Taming of Annabelle (22 page)

There was also a refreshing return of formal manners. In many cases, brutal manners towards the female had taken the place of the last century’s ceremonious demeanour and good
breeding.

After three-quarters of an hour of swaying backwards and forwards in the press from step to step, Annabelle at last found herself in the presence of Queen Charlotte.

King George, of course, was not present, and never would be again. It was feared his madness showed no sign of abating.

His madness had been ignored as long as possible but when he at last descended from his carriage and shook hands heartily with the branches of a tree, under the impression that he was paying his
respects to the King of Prussia, it was decided his malady had gone too far. Lord Sheffield reported that the King could still be quite cheerful. ‘The King’s illness is not melancholy
or mischievous,’ he reported. ‘At times it is rather gay. He fancies London is drowned and orders his yacht to go there. In one of his soliloquies, he said, “I hate nobody,
why should anyone hate me?” Recollecting a little, he added, “I beg pardon, I do hate the Marquis of Buckingham.”’

Annabelle had heard many stories of this little martinet Queen who ruled her court in the stiff and formal manner of the German courts.

Annabelle was led forwards and made her curtsy to the Queen and to the royal princesses. Queen Charlotte looked sourly at her, took snuff, said gruffly to the Marquess, ‘How d’ye
do?’ and then turned her attention to the next in line.

Annabelle was glad to escape. But another threequarters of an hour passed before they could get down the stairs, another hour waiting for their carriage, and an hour and a half to get down the
Mall.

‘I shall be glad to get home,’ yawned Annabelle. ‘I want to
slouch.
I feel as if I am on show in a flowered cage.’

‘We shall have a simple supper first,’ said the Marquess. ‘All that confounded bowing and scraping gives me an appetite.’

The ‘simple supper’ turned out to consist of soup, fish, fricassee of chicken, cutlets, venison, veal, hare, vegetables of all kinds, tart, melon, pineapple, grapes, peaches and
nectarines.

They were waited on by six servants, a butler and a gentleman-in-waiting. The gentleman-in-waiting was an indispensable part of every gentleman’s retinue. At house parties, you were
expected to bring your gentleman-in-waiting to stand behind your chair during dinner, ready to shovel you off the floor when you fell down drunk.

Annabelle had quickly learned to consume quite a large quantity of wine without feeling dizzy. Champagne, she had also quickly learned, was ‘vulgar’. Claret went with the meat and
tokay with the pudding. Hock, sherry and port or port-and-water could be served throughout the meal, although Brummell kept trying to insist that port – ‘a hot, intoxicating liquor so
much drunk by the lower orders’ – should wait for the cheese.

Relaxed and happy, Annabelle began to amuse the Marquess with stories of her home life, of her frequent feuds with Deirdre, and how Minerva would always be called in to be the peacemaker.

‘You miss your sister, do you not?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Annabelle. ‘I do wish she could see me in my Court dress.’

‘I thought, my love, at one time that you were jealous of Minerva. That you wanted the . . . er . . . things that she had.’

‘I had a silly bout of jealousy,’ said Annabelle with lowered eyes and lowered voice. ‘But that is gone.’

There was a silence. The candle flame burned clear and bright. The servants had retired. The fire crackled and hissed on the hearth.

‘And Sylvester?’ he asked softly.

‘I had not yet grown up,’ replied Annabelle, praying that he would understand.

‘And now that you have?’

She raised her eyes to his, anxious, pleading. She wanted to say, ‘Now, I love you as a woman should love a man.’ But the words would not come. Suppose he laughed at her?

He gave a little sigh and began to talk of their plans for the morrow. He had military duties to attend to, he said, but he would be free in the evening to squire her to the opera.

Annabelle answered in monosyllables, her eyes fixed on her plate, cursing herself for her lack of courage, knowing that the moment to say something had passed.

She suddenly felt infinitely weary and infinitely young and helpless.

The days of this non-marriage seemed to stretch in front of her endlessly, days when she would worry and watch for the time when he would decide to console himself with another woman.

At last, he suggested that they retire. She was still wearing her finery and he courteously helped her to mount the stairs to her room.

She waited with downcast eyes for his usual brief goodnight embrace but he surprised her by holding open the door to her bedroom and following her inside.

Holden, who had been asleep beside the fire with some sewing on her lap, leapt to her feet.

‘You may leave us, Holden,’ said the Marquess, and Annabelle stood stiffly and awkwardly in the centre of the room until the maid had left.

‘I am very afraid, Peter,’ said Annabelle, ‘and I do not know what I should do.’

The Marquess of Brabington moved towards her.

‘Come, my sweeting,’ he said, ‘and let me show you.’

