Annabelle (7 page)

“What on earth happened to you, Lady Emmeline?” asked Lord Varleigh, holding open the door of the drawing room for her.

“Strangest thing,” said Lady Emmeline, plopping herself down on the sofa. “Bricks—great whopping
bricks—came falling out of the sky. I’d better send a man up to check the chimney stack. See to it, Horley. And as for you, Varleigh,” she went on without checking for breath, “I’m sorry I let off at you like that. What exactly happened? Jimmy said you just upped and offed with Annabelle.”

Lord Varleigh told her of the episode of the punch bowl, and Lady Emmeline laughed appreciatively. “What a man!” she gasped when she could. “Course, now I see you did the right thing, Varleigh, and I’m grateful to you. Jimmy’s a good lad. He’ll calm down once he’s married.” She rang for the butler and demanded that the brandy decanter be brought in, and Annabelle judged from the disapproving height of the butler’s eyebrows that this was an unusual request.

Annabelle wondered what Mrs. Quennell would say if she could see her eldest daughter, the hope of the family, sitting quaffing brandy in the company of an elderly lady covered in brick dust and an aristocratic lord whose heart was well known to belong to one of the most dashing matrons of the Town.

Horley soon came back to inform the startled party that the chimney stack had been found intact but that there were signs someone had been hiding up on the roof for, it seemed, the sole purpose of throwing bricks at Lady Emmeline should she leave her mansion.

Lord Varleigh sat very still, his glass halfway to his lips, Annabelle was remembering Mad Meg’s prophecy and feeling shaken, but Lady Emmeline only gave her infuriating giggle. “Why,” she said, “I vow it was nothing more than some Tom or Jerry up there for a lark.”

Annabelle had to admit that the Tom and Jerry sportsmen of the well-known cartoons were very close to real life. Was it strange that someone should throw bricks at an elderly dowager in a world where dropping live coals on a sleeping person and stealing a blind man’s
dog were considered the veriest demonstration of Corinthian high spirits?

Lord Varleigh rose to take his leave. He bowed punctiliously over Annabelle’s hand, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Lady Emmeline had started to berate Horley over nothing in particular and everything in general, and Annabelle could not resist moving to the window to watch Lord Varleigh leave.

A smart yellow landau came to a stop in front of him. Smiling alluringly at Lord Varleigh from the landau was Lady Jane Cherle. A pale shaft of sunlight shone on the magnificent pearls at her throat. Lord Varleigh joined her in the carriage, and Lady Jane rested her head on his shoulder as they drove off.

Annabelle stood very still. Lady Jane had looked so sophisticated and beautiful. Annabelle became aware that she was engulfed in a new strong violent emotion. She wanted to see Lady Jane ruined; she wanted all London to laugh at her. Above all, Annabelle wanted Lord Varleigh to look at his mistress with contempt instead of with that heart-wrenching lazy intimacy.

I’m jealous, thought poor Annabelle. I’m jealous of Lady Jane’s beauty. What a stupid wretch I am!

She raised her hands to her suddenly hot cheeks. Was this then how her sisters felt? With a new understanding of Mary, Susan, and Lisbeth tucked away in the Hazeldean rectory, Annabelle removed to her room to write a new kind of letter to them—telling them how much she missed them and how she longed to be home again.

In the following days Annabelle became more and more accustomed to the bewildering social round.

Some of it seemed delightful, like the breakfasts among the Middlesex meadows or Surrey woods, and some, downright ridiculous. How on earth could one call an event a party when there was no room to sit, no conversation, no cards and no music—only shouting and elbowing through a succession of rooms meant to hold six hundred instead of the sixteen hundred invited? And then battling down the stairs again and the long wait for the carriage to make its way through the press so that one spent more time with the gold-laced footmen on the steps outside than with one’s hosts upstairs.

Annabelle was to have her voucher for Almack’s since Lady Emmeline was a great social power and any girl making a come-out under her aegis
must
be good
ton
.

