn’t know we have found anything.’

  ‘It seems terrible to be so inactive after all our efforts,’ sighed the Squire.

  ‘Well, there’s one thing we can do,’ said the vicar, draining his glass.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Gossip. Come on. We’re going to every club, every gaming house, every coffee house and every tattletale’s drawing-room in the whole of London. He won’t have a shred o’ reputation by the time I’ve finished with him.’

  To the Squire it seemed as if his burly friend was indefatigable. He drank and talked and drank and talked from Grosvenor Square to St James’s Square until society was alive with the gossip about the perfidy of Sir Guy.

  At the end of three days, the little Squire’s energy was beginning to flag. They were sitting in the Green Saloon at Lady Godolphin’s, being regaled by that lady with tea and cakes. For once in his life, the vicar shuddered at the idea of anything stronger.

  ‘You have written to Brabington, o’course,’ said Lady Godolphin, who had heard the whole story blow by blow.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ cried the vicar, striking his brow.

  ‘Follicles!’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘Write now and one of my men will ride direct to the country with your letter.’

  The vicar scribbled away busily, crossing and recrossing several sheets until he was satisfied with the result. Then he sanded and sealed it and handed it to a servant.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘all we’ve got to do is find the villain.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone after Annabelle,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘That one always preys on young married gels.’

  ‘Oh, my head,’ groaned the vicar. ‘Of course he has. What else would he do. I’m an idiot!’

  ‘No, you ain’t,’ said Lady Godolphin warmly. ‘You’re a good patter familiar that’s what you are. Annabelle should be grateful to you.’

  But she spoke to the empty air, for the vicar had charged from the room with the Squire scuttling after him.

  Two days before this, Annabelle had been surprised when Betty came into her bedroom and announced there was a caller for her.

  ‘Ever such a fine gentleman, my lady,’ said Betty.

  ‘It’s not . . . ? No, of course it can’t be,’ said Annabelle. How silly to hope it might be her husband.

  She never wanted to see him again – or did she? Her mind had been in a turmoil since her father had left. She did not know he had travelled to London, since he had left word he had gone to a horse fair in the next county, and so she was rather disappointed to think that her father had extracted her painful story from her and then had not troubled himself any further about it.

  She was plagued with dreams of the Marquess and sometimes tormented with feelings of guilt. Perhaps she had acted too hastily. She could have told him. At least she could have given him a chance to explain. She had written letter after letter to him but had always ended up by tearing them in shreds.

  Annabelle went slowly down and opened the drawing-room door.

  Sir Guy Wayne rose and came to meet her.

  ‘Lady Annabelle,’ he said in an unctuous voice. ‘I heard of your separation from your husband. Servants will talk.

  ‘I felt I must let you know that you had at least one friend in the beau monde.’

  Servants did indeed talk as Sir Guy had found out to his advantage, although it had cost him quite a bit of money to bribe the information out of the Brabington household.

  ‘You are very kind, Sir Guy, but I am quite happy. I am afraid we cannot put you up. We do not have any spare rooms.’

  ‘I am billeted at the local inn,’ he smiled. ‘London is very flat and stale without your presence.’

  ‘I would rather not talk about my husband, Sir Guy,’ said Annabelle. ‘We are not separated. He has military matters to attend to and I took this opportunity to see my family.’

  ‘I heard your vouchers at Almack’s had been refused,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Ah, if only I had known.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Annabelle, thinking bitterly, was there anything Sir Guy did not know? She pictured her shame being spread about London and felt a wave of pain. ‘It is a beautiful day,’ he said. ‘I am unfamiliar with these parts and wondered if you would care to take the air with me?’

  Annabelle hesitated. But she was touched by his loyalty. She said she would fetch her bonnet.

  And so they walked and talked. Mrs Armitage was delighted to have such a fashionable visitor and Sir Guy ate his dinners at the vicarage.

  The little girls liked him with the exception of Deirdre, who shuddered artistically and said he reminded her of a fish.

  ‘He is not at all fishlike,’ protested Annabelle. He is very much a gentleman.’

