First Season / Bride to Be (13 page)

That afternoon was probably the worst of Anabel's life. She had been very glad to return home. Norbury had pressed her all through the journey to set a definite date for their wedding, and she had steadfastly resisted doing so. Some part of her wanted more time for that decision. The exchange had irritated them both. Norbury had been infuriated at this thwarting of his wishes; he was accustomed to capitulation. And Anabel had felt beleaguered. She was still very unused to directing her own life, and the effort of not only taking a position but holding to it in the face of strong opposition exhausted her.

In this mood she had discovered the loss of her children, and nearly fallen into a panic. Questions of her future with Charles evaporated. Never since their birth had she not known where her children were or with whom. The thought of them wandering alone and unprotected in London made her frantic.

Sir Charles offered her no aid. He rode with her as she directed the chaise through the park, oblivious to the stares of fashionable saunterers, and around the streets near the Goring house. But he sat back in a corner, arms folded, making his disapproval of her actions palpable. At first Anabel didn't notice, but as time passed and they found no clue, she turned to him in desperate need of reassurance. “Can you think of anywhere else we might look?” she asked.

“I think this whole exercise is futile,” he replied. “You cannot see anything from a moving carriage. We may have missed them repeatedly in the park. More than likely, they have turned up at home by now, happily unconscious of causing any anxiety.”

“Do you truly think so?” She wanted to believe this.

“Yes.” He was offended both by her stubbornness on the subject of their wedding and by her complete forgetfulness of him during the last two hours. He was convinced that the children would return, and her exaggerated concern inflamed his jealousy. She had not shown this much emotion for him.

“Perhaps we should go back and see.” Anabel was torn. The afternoon was ending, and they hadn't found the children. Yet it was difficult to give up. They might be around the very next corner. She looked at Norbury, whose set face was turned away. He could be right. “Very well. Let us do that.”

He gave the order to the driver, and they turned toward home. Unbending a little at her acquiescence to his suggestion, he said, “Have your children any close acquaintances in town? Perhaps they went visiting without telling anyone.”

Anabel straightened abruptly. “Christopher! Why didn't I think of him at once?”

Norbury looked displeased.

“We must stop at his sister's house and inquire. It is on the way.” Anabel felt revitalized. Christopher would know what to do even if he had not seen the children. The mere thought of him comforted her immensely. How could she have forgotten to consult him? She sat back, relaxing for almost the first time that day.

Norbury's sidelong glance was cold.

But at the Lanforth house they were told that Christopher had gone out of town. He had left so hurriedly that none of the servants had been informed of his purpose, and Amelia had been out all day and thus had not seen Susan or heard of the trouble. She was very sympathetic but could offer no help. Certain that he would return before evening, Hanford had not left her a note.

Unreasonably, Anabel felt deserted and betrayed. She was not thinking clearly and knew only that her mainstay had failed her. She allowed Norbury to direct the carriage home and to help her down when they reached her mother's house, but her mind was full of dreadful visions of what might befall unguarded children in the city streets.

Lady Goring met her at the front door, enfolding her in her arms. “Anabel, my dear. Are you all right?”

“Have they come home?”

“No. But all the servants are out searching. They cannot fail to find them very soon.”

Slumping against her mother's shoulder, Anabel burst into tears. Lady Goring embraced her, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing phrases as all the tension and worry of the day poured forth.

Norbury, forgotten, stood stiffly beside the front door. He was not intimidated by female tears. He had seen many in his life. But he was accustomed to being the central figure in such scenes. He could soothe or spurn with equal skill when a woman's feelings for him gave way to sobs; he had had no experience, however, with outbursts from other causes. And he didn't much care for them. The intense emotion that seemed only natural when he himself was the object appeared hysterical and unnecessary here. To him children were rather like dogs. They went their uncharted ways and returned when hungry or weary. He had never felt any great attachment to either species. “My horses will take cold,” he said. “Perhaps I should go home and change.” Meeting Lady Goring's contemptuous look, he added, “I will return at once, of course, and remain with you until the children return.”