In 1765 a Scotsman called William Macall reversed the syllables of his name to provide a more memorable title for his new Assembly Rooms—Almack’s. Now nearly fifty years later at the height of its fame with a great wave of snobbery sweeping London, it thrived under the management of the haughty, vulgar, and indefatigable beauty, Lady Jersey. Not to have a voucher to one of Almack’s Wednesday nights was to be damned socially and forever. So formidable were the patronesses that one of them, the Countess Lieven, was heard to say, “It is not fashionable where I am not.”

A lady of the
ton
was expected to be fragile and useless and infinitely feminine. But the definition of a gentleman was the exact opposite, Annabelle learned. “An out and outer, one up to everything, down as a nail, a trump, a Trojan … one that can patter flash, floor a charley, mill a coal heaver, come coachey in prime style, up to every rig and row in town and down to every move upon the board from a nibble at the club to a dead hit at a hell; can swear, smoke, take snuff, lush, play at all games, and throw over both sexes in different ways—he is the finished man!” No wonder, reflected poor Annabelle, that Lady Emmeline was increasingly amazed that her strange goddaughter had not tumbled head over heels in love with Captain MacDonald.

But it
was
sometimes exciting, particularly in the evenings from six to eight and from eight to ten when Mayfair came alive with the rumbling of carriages, their flaming lamps twinkling along the fashionable streets, past tall houses ablaze with lights from top to bottom. And the food! Périgord pie and truffles from France, sauces and curry powder from India, hams from Westphalia and Portugal, caviar from Russia, reindeer tongues from Lapland, (olives from Spain, cheese from Parma, and sausages from Bologna.

Sometimes the sheer extravagance of the members of this gilded society seemed overwhelming to Annabelle. Lady Londonderry went to a ball so covered in jewels that she could not stand and had to be followed around with a chair. And her very handkerchiefs cost fifty guineas the dozen. Everything, as the Corinthians would say, had to be “prime and bang up to the mark.”

Despite various discreet requests Annabelle had refused to divulge the name of her dressmaker for fear Madame Croke would discover Annabelle’s alterations to her styles.

To her disappointment she had not yet found a female friend. In the hurly-burly of the marriage mart she was marked down as one of the few who had already succeeded. Members of her own sex who were still out there on the battleground preferred to huddle together in groups, plotting and exchanging gossip.

London was enjoying an unusually fine spell of hot weather so it was possible to wear the delicate lawns and Indian muslins without also displaying acres of mottled gooseflesh. Annabelle was to attend a fête champêtre onboard the Hullocks’ “little yacht.” Mr. Hullock was a wealthy merchant who entertained the
ton
lavishly in the hope of securing titled marriages for his daughters. But the aristocracy drank his fine French vintages and guzzled his food and remained as aloof and patronising as ever.

A long box had arrived from Madame Croke containing Annabelle’s costume for the party. In vain had Annabelle pleaded with Lady Emmeline to be allowed to make her own. What could a country miss know of fashion, Lady Emmeline had demanded.

Annabelle stared at the contents of the box in dismay. Madame Croke had surpassed herself. A neat label in tight script declared it to be the costume of Athene. It was of fine white lawn—so fine it was nigh transparent and the skirt ended
just below the knee
. Did Madame Croke expect Annabelle to show her legs in public? She obviously did.

Annabelle recalled having seen a slim rose silk gown in her vast wardrobe. With a few tucks and changes and stitches, it could be transformed into an alluring under-dress. The flounces at the hem would have to be removed to style the dress in keeping with the Greek-goddess image.

The gold helmet was, however, very flattering and
no doubt Monsieur André, the hairdresser, would twist Annabelle’s long curls into an attractive style to suit it.

She bent her head over the costume and began to work.

Horley came into the room as quietly as a shadow. Annabelle guiltily thrust her work behind her. “What is it, Horley?” she demanded as Horley’s piercing black eyes seemed to stare straight through her to the costume hidden behind.

“It’s the Captain, miss. Captain MacDonald,” said Horley, holding open the door and stepping aside to let Annabelle past. “He’s waiting downstairs.”

“I shall be down presently,” said Annabelle. “And next time, please knock, Horley.”

“Good servants
never
knock,” said Horley righteously.

“Then scratch at the door. You know exactly what I mean, Horley,” snapped Annabelle. Horley bristled with anger and then turned abruptly and left the room.

