Taming of Annabelle (15 page)

‘My lord is attending the Duchess of Ruthfords’ ball, my lady.’

Annabelle schooled her face. ‘Ah, yes, of course. I was not going because I was indisposed but since I am recovered, send Betty to me, and I will join my husband at the ball.’

‘Very good, my lady,’ said the housekeeper. ‘My lord seemed to expect you to dine at home, my lady.’

Annabelle looked at her coldly. ‘Then he was much mistaken. He will be delighted to see I have recovered.’

Of course, the Marquess’s servants knew all about the incident in the Park, the ones at the back of Annabelle’s carriage gleefully relating the encounter.

If Annabelle had not been so buoyed up with rage, even she would have quailed before the idea of attending her first aristocratic London ball on her own. She knew that unaccompanied ladies
usually arrived with some male friend or with an elderly chaperone. But she was going to meet her husband and it was his
right
to take care of her.

Then she thought that he must return home to change for the ball. She decided to sit by the window and wait. The minutes ticked away into half hours and then hours but there was no sign of his
carriage rumbling over the cobbles below.

At last she rang the bell and asked Betty to find out if my lord had come home to change. Betty returned shortly with the intelligence that the Marquess had arrived back on foot an hour and a
half ago and had changed and left.

Annabelle’s courage deserted her. He
knew
she was not ill. He did not want to see her. If only he would ask for an explanation. She would tell him that since Sylvester was her
brother-in-law, it was natural that his name should rise to her lips.

At such a moment? jeered her uneasy conscience.

She stood by the window of her sitting room, holding back the curtain, and looked through a blur of tears at the deserted street below, hoping against hope that he would return for her.

All at once, she heard a rattle of wheels and stood very still, her heart beating hard.

An open carriage passed under the window. But it did not contain the Marquess. Instead it carried two young men and two young women. They were in full evening dress, jewels blazing. They seemed
very merry and carefree and the sound of their laughter driftedup to where Annabelle stood in the silent room.

She decided then and there to go, and rang for Betty and demanded to be helped into her ballgown. Annabelle had not been much in the way of noticing the misery of others, but for the first time
she became aware of the maid’s distress. Betty’s eyes were still swollen with crying, she had lost her springy step, and her shoulders drooped pathetically.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Annabelle abruptly.

‘Nothing, my lady.’

The uncharacteristic meekness of Betty’s reply made Annabelle look at her with sudden concern.

Betty could be sly, gossipy, irritating and impudent. But she was usually happy and good-natured and she had been with the Armitage family since she was a mere ten years old.

‘Sit down,’ said Annabelle quietly. ‘I am late already so a few more minutes won’t matter. There is something sadly wrong, Betty. Tell me, there’s a dear. I do not
like to see you in such distress.’

Betty’s mouth fell open ludicrously at this unexpected sympathy from her mistress and then she burst into noisy tears.

Throughs gasps and chokes, Annabelle was able to make out that Betty was homesick. The upper servants treated her with contempt. She longed to go back to the vicarage. She missed John Summer.
John Summer was the vicarage coachman who also acted as groom, kennel master and whipper-in.

‘Are you in love with John, Betty?’ asked Annabelle.

‘Oh, yes, Miss Bella,’ sobbed Betty, forgetting Annabelle’s title. ‘Ever so.’

‘Then dry your eyes,’ said Annabelle. ‘I will tell mother in the morning that when she returns to Hopeworth, she is to take you with her. There! You can be comfortable
again.’

‘Miss Bella!’ cried Betty, beginning to weep with happiness this time. ‘I’m that grateful. But it do go hard to leave you here with all these strangers.’

‘I have my husband.’

‘Yes, of course, mum,’ said Betty, staring at the carpet.

‘Well, that’s settled,’ said Annabelle brightly. ‘Now find me that fan with the mother-of-pearl sticks that Lady Godolphin gave me.’

Annabelle was wearing the gossamer satin robe of celestial blue with the lace vandyked hem and pearl clasped sleeves which Minerva had worn on
her
first debut. She clasped the necklace
the Marquess had given her around her neck, and then pirouetted in front of Betty, laughing and saying, ‘How do I look?’