Anabel did not surface, but Lady Goring dismissed him with a curt wave that might have offended him if he had not been so eager to depart. When he had gone, Lady Goring helped her daughter up the stairs to the drawing room and removed her bonnet. Her sobs lessened a little. “I will get you some water.”

The room was dim. Darkness was falling, and there were no servants in the house to draw the curtains and light the candles. Anabel struggled for control and slowly managed to stop crying. She groped for a handkerchief and wiped her streaming eyes, sniffing.

Georgina rose from an armchair in the corner and approached. She had been sitting here in the dimness for some time, waiting for Anabel's return. Her cousin's crying had touched her deeply, and she had delayed only until it seemed that her news would be understood before rising to impart it. “Anabel,” she said.

Anabel started violently and looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “Oh, Georgina. I didn't know you were here.”

“I have been waiting to tell you—”

“You might have been out helping us search. But of course my children are not
your
responsibility.” At some level Anabel knew this was utterly unfair, but Norbury's abandonment had cut her to the quick, and it seemed to her that no one cared for her or her plight. Christopher was gone, and the man she had agreed to marry was merely annoyed by her anguish. In her upset she turned on the nearest available object.

Georgina understood some of this. “I did not go because—”

“Oh, it doesn't signify,” interrupted Anabel bitterly. “Why should you? My promised husband has gone off to change his coat. And my dearest friend has gone out of town without a word. Charles hardly knows the children, of course, and he means to return. But Christopher
might
have done something. How could he be so thoughtless?” This was even more unreasonable, she knew. Christopher could not have known that an emergency would arise. But Anabel was conscious only of a need for his stalwart presence; she was incapable of logical thought.

Georgina was outraged. Not only was the noble, unselfish Mr. Hanford being unjustly accused but Anabel actually dared to praise Sir Charles Norbury at his expense. It was more than unfair; it was intolerable. Georgina's pity for her cousin dissolved in righteous anger. As Lady Goring returned with a tray she threw back her head and strode from the room.

“Oh dear,” sighed Anabel as her mother urged her to try to eat something. “I have offended Georgina. I didn't mean to say such ridiculous things. I don't know what is the matter with me.”

“Of course you do. You are terribly upset. Georgina understands that.” Anabel was Lady Goring's chief concern just now. She had no doubt Georgina would recover. “Do take just a little of this soup. It will make you feel better.”

The evening passed without news. Some of the servants returned, having looked every place they could think of, and at nine one of Norbury's footmen arrived with a note saying that he would call in the morning. Lady Goring read this with a curled lip and did not even tell Anabel. She had not asked for Sir Charles and was clearly not thinking about him. Georgina came in a bit later, looking repentant and wanting to speak to Anabel, but Lady Goring insisted she go to bed, refusing to listen to a word. Georgina actually told her the truth, in a rather disjointed sentence, but her aunt's attention was so wholly taken up with her daughter that she did not really hear, merely replying, “Yes, dear, you can tell us all about it tomorrow. Now run along upstairs.”

Slowly and reluctantly Georgina went. She felt very uncertain, but she was not accustomed to forcing her opinions on other people, and Lady Goring stood in the place of a parent. She decided to wait in her bedchamber for a while and then try again to tell her story. Unfortunately she had no sooner lain down on her bed to wait than the emotional exhaustions of the day descended, and she fell deeply asleep.

Anabel and her mother remained in the drawing room, with no thought of retiring. Anabel's feelings ran the gamut from guilt and apprehension to sudden, wild hope when a passing carriage seemed to slow before their door. Finally, at eleven, she leaped to her feet, crying, “They have gone home, of course! They dislike London and have often asked to go. I must start out at once.”

Lady Goring rose also, frowning. “Do you think so?” She did not really believe that the children would flee without a word.

“Yes, yes. That must be it. Will you order the carriage for me, Mama? I will just fetch my hat and cloak.”

