Annabelle (3 page)

His face flushed with the amount of claret he had consumed, the Captain looked round the famous club with a jaundiced eye. Apart from four painted panels by Antonio Zucchi, the walls were bare. “Why don’t they brighten up this mausoleum with some pictures?” he said irritably.

“Because,” said Lord Varleigh soothingly, “pictures would distract the gamblers.”

“Oh, well,” grumped the Captain, refilling his glass, “what else can one expect from a club founded by a lot of demned Macaronis?”

The Macaronis were the dandies of the last century,
so called because they had made the Grand Tour which had included a visit to Italy. “All they did,” pursued the Captain, “was to bring back a dish that looks like a pile of demned great white worms.”

“They also invented the slang word ‘bore,’” pointed out Lord Varleigh, much amused.

“Meaning I’m one,” retorted the Captain good-naturedly. “Well, I’d better get going or I’ll never hear the end of it from Emmeline. Don’t even know this gel’s background. She’s probably as common as a barber’s chair.”

He half rose from his seat only to be pushed down into it again by a fellow officer, Major Timothy Wilks. “You still as good with your fives?” roared the Major. “Feel like a bout at Jackson’s tomorrow?”

“Wallop you any time you feel like it, dear boy,” said the Captain, the prospect of a boxing match causing him to show enthusiasm for the first time that evening. “Only fair to tell you, though. Was trained by Mendoza.”

“Pooh! That Israelite cannot top Jackson.”

“Mendoza is infinitely superior in regards to dexterity,” said the Captain wrathfully.

“He has a remarkably quick eye. He strikes oftener and stops better than any man in England…”

“He’s weak in the loins,” rejoined the Major.

“But he is finely formed in the breast and arms,” said the Captain enthusiastically. “Why, I remember…”

“Your meeting at Covent Garden,” interrupted Lord Varleigh with a gentle reminder.

“Oh, stuff,” said Captain MacDonald. “Look—I’ll be a trifle late. You’re going anyway, ain’t you, Varleigh? Present my compliments and say I’ll be along directly. Oh, and if the gel’s Friday-faced, send a messenger to warn me.”

“Very well,” smiled Lord Varleigh, thinking, not for
the first time, what an overgrown schoolboy the Captain was. “I shall tell her you can hardly wait to meet her!”

A
NNABELLE
looked at her reflection in the long pier glass and turned to Horley in dismay.

“I cannot wear this gown,” she said firmly. “It is … it’s
indecent
.”

The evening gown was admittedly of the finest silk velvet in a delectable shade of pale green and opened down the front to reveal an underdress of gold silk. The neckline, though bordered with a creamy fall of old lace, was more of a waistline! thought Annabelle bitterly. It seemed to leave not only her shoulders but most of her bosom bare.

Annabelle had revived somewhat from the fatigues of her journey at the sight of the splendor of her new quarters. She was to be the proud possessor of a sitting room and a large bedroom with an old-fashioned powder room beyond. Thick oriental rugs covered the floor, and pretty flock wallpaper adorned the walls. Fires burned in both bedroom and sitting room, adding their light to the blaze of beeswax candles on the walls. Her hair had been expertly and becomingly dressed by her godmother’s lady’s maid, Horley, and the dress, spread out innocently over a high-backed chair, had seemed beautiful.

“There is nothing up with it,” said Horley severely. “To think of all the trouble and expense your godmama’s gone to—why, she will think you downright ungrateful!”

Annabelle felt obscurely that the woman was being impertinent but did not have the courage to protest any longer.

The Dowager Marchioness, Lady Emmeline, surveyed her goddaughter with pleasure. Those wide innocent blue eyes, combined with the daring sophistication
of the dress, were alluring in the extreme, decided the old lady with satisfaction. No, Annabelle may not have a shawl. The lightest of gauze wraps was all that was necessary.

T
HE
famous opera house was crowded. No one seemed to be paying much attention to the performance on stage as they whispered and shuffled and hopped from box to box. Lady Emmeline stared round the dimness of the house. “Can’t see the rascal,” she whispered to Annabelle. “But he’ll come … never fear.”

