Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘You would have done that in any case,’ said Annabelle, ‘and I do not care, for I am going with you.’

  ‘You cannot! You do not know the hardship, the death, the misery.’

  ‘I do not want to be without you ever again,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘We will talk later,’ he replied, holding her tightly as his horse stumbled.

  ‘My poor Caesar is at the end of his tether,’ he said. ‘I have ridden him too hard this night. Look, yonder is an inn of sorts. We will need to put up there. I was going to stay with a friend, but I want you all to myself, so this inn will have to do.’

  He reined in at an evil-looking inn which crouched under its heavy roof of ragged thatch beside the road.

  ‘There’s a light in the tap,’ he said. He swung her down from the saddle.

  A bleary-looking landlord came out to meet them, blinking at the sight of their glittering evening dress.

  He had a room, he said apologetically, but he did not think it fit for the quality. If they would only ride on a few miles they would come to a regular posting house.

  But the horse was too tired to go any further and the couple too happy to mind where they slept. The Marquess sent Annabelle up to the bedchamber while he attended to his horse and saw it stabled for the night.

  Annabelle looked around the room with a shudder. The plaster was old and cracked. The four-poster bed had dusty hangings and a whole family of worms seemed to have been sinking their teeth in the woodwork over the centuries.

  But, she decided, when she went with her husband to the wars, she would need to become used to worse than this.

  The Marquess came in, stooping his head under the low lintel of the door.

  ‘This is awful,’ he said, as he surveyed the neglected chamber. The blackened beams were so low that he could not straighten up. ‘Let us find somewhere else.’

  But she simply held out her arms to him and he caught her to him and promptly forgot about everything else.

  Some time later, he freed his lips reluctantly and told her to make ready for bed as he was going to have a wash at the pump in the yard.

  Annabelle happily undressed and climbed cautiously into bed, wearing only a thin petticoat. The sheets felt cold and damp and she wished he would hurry up.

  At last he arrived back, wearing only his shirt and breeches which he proceeded to strip off. ‘My sweeting,’ said the Marquess, his voice muffled as he pulled the shirt over his head, ‘I am going to make love to you until I can no more, for we have wasted so much time.’

  ‘I wish you would hurry,’ said Annabelle. ‘’Tis monstrous cold.’

  He divested himself of the rest of his clothes, blew out the candle, and said with a laugh, ‘Prepare my lady, for I am about to set you on fire.’

  He ran lightly across the room and leapt on the bed, still laughing as he rolled over and caught her to him.

  There was a great creaking and groaning and suddenly the bed quite simply collapsed, the mattress dropping through the frame onto the floor and sending the chamber pot rolling to the other side of the room.

  They lay clutching each other as the four posts of the bed slowly caved in and the canopy fell down on top of them.

  ‘Oh, Peter,’ wailed Annabelle, ‘we cannot possibly make love now. What are you doing? Stop it! No, don’t. Do it again. Oh, Peter!’

  The Assembly was nearing its end. Frederica had fallen asleep with her head on Diana’s shoulder. Deirdre had danced every dance, her red ringlets flying.

  Squire Radford settled himself down comfortably next to the vicar in the refreshment room, and indicated Deirdre with a nod of his head.

  ‘That’s the next Armitage to wed,’ he said, ‘or I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Hey!’ The vicar, who had drunk overmuch and was feeling the effects, looked blearily at his daughter.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ponderously, shaking his head. ‘I’m worn to Hinders with all this love business. Next one will be an arranged marriage. That way I’ll have a bit o’ peace and quiet. Think Brabington’s happy now?’

  ‘Oh, very happy,’ said the Squire.

  ‘In that case,’ said the vicar thoughtfully, ‘I hope my Bella told him how it was all thanks to me that they’re together again. Hope she told him that, Jimmy!’

  ‘And thanks to me,’ put in the Squire.

  ‘Hey? Ho! Yes, yes, yes, but you ain’t the girl’s father.’

  ‘I don’t see . . .’

  ‘Well, I hear Jefferson’s selling some o’ his hounds and a grateful Brabington just might sport the blunt.’

  ‘May the Lord have mercy on your mercenary soul,’ said the Squire piously.

  ‘Amen to that,’ said the vicar of St Charles and St Jude.