‘You look beautiful, my lady,’ breathed Betty, and Annabelle glanced at the maid in surprise, for she had expected the usual sniff, followed by ‘handsome is as handsome
does’.

But Betty had not the words to explain that for once Annabelle was beautiful inside as well as out.

‘It don’t seem right you going on your own,’ added Betty. ‘I’ll fetch my bonnet and cloak and come with you in the carriage, my lady, as far as the door.’

‘No,’ said Annabelle, ‘that will not be necessary.’

On impulse, she gave Betty a hug, and then left the room and made her way downstairs.

The carriage with its two tall footmen standing by the steps was waiting outside. They assisted Annabelle into the carriage, folded up the steps, and hung on the backstrap as the coachman
cracked his whip.

A great deal of Annabelle’s fears fell from her shoulders. She was young and she was out in the West End of London at night where the flambeaux blazed and crackled outside the great houses
and the lights of the carriage lamps bobbed like fireflies through the dark.

Since her husband had already arrived, she was not asked to produce an invitation card.

She left her cloak in a downstairs ante room, squared her shoulders, and slowly mounted the curved staircase towards the sound of music from the rooms on the first floor.

She let out a little sigh of relief. The Duke and Duchess were no longer waiting to receive the guests but had joined the party in the ballroom. She could slip in unnoticed.

But members of society had started to return to town and although there were a number of the rather effete gentlemen that Annabelle had already met, their ranks had been swelled by a good few
dashing gentlemen. Mr Brummell was in Town, and where Mr Brummell went, society followed. Quizzing glasses were raised in her direction, eyes stared, heads swivelled. The much chastened Annabelle
did not realize that this interest was caused by her startling beauty.

Her first thought was that everyone recognized the ballgown as being the one her sister had worn last Season and she coloured and looked right and left for her husband.

She could see no sign of him and could only be glad when a thin, tall man with cavalry whiskers and stick-like legs asked her to dance. They exchanged a few pleasantries when the figure of the
dance brought them together. But when they were strolling about before the next dance as was the custom, her partner said, ‘May I introduce myself. Name of Bryce. There’s something
about you that seems deuced familiar.’

‘Perhaps you know my husband,’ ventured Annabelle, ‘The Marquess of Brabington. In fact I wonder if you have seen . . .’

Mr Bryce stood stock still. ‘I say,’ he said, running a finger around the inside of his collar. ‘You ain’t Minerva Armitage’s sister, her that’s married to
Comfrey?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I . . .’

‘The devil!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t want a cold ball of steel put in
me.
’

‘I do not understand,’ said Annabelle.

‘Oh,
you
know, Comfrey fought a duel with Mr Dubois over your sister. I was Mr Dubois’ second. I must say it was the neatest bit of shooting I ever did see. Comfrey shot the
pistol right out of his hand!’

‘My sister told me nothing of this!’ Annabelle looked at him wide-eyed.

‘May I have the honour?’ A young man with a cheerful face and curly hair had stopped beside Annabelle. The next dance was just being announced. Mr Bryce surrendered her to her new
partner with a patent air of relief, and Annabelle watched him as he walked off to join a group of men and began talking busily.

A duel fought over Minerva, the respectable Minerva, thought Annabelle in amazement. And she never said a word!

She felt a pang of jealousy and tried to conjure up the face and figure of beloved Sylvester in her mind.

But at that moment, she saw her husband.

He was dancing with a pretty, dark-haired girl. She was laughing and gazing up into his eyes. He looked easily the most handsome man in the room, his evening dress moulded to his tall body. The
romantic image of Lord Sylvester shimmered in Annabelle’s brain and was gone.

She kept looking over at her husband, willing him to notice her, and answering her partner’s questions mechanically.

At that moment, Sir Guy Wayne emerged from the cardroom and leaned against a pillar and surveyed the dancers. He had a handsome dissipated face and hard mocking eyes. He wore his hair powdered,
despite the fact that that fashion had largely gone out of style, thanks to the iniquitous flour tax.

He was in his thirty-eighth year and had never married. His fortune was small but his skill atcards was great, and so he was able to live comfortably on the follies of others. He had never
lacked female companionship, specializing as he did in discontented young wives.