That’s just what I
am
afraid of, thought poor Annabelle. She dreaded the interval when the lights would be lit. Her entrance to the opera house had been enough. Every male eye had seemed to fasten on her bosom and shoulders, and everyone quite blatantly discussed her.

“That must be him,” said Lady Emmeline, hearing a sound at the back of the box. She twisted round. “Oh, it’s
you
, Varleigh. Where’s MacDonald?”

“He will be here directly,” said a light, amused voice. “He assured me he could hardly wait to meet Miss…”

“Miss Quennell,” snapped Lady Emmeline, ungraciously making the introductions. Annabelle quickly looked up into Lord Varleigh’s light gray eyes and then dropped her own in confusion. What a terrifying man!

Lady Emmeline was still attired in the damped pink muslin, but Annabelle’s sharp eyes had already noticed several other ladies just as daringly attired. Certainly they were younger and mostly in the lower boxes. She became aware that Lord Varleigh was speaking to her. “Miss Quennell,” came the light, pleasant voice from somewhere behind her, “when did you arrive in London?”

“This evening,” said Annabelle without turning her head.

“And where did you journey from?” pursued the voice.

“From Yorkshire, my lord.”

“Yorkshire! You must indeed be fatigued. But then, I gather you are anxious to meet Captain MacDonald.”

Annabelle was about to reply a dutiful “yes,” but the beginnings of a very tiny spark of rebellion stopped her.

“I do not know Captain MacDonald,” she said coldly. “He is a friend of my godmother.”

“Indeed!” mocked the voice as the house lights were lit for the interval. “Then you are in for a pleasant surprise. Here comes the Captain.”

Annabelle stared round the house and became aware of a terrific commotion in the boxes opposite. A young man in evening dress had jumped onto the ledge of a box and with unerring agility was making his way towards her by walking nimbly along the edges of the boxes. With a final leap he made the parapet of Annabelle’s box and stood looking down at her in open, if somewhat drunken, admiration. Annabelle felt herself engulfed by the blush of all time as the Captain climbed into the box and pulled up a chair beside her.

Then she became aware that several high-nosed ladies were staring at the Captain in open admiration. Annabelle shook her head slightly in amazement. It was her first lesson in the strange double standards of London society. The noisier and more vulgar the display, the more the man was considered no end of a young blood. Boorishness betokened masculinity and
joie de vivre
. But pity help any
woman
who dared to follow suit. She would be labelled “a sad romp,” a country bumpkin, no better than a washerwoman.

I must be too nice in my ideas—too countrified, thought poor Annabelle.

“Off with you, Varleigh,” the Captain was saying.
“As you can see, I am well suited.”

Lady Emmeline had noticed the Captain’s admiration and Annabelle’s blush and was purring with contentment. “My lord,” she said, holding up a small plump hand. “We are having supper afterwards to welcome Annabelle to London. Please join us.”

Lord Varleigh hesitated. The warm charms of his mistress, Lady Jane Cherle, beckoned. But he was intrigued by this milk and water miss in the daring gown and murmured his acceptance. He bent punctiliously over Annabelle’s hand and allowed his hard gray eyes to stray insolently over her neck and bosom. Annabelle drew her gauze shawl tightly round her shoulders and stared back at him, her large eyes wide with shame. Lord Varleigh had a sudden feeling that he was behaving badly but after all, what else did the girl expect, dressed as she was?

The rest of the opera passed like a nightmare. The Captain had drawn his chair so close to Annabelle that his thigh was uncomfortably pressed against her own. She moved her chair several times, but each time the Captain pursued by moving his own chair.

Worse was to come when they returned to Lady Emmeline’s house in Berkeley Square. The only sober member of the party of gentlemen appeared to be Lord Varleigh. The Captain, his friend the Major, and a vacuous young gentleman rejoicing in the name of George Louch were definitely
bowzy
, thought Annabelle as she sat in her aunt’s drawing room, trembling with cold and fatigue. A cheerful fire was blazing up the chimney, but Annabelle had retreated to the chilly corner of the room in the hope of escaping attention.

