Taming of Annabelle (19 page)

‘Well, what do you think of the Brabingtons?’ came a female voice from behind another screen. Annabelle froze with the brush halfway to her hair.

‘Very odd,’ laughed another female voice. ‘Only just married and never together.’

‘Well,’ said the first, ‘one love match for that vicarage family is surely enough. We never thought to see dear Sylvester quite so taken. Ah, but Brabington. What a man! What
shoulders! And he has the best legs of any man in London!’

‘Legs!’ giggled the second. ‘Priscilla, you are too bold. If Lord Brabington could only hear you!’

‘Mayhap I shall tell him myself, and quite soon,’ rejoined the one called Priscilla with a little laugh.

Annabelle sat very still. Lady Priscilla Coombes. She had recognized her voice.

All at once, the first pangs of possessiveness began to assail Annabelle. He was
her
husband, her
property.
How
dare
he rouse such ambitions in other women?

‘How dare you rouse such ambitions in Sir Guy Wayne?’ sneered the voice of her conscience.

‘Oh, be quiet!’ Annabelle said to her conscience, and a young lady who had come round the screen quickly backed away in fright.

‘That’s that,’ Annabelle told her reflection with a sort of gloomy satisfaction, ‘I hang from trees, I gossip, I fall in love with my brother-in-law, and now I talk to
myself. What else?’

But the words ‘fall in love with my brother-in-law’ rang strangely in her ears. ‘Sylvester,’ she whispered. But there was no answering warmth or longing. In her mind he
was a charming cardboard figure, a toy of her schoolgirl days, something once cried over with childish fervour, something now barely understood. Annabelle began to wonder if she had loved and lost
– or if she had ever loved at all.

She went slowly back to the ballroom, plucking at the blue scarf around her shoulders in a nervous, unsure way, looking out at the world as if she were seeing for the first time.

There was no sign of Sir Guy Wayne. There was no sign of her husband either. An anxious Lady Godolphin came bustling up. The Marquess had searched everywhere for her, she said, and having failed
to find her, had gone home.

‘He said he would walk,’ said Lady Godolphin, ‘so you may take the carriage.’

Annabelle looked at Lady Godolphin fully for the first time, seeing the anxious worry and concern under the layers of paint.

‘Thank you,’ she said gently. ‘Lady Godolphin. I owe you a most humble apology. I was told about Colonel Brian and sworn to secrecy. I had no right to break such a confidence.
I would not cause you pain for anything in the world.’

‘Well, now,’ said Lady Godolphin, crushing Annabelle to a chest full of jewels. ‘If you ain’t the sweetest thing that ever was.

‘Now if you hadn’t of said all that, I wouldn’t be getting married. So it all worked out for the best. God moves in mischievous ways, as your dear father would say.’

‘He does indeed,’ said the Marchioness of Brabington.

Somehow Annabelle was not surprised to learn that her husband had arrived home and promptly gone out again. She felt very odd, thinner, older, as if the other Annabelle, the
careless, thoughtless one had left, leaving behind a pale, formless person.

She was very quiet as Betty undressed her, until she seemed to rouse herself, and said, ‘You may have my pink muslin gown to take back to Hopeworth with you. You’ve always liked
it.’

‘You mean take it back for Miss Deirdre,’ exclaimed Betty.

‘No, I mean for you to wear,’ said Annabelle. ‘It would not look well with Deirdre’s red hair.’

That set Betty crying. She couldn’t bear to go away and leave Miss Bella alone in London. It didn’t seem right. Annabelle forced herself, despite her fatigue, to soothe the maid, and
eventually sent Betty away reassured.

She climbed into bed and thought about her husband. She wondered why he had married her and then she realized that he had married her for love – a love which seemed to have disappeared.
She remembered the warmth of his gaze, the feel of his lips against hers, his long, hard body pressed against her own. A large tear rolled down her cheek and sparkled in the lace at the throat of
her nightgown.

Perhaps tomorrow would bring some changes. Perhaps there was something she could do or say that would bring the warmth back to his eyes.

In a coffee house, not very far away, the Marquess sat entertaining the vicar, the Reverend Charles Armitage, and his friend Squire Radford.

They had talked of the war, they had talked of the economy and they had talked of the political situation until at last a silence fell on the group.

‘Well,’ demanded the vicar at last. ‘How goes Bella?’

‘Better, I hope,’ said the Marquess, turning his glass in his fingers so that the diamonds on his rings winked and sparkled.

The Squire gave a delicate cough. ‘And did you follow our advice and behave badly?’

‘I have behaved very badly,’ said the Marquess ruefully.

‘And is it working?’

The Marquess looked thoughtfully at his wine. ‘Annabelle is very angry, very upset, but at least I do not think I have allowed her much peace to think of anyone else.’

‘That Guy Wayne is a bad ’un,’ said the vicar.

‘He has his uses,’ said the Marquess. ‘And I have made sure that he appears only ridiculous.’

‘Better be careful,’ growled the vicar. ‘These snakelike men can strike hard and fast when you least expect it.’

‘I am not afraid of him,’ said the Marquess calmly. He refilled his glass. ‘What a pair of reprehensible old sinners you are,’ he grinned. ‘Now what gave you the
idea that the ladies like villains?’

‘Oh, mere observation,’ said the vicar hurriedly. ‘Don’t play the game too long. Are you going back to the wars?’

‘Not yet,’ said the Marquess. ‘They have given me certain duties in town. They expect me to sell out, you know.’

‘And will you?’

‘I don’t know. When the Season is ended, I shall see. But,’ the Marquess roused himself, ‘it is time I went. Do not worry about Sir Guy Wayne. There is nothing he can
do.’