“But, Anabel, this does not sound like William or Nicholas. And I do not think they would allow Susan to lead them.” Realizing that her daughter had not really heard her, she took her shoulders in a firm grip and met her wildly elated gaze. “Besides, Anabel, you cannot search for them in the darkness. We must wait for morning now.”

“No!” She struggled free. “I must do something!”

“I understand how you feel, but it is no good wearing yourself out tonight. You might easily pass them in the dark.”

Abruptly Anabel's eagerness collapsed. “Oh, Mama, what am I going to do?” She dropped onto the sofa again and put her head in her hands. “It is all my fault. I should never have gone away.”

“Nonsense. If it comes to that, it is my fault. They were lost from my house. But we won't waste time repining. First thing tomorrow, we shall begin an organized search. We can have the Bow Street Runners.”

Her daughter looked up. “We will find them, won't we?”

“Of course! There is no question about that.”

Trying to smile, Anabel held out her hand. Lady Goring took it and squeezed it reassuringly, hoping that she was indeed right. “Why not go up to bed?” she urged finally. “Nothing can be done just now.”

“I couldn't sleep. You go on.”

“No. I shall stay with you.”

They lapsed into silence again. Midnight passed, and the sounds from the street outside gradually subsided. The ticking of the mantel clock became loud. Anabel seemed to feel it inside her head.

At last both women began to droop. Such a high pitch of anxiety could not be sustained indefinitely. Lady Goring's head gradually dropped onto the back of the armchair, and she dozed. Anabel, though she didn't sleep, curled into the corner of the sofa in a kind of stupor. Thus, when they heard the sound of carriage wheels approaching the house in the small hours of the morning, they both started up convulsively, jarred by the sudden noise in the predawn silence.

“It is nothing,” said Anabel shakily, sinking back. “A carriage.” But she strained to listen.

“It is slowing.” Her mother went to the window. “I think…yes, it is stopping here, Anabel.” The other was already at the drawing-room door, then running for the stairs.

They had the front door open before the vehicle was completely stopped. Anabel found it difficult to breathe as it pulled up and the door swung open. But when first William, then Nicholas emerged, she rushed forward and swept them into her arms, shaking with joy and relief.

The boys were sleepy. They accepted their mother's embraces in good part, but they also bore her backward toward the house and their beds. “Where have you been? Where did you go? Where is…” Anabel looked up at this moment and saw before her Christopher Hanford, cradling a drowsy Susan in his arms. She was struck speechless.

“Everyone come inside,” ordered Lady Goring. She herded the boys before her and put a hand in the small of Anabel's back. They all went in and upstairs to the drawing room once more.

“I'm tired,” complained William, stretching and yawning.

Lady Goring looked from Anabel to Hanford. “I will take you up to bed,” she answered. “Here, Mr. Hanford, give me Susan.”

“I will take her if you like.”

“Nonsense. She is quite light. I can manage.” Urging the boys before her again, she went out.

Silence fell. Anabel stared at Christopher as if she had never seen him before, and he waited, uncertain. Then, as if impelled by some external force, she ran forward and threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

Hanford was startled for a moment. In all the years they had known each other, he and Anabel had never embraced. Moreover, he could not understand her violent reaction to their return. He had left a clear message of his intentions. But these concerns were soon lost in sensation. For the first time Christopher held the woman he had loved for so long. Against hope, she had come to him. Throwing questions to the wind, he tightened his arms around her and, when she looked up, bent to fasten his lips passionately on hers.

Anabel was beyond surprise. When she had seen Christopher holding Susan, it had felt as if a lightning bolt went through her brain, dazzling her senses and paralyzing thought. She knew only that something had happened to her; she could not interpret it. Moving into Christopher's arms had seemed natural, and when she rested her head on his shoulder, she suddenly felt as if everything were all right again, after an endless agony. She had raised her head to say something like this, only to be overtaken by his kiss.