He raised his quizzing glass and studied Annabelle for several moments. At last he became aware that his friend, James Worth, was standing at his elbow.

‘Who’s the blonde beauty?’ he drawled, waving his quizzing glass in Annabelle’s direction.

James Worth gave an effeminate titter. ‘That’s the new Marchioness of Brabington,’ he said. ‘Quite pretty if you like Dresden.’

‘Oh, I do. Very much. See how her eyes keep following her husband. And see how the brave Marquess is somehow well aware that she is there and yet will not look,’ mused Sir Guy.
‘I think I see sport.’

‘They were wed
yesterday
!’ exclaimed Mr Worth.

‘Definitely not a love match,’ said Sir Guy, tapping the end of his quizzing glass against his teeth. ‘On his side anyway. Brabington was always a cold fish.’

‘I would not meddle with Brabington,’ cautioned Mr Worth. ‘You know what these great hairy impetuous lumps of cannon fodder are like. Always challenging one to a duel on the
slightest pretext.’

‘No one has ever challenged me to a duel,’ said Sir Guy, his pale eyes fastened on the dancing figure of Annabelle. ‘I am too discreet and I do not philander unless I am sure
the husband is disaffected. In this case, I think I would try to make trouble whatever Brabington may feel for her. I wish revenge on him.’

‘Faith! How Gothic you sound! I never credited you with such strong feelings. Why? What happened?’

‘It was some years ago. I was playing cards at the Bell at Newmarket after the races and was just removing the last of young Evanton’s fortune from him when Brabington leaned forward
and snatched my cards and ran his thumb over them.

‘He called out that they were marked, and before I could protest my innocence, he picked me up and carried me out to the duck pond and threw me in.’

There was a silence.

‘My dear friend,’ said Sir Guy gently,‘Ihave just told you of my dire humiliation. Have you nothing to say?’

‘Were they?’

‘What?’

‘The cards. Were they marked?’

‘Such a question from such a friend,’ said Sir Guy, swivelling and fixing Mr Worth with a hard stare.

‘I say, I am sorry,’ babbled Mr Worth. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Don’t say anything like that again,’ said Sir Guy pleasantly, ‘or I shall have you horsewhipped within an inch of your cringing, miserable life. Do I make myself
clear?’

‘Oh, yes.
Very.
’

‘Now what shall I do with the fair Marchioness, I wonder? Hurt wives or bored wives like to philander or gamble. Either would do.’

‘She is a vicar’s daughter.’

‘That does not endow her with any virtue, mark you. All our beloved clergy care about are their hounds and horses. I have yet to meet a man of the Anglican church who had a mind above the
material things of life. Shall I ask her to dance? Ah, no. Her husband has deigned to notice her. Let us watch.’

The Marquess of Brabington bent over his wife’s hand and deposited a kiss somewhere in the air two inches away from it.

‘You must forgive me, my lady,’ he said, ‘I was so sure you were indisposed. And who shall blame me for thinking thus? That terrible white mask glaring at me across the
breakfast table, those staring reddened eyes, those . . .’

‘It pleases you to jest, Brabington,’ rejoined Annabelle in a thin little voice. ‘I am persuaded you know very well that I was not ill.’

‘But you told me you were,’ pointed out the Marquess. ‘I trust your memory is not failing you. If you cannot remember things you say or things you do, you must write them down.
Ah, we are about to begin. A Scotch reel. Splendid!’

He whirled Annabelle off into the dance at a breathless pace. There was hardly any opportunity to talk, as they were constantly being separated by the figure of the dance. The Marquess began an
infuriating conversation as if there were no interruptions.

‘You know, my lady . . .’

Pas de bas

‘. . . that girls of your age . . .’

Figure eight

‘. . . are subject to the strangest humours which . . .’

Pass and repass

‘. . . Lady Godolphin would no doubt describe as a load of follicles. Nonetheless . . .’

Hands down the middle

‘. . . since my time is too much taken up with affairs of . . . er . . . business, I would feel happier if you . . .’

Grand chain

‘. . . would consult a physician.’

And so it went on, Annabelle finding that as soon as she was about to reply, the dance separated them again.

She gritted her teeth and decided to seize her opportunity when the dance was over.