The following morning brought Annabelle a letter from Minerva. She turned it over and over in her fingers, and then with an exclamation of impatience broke open the seal and
read the contents, holding the letter far away from her so that any recriminations on Minerva’s part might not leap off the page and stab her as painfully as they might do if she held the
paper closer.

But the letter was simple and direct. Minerva apologized for not having written before. They were held at Dover since there was something about their ship which needed to be repaired and
involved a great deal of nautical terms which she did not understand.

Minerva went on to talk about the happiness of marriage and the beauties of Dover. Then followed a long historical and geographical description of the town. Annabelle’s eyes flew across
the lines. She turned the page. ‘And so, dear sister,’ Minerva ended, ‘you have been much in my Thoughts. Sylvester has just come to tell me we are to sail in the morning and
since we shall be at sea for some long time, it will be quite a while before I can write to you again. Be happy in your Marriage, Annabelle, and cherish your husband who is a fine man and most
Worthy of you. Remember, that although I do not write, you are never absent from my Thoughts. It is always best to remember that the Good Lord expects us to
cherish
that which we
have.
For if we do not, they will be Taken from us. Yr. Loving Sister.’

Annabelle let the letter drop in her lap and stared across the room with unseeing eyes.

Minerva knew. It was in that last paragraph. Minerva knew of her younger sister’s infatuation for Lord Sylvester. Annabelle knew her sister too well. That which she had was clearly Lord
Brabington. Except, it seemed as if she had no hold on him at all!

Sir Guy Wayne had spent a restless night after his ducking in the goldfish pool.

He wondered whether Annabelle had pushed him, or if someone or something else had thrust him backwards. He had left by the garden gate and had had to walk home in his wet clothes because he
could not bear to make a fool of himself in front of his own servants by waiting outside for his carriage, dripping wet, and with bits of weed hanging from his clothes.

He realized his thirst for revenge was so fierce that it was stopping him from all logical thought. Around eight in the morning he at last fell into a heavy sleep for one hour, and awoke feeling
clear and confident.

He ate a hearty breakfast and carefully turned over in his mind all he knew of the Marquess of Brabington. And then he recalled a recent and fascinating bit of scandal. The Marquess was rumoured
to have had a liaison with a certain high-flyer, Harriet Evans. The scandalmongers had whispered that the Marquess had been seen driving Harriet in the Park the very day after his wedding and that
Annabelle had been present in another carriage with her little sister.

His pale eyes took on a shine of triumph. He would not rush into any plot, but would think of how to use this new weapon very carefully.

Harriet Evans had made the mistake of falling in love with her latest lover, a younger son with too many gambling debts and not much in funds to pay them with. Harriet was extravagant. And yet
Harriet had remained peculiarly faithful to this young spendthrift. It followed that Harriet would be in sore need of money.

It was a damp, grey morning when he finally left his lodgings in St James’s Street, but he felt the sun was shining on him as he cheerfully tooled his repaired phaeton in the direction of
the village of Islington.

Harriet Evans lived in a pretty little villa which had the appearance of having woken up one morning to find itself surrounded with other buildings. It looked as if it ought to be standing alone
in a pleasant bit of park instead of sandwiched between two tall houses in Frog Lane.

Sir Guy rang the bell and waited. The house seemed silent, although a wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys.

He tried the bell again but it was of one of the organ stop variety where you are never sure whether the wire you are tugging is still connected to a bell.

After some deliberation he rapped on the door with his cane, and called out, ‘Halloa there?’

At last, a casement window was pushed open upstairs and a dusty-looking housemaid in a huge print mob cap asked him what he wanted.

‘Sir Guy Wayne,’ he replied impatiently, ‘come to see your mistress.’

She looked at him doubtfully and then drew her head back in again and slammed the window.

Sir Guy forced himself to be patient. These whores kept late nights or worked all night so they were more likely to be abed at this hour than the more respectable female.

At last there came the sound of bolts being drawn back and the same housemaid appeared at the door and bobbed a curtsy. ‘The mistress will see you now,’ she said.

She led him into a small, overcrowded parlour and left him. He looked about curiously. Everything was very neat and clean. The little occasional tables were crammed with snuff boxes and
ornaments and miniatures on stands. The walls were covered from top to bottom with oil paintings, depicting various rural scenes. One large looking glass was suspended over the crowded mantel.

He heard a light step behind him.

Harriet Evans was in her undress. A lacy nightcap balanced on her glossy, pomaded curls, and her bodice and petticoats were imperfectly concealed by a frivolous peignoir.

‘Sir Guy,’ she smiled, extending a dimpled little hand. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘You look enchanting this morning,’ he said, bending over her hand.

‘And what brings you here? Pray take a seat and I will ring for refreshments. Madeira? Port?’

‘Madeira will do splendidly,’ he said, sitting down on a small plush chair. She arranged herself on a diminutive sofa opposite and looked at him with the open and innocent
friendliness which constituted the major part of her charm.

‘Are you still with young Persalt?’

‘Mr Harry Persalt,’ she murmured. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. I have a business matter I wish to discuss with you.’

A shadow crossed her face and she opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment the housemaid slouched in with wine and cakes, so Harriet contented herself by twisting the lace edges of her
peignoir between her fingers until the girl had left.

As the door closed, she raised her eyes to his. ‘I am no longer in the way of . . . er . . . business,’ she said.

‘The world well lost for love,’ sneered Sir Guy, and then, noticing the lift of her chin and the hardening of her face, he amended quickly, ‘You deserve a good and regular
life, Harriet. You were made for naught else.’

‘Then what is the nature of your business?’ said Harriet sharply.

‘I assume you have need of money.’

‘Not in the least,’ said Harriet with a careless laugh.

‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’ He sipped his madeira, watching her over the rim of his glass, like a cat watching a mouse.

An Irish drunk outside the Barley Mow public house hard by began to sing in a lilting tenor,