With a sinking feeling she saw Lord Varleigh coming towards her. In the full blaze of candlelight she saw him to be a very tall man in faultless evening clothes who wore his thick fair hair unpowdered but in a longer style
than the current fashion. He had a singular charm of manner of which he was aware. He turned the full impact of it on the bewildered Annabelle, extracting information on her home and family with expert ease. But to his surprise he noticed for once that his charm was not having its usual effect. The lady was staring into space, and it was with no little feeling of pique that he realised she was trying to stifle a yawn. He had an impulse to tease her, to rouse the sleeping beauty from her gently bred apathy.

He waved his quizzing glass towards the group at the fireplace who were surrounding the grotesquely giggling and coquetting Lady Emmeline. “It seems as if your Captain is about to favor us with a tune.”

Annabelle opened her mouth to protest that the gentleman was not
her
Captain, but Jimmy MacDonald had launched into song.

Holding onto the mantel and seemingly oblivious of the roaring fire scorching his knee breeches, he began to sing in a loud, penetrating bass voice:

This was received with cheers and much clinking of glasses.

Much flushed with wine and with his powdered hair almost standing on end, Mr. George Louch protested, “I prefer the songs of
wit
rather than patriotism.” In a surprisingly soprano voice he began to sing:

“I resent that,” said the Captain fiercely. “How dare you mock the soldiers of England, sirrah!” He staggered forward and raised his gloves to strike the startled Mr. Louch on the cheek; then he swayed ludicrously for a few moments, and obviously forgetting what he was about to do, collapsed into an armchair and fell sound asleep.

“What a man!” sighed Lady Emmeline. “Ah, if I were only a few years younger … You are a lucky girl, Annabelle.”

Lord Varleigh watched Annabelle’s expressive face. The proposed match obviously was not to her taste. So what was behind it all? The Captain had no money and neither had Miss Quennell. They were obviously not in love. Somehow, he decided, Lady Emmeline must be pulling the strings of her handsome puppets. It might prove to be a marionette show worth watching. The Major and Mr. Louch were hauling the drunken Captain to his feet.

“I am sure you shall be all the rage, Annabelle,” went on Lady Emmeline. “We may even ask Mr. Brummell to dine.”

“Who is Mr. Brummell?” asked Annabelle, moving from her corner towards the fireplace.

“Why, you innocent,” laughed Lady Emmeline. “Mr. Brummell is the Leader of Fashion. It is to be hoped he will not give you one of his famous setdowns. If only he would come here. It is said he rarely dines at home.”

Annabelle felt tired and cold, and humiliated by the indecency of her gown. “Indeed!” she said sweetly. “Then it could be said that Mr. Brummell never opens his mouth except at the expense of another.”

Lord Varleigh put his hand to his mouth to hide a smile. So the milk and water miss had a tongue after all. He bowed gracefully and begged for permission to call.

“I suppose so,” said Lady Emmeline ungraciously. “But she’s spoken for—mind.”

After the gentlemen had left, Annabelle remembered to ask about the welfare of the Squire’s maid, Bessie.

“She is very well, I trust,” said Lady Emmeline with a sudden cavernous yawn. “She will, of course, return to Yorkshire as soon as the horses are rested. Do not trouble your pretty head over the affairs of rustic domestics, my dear. Tell me. Are you not pleased with the Captain? Is he not a fine and dashing man?”

“Yes, indeed,” faltered Annabelle. “I did promise my parents I would try to make an
advantageous
marriage.”

“Well, and so you shall,” snapped Lady Emmeline. “You will get my money if you marry the Captain as lord knows he has none of his own. If you do not—then you may find your way back to Yorkshire.”

She saw the alarm on the girl’s face and felt she had gone too far too soon. “I shall not press you, Annabelle,” added Lady Emmeline. “You shall have your Season and enjoy all the balls and parties. But you see, the Captain’s father was a great friend of mine, and I feel it my duty to keep an eye on his son. Jimmy MacDonald is undoubtably too wild, but he will soon settle down.”

“His manner is somewhat frightening,” said Annabelle, trying to choose her words carefully. “Lord Varleigh seems more, perhaps, the gentleman.”

“Varleigh!” sneered the Dowager Marchioness. “A bloodless aristocrat. I like a man with a bit of fire. The
only thing to say in Varleigh’s favor is that he keeps Lady Jane Cherle as mistress, and he must have some stamina to mount that one.”