  ‘It’s his eyes,’ said Deirdre. ‘Flat and somehow watchful. They make me think of cold, bloodless things.’

  Sir Guy showed no signs of behaving in too warm a manner and Annabelle began to enjoy his company. Her heart still ached for her husband but Sir Guy would apologetically drop little snippets about the Marquess’s scandalous career and then say in confusion, ‘I am sorry. I do keep forgetting you are married to him,’ in such a natural and contrite way that Annabelle was quite convinced he spoke the truth.

  The Marquess of Brabington began to seem more and more like a cruel and heartless rake who broke hearts as regularly as Lord Alvanley ate apricot tart.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should attend church service with them on Sunday. Mr Pettifor, the vicar’s overworked curate, was officiating in his master’s absence.

  It was a day of sun and showers with great ragged black and grey clouds tearing across a pale blue sky.

  The girls’ skirts fluttered in the warm wind as Annabelle, Sir Guy and Mrs Armitage led the family procession to church.

  It was April. Bluebells carpeted the woods on either side of the road. The hornbeam was in flower and daffodils were blowing among the tussocky grass between the gravestones of the churchyard.

  High above, a hawk sailed on the wind, its head turning slightly, this way and that, searching for prey.

  Sir Guy was dressed in his finest; blue swallowtail coat, buff waistcoat, kerseymere breeches and hessian boots. He caused quite a stir in the church as everyone craned their necks to get a better view.

  Annabelle only vaguely heard the words of the service. ‘They that are after the flesh, do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit. For to be carnally minded is death.’

  ‘Am I carnally minded?’ thought Annabelle. ‘I must be. I hate him, and I want him. Oh, Peter, where are you? And what have I done?’

  Sir Guy was yawning and fidgeting. ‘This is curst dull,’ he muttered to Annabelle behind the shelter of the Book of Common Prayer. ‘This fellow does prose on so.’

  �
��Shhh!’ said Annabelle crossly, fearful that the sensitive Mr Pettifor would hear.

  But even she had to admit that there was a soporific quality about Mr Pettifor’s preaching. His voice droned against the window panes as a fly drones against the glass on a sunny day. Heads began to nod and from behind her rose an occasional snore.

  And then the vestry door opened with a crash.

  The vicar of St Charles and St Jude sprang to the pulpit, shoving his curate aside with his beefy shoulders. He grasped the brass eagle by both wings and glared down into the congregation. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

  His eyes ranged over the upturned faces and then fastened on that of Sir Guy.

  ‘Whoreson!’ yelled the vicar, raising his whip. ‘I’ll have ye!’

  To the congregation’s amazement, he leapt agilely down from the pulpit and cracked his whip with a resounding snap.

  Sir Guy rose like a rocketing pheasant and ran headlong down the aisle to the church door.

  ‘Hoic halloa!’ yelled the vicar. ‘After him!’

  He ran down the aisle, brandishing his whip. ‘Papa!’ screamed Annabelle.

  ‘After him!’ echoed the choirboys gleefully, scrambling over the choir stalls. ‘After him!’

  And soon most of the village of Hopeworth was in pursuit.

  Out in the churchyard, Sir Guy twisted and turned and ran this way and that while the vicar’s whip slashed across his shoulders.

  He took the churchyard wall at a great leap and ran towards the village.

  The vicar, followed by men, women and children, tumbled cheering after him. Bonnets and hats were flying, dresses were muddied and shoes ruined as the congregation of St Charles and St Jude cheerfully sacrificed their finery to the joys of the chase.

  Sir Guy fled towards the inn. If only he could lock himself in his room until these demented yokels had cooled down.

  He had nearly reached the inn door when he stood stock still and stared. Riding down on him was the figure of Squire Radford atop a huge roan horse, his little figure with old-fashioned wig and old-fashioned tricorne, breeches and gaiters crouched low over the reins.

  ‘Swine!’ shouted the little Squire bringing his whip down on Sir Guy’s shoulders as he rode past at full gallop.