She was quite sure miss was tampering with those gowns and more than one lady had held out a bribe to Horley in the hopes of finding out the name of Annabelle’s dressmaker. Then they should have it, decided Horley grimly, and that might give that little upstart something to worry about.

The Captain was pacing up and down the room. He stopped when he saw Annabelle, and the pair went through their peculiar hit-and-miss ballet—the Captain trying to kiss Annabelle and Annabelle trying to avoid the kiss being planted on her mouth. At last the Captain turned to the decanter as usual and, after he had poured himself a generous measure of canary, he asked Annabelle in a surprisingly gentle voice if she would mind if he did not escort her to the fête.

Annabelle did not mind in the least but felt it would be rude to say so. She compromised by pointing out that
the Captain had indeed been a dutiful escort during the previous days and that she felt he deserved an “evening off.”

The Captain beamed at her with affectionate relief. There was a prime mill at Brick Hill and he would not miss it for worlds and if he did not get there the night before, then he would not be able to command the best place since sportsmen from all over the country would be journeying there. He waxed almost poetical on the subject of boxing—how the last time he had been at Brick Hill, he had been loitering around the inn door when a barouche and four had driven up with Lord Byron and a party and Jackson, the trainer. How they had all dined together and how marvellous it had been, the intense excitement, the sparring, then the first round and— oh! it was …
Homeric
.

Annabelle smiled and tried not to show her relief at the prospect of a social evening without the Captain.

L
ADY
Jane Cherle bit her rather full underlip. For all Lord Varleigh’s kisses and caresses, she had not liked the way he had promptly walked off with Annabelle from the Standishes’ breakfast. He had just now sent Jane a note saying that he would be grateful if she could make her own way to the Hullocks’ party as he had some pressing business. She would not go, thought Jane pettishly. But her costume of a Turkish harem girl was infinitely seductive, and she did not want its charms to go to waste. After some thought she decided she would go after all—but very, very late. That would give Sylvester Varleigh time to miss her. And that way she could make a very splendid last minute appearance.

A
NNABELLE
and Lady Emmeline were late by the time they boarded the Hullocks’ enormous yacht which was
moored in the Thames near to Vauxhall Gardens. The decks of the yacht were thickly carpeted in oriental rugs, and silk canopies fluttered over the heads of the guests. A magnificent red sunset was blazing through the forest of masts of the other ships.

Mr. Hullock was as proud and as pleased with his fashionable guests as if they were a friendly company of kindred spirits instead of a vacuous-faced jostling throng. As darkness crept over the water and young Rossini’s music serenaded the guzzling guests, Annabelle noticed Lord Varleigh climbing aboard. He was correct to an inch in formal evening dress instead of costume; chapeau bras and knee breeches, ruffled shirt and cravat, short jacket with swallow tails, diamonded pumps and dress sword. His gaze wandered towards Annabelle, he gave a brief smile, and then continued to search the crowd. He is looking for Lady Jane, thought Annabelle. Her costume which had seemed so dashing and alluring only a few minutes ago now seemed to poor Annabelle to have become downright frumpish. Her head sank slightly under her gold helmet, and she stared dismally at the dirty water moving beside the schooner.

When she raised her head again, it was to see that Lord Varleigh had given up his search for Lady Jane and was moving towards her. All of a sudden Annabelle did not want to be singled out as second best. She moved swiftly away towards the stern of the ship where the light of the many lanterns; did not reach.

The heartbreaking strains of a waltz echoed in the still air, and the smells of wine and French cooking mingled with the less attractive smells of the river.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Annabelle could make out the shapes of a couple approaching her. She shrank back into the blackness and stood very still, not wanting her confused thoughts to be interrupted.

It was then she realised that the couple were approaching in a very odd manner. With surprise, she made out the gold lace of Lady Emmeline’s evening gown, the Dowager Marchioness having decided not to go in costume.

But Lady Emmeline was walking
backwards
, and instead of accompanying her, the gentleman was behind her. A sudden burst of fireworks went up from Vauxhall Gardens and Annabelle noticed with horror that Lady Emmeline’s escort or pursuer was dressed as a pirate and was carrying a very lethal-looking cutlass which he was pointing straight at the terrified Dowager Marchioness.