It had all been remarkably easy, thought Annabelle, some time later, as she lay with her head pillowed on his naked chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

An all-consuming passion had swept her along, teaching her to respond to him, casting out fear.

She stirred lazily in his arms and he whispered, ‘Not asleep? I will love you again, if you are not careful.’

She laughed and turned against him and he pulled her naked body tightly against his own, his hands stroking and caressing her back and buttocks, until he heard her breathing quickening and felt
her lips desperately seeking his own.

He made love to her very slowly this time, letting his hands and lips wander and trace patterns on her body, until she suddenly leapt alive like a wild animal, raking his back with her nails,
begging and pleading and making odd little noises until he took her again.

And so they passed the night and the morning, buried in each other, sleeping and waking, and waking each time to find the lovemaking had become more intense.

Then finally Annabelle awoke, and he was gone. She felt langourously exhausted, placidly happy.

Until it hit her like a thunderclap. She had not said she loved him.

And he – he had not said he loved her either!

It should have been the happiest day of Annabelle’s life. It proved to be the most disastrous.

She sent word to Jensen that she would not be receiving callers. She planned to spend a leisurely afternoon, reading a little, writing to Minerva, and then devote the early part of the evening
to preparing for the opera.

She was seated at a little escritoire in the gloomy drawing room, trying to find words to tell Minerva of all the newfound happiness in her marriage. Mrs Armitage had given her an address in
Naples to which to write.

She looked up in surprise as Jensen entered to tell her that there was a . . . hem . . . person demanding audience.

‘A person, Jensen?’

‘An extremely fashionable lady, but, I would venture to assess, more
demi
than
mondaine.
’

‘Then send her about her business, Jensen.’

‘The person appears to be in extreme distress, my lady, and said you would be anxious to see her although her name might mean nothing to you.’

‘Where have you put her?’

‘She is seated in the hall, my lady. She came without a maid,’ answered Jensen with a sniff, as if this last piece of intelligence confirmed his opinion of the lady’s
character.

‘Well, I will just look into the hall,’ sighed Annabelle, rising, ‘and if it is someone I have never seen before, you may send her away.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

The butler stood aside, holding open the door. Annabelle peeped around it, and then froze. ‘Went as white as the lace at her throat,’ as Jensen was to tell the servants’ hall
later.

‘I will see her,’ said Annabelle in a low voice. ‘But answer immediately, should I ring the bell.’

She went and sat down, her hands clasped in her lap, her back very straight.

‘Miss Harriet Evans,’ announced Jensen lugubriously. Both women surveyed each other curiously.

Annabelle had recognized her husband’s fair partner from the Park.

Part of Annabelle’s mind registered again with some surprise the unerring sense of social position that certain upper servants had. She herself would have thought Harriet Evans was a
highly respectable lady.

‘Please sit down, Miss Evans,’ said Annabelle, ‘and state your business.’

Harriet sat down demurely and raised her fine eyes to Annabelle’s face. ‘My lady,’ she said in a low, throbbing voice, ‘it breaks my heart to come here. But I am in sore
distress and perhaps you should know the manner of man to whom you are married.’

‘That is enough,’ said Annabelle sharply. ‘We do not discuss our husband.’

‘Not even when I am carrying his child?’ said Harriet.

Annabelle’s hand fluttered up to her throat. ‘You had better explain,’ she said in a dazed way.

‘Before he was married, I was in his lordship’s keeping, you understand, my lady. I was deeply in love. I am not a courtesan by nature. He showed all signs of being equally in love
with me. I found I was pregnant and went to him for help. You have no doubt seen advertisements in the newspapers, my lady, put there by people who offer to relieve us of this kind of
embarrassment.’

Annabelle shook her head dumbly.

‘In short, I am speaking of an abortion. My lord begged me not to do it. He said he would look after me and the child. He said the child was a result of our love. He did not offer
marriage, my lady, but somehow I assumed . . .’

Harriet fumbled in her reticule, drew out a wisp of handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes, while Annabelle sat rigidly watching her. ‘The next thing I knew,’ said Harriet in a stifled
voice, ‘was that he was married. I . . . I thought of killing myself. But I do love him so, and . . . and there is my unborn child to think of. It would be murder!’

Annabelle tried to think clearly. It could not be true! And yet the woman seemed to be in genuine distress. Peter had been seen driving her in the Park on the day after his wedding. All men of
the Marquess’s age had had some sort of liaison before their marriage. So her mind raced on and on, looking for an escape.

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Annabelle desperately. ‘I am very sorry for you Miss Evans. If it is money you wish . . . ?’

‘No!’ cried Harriet, ‘as God is my judge.’ And she turned her fine eyes up to the ceiling.

And all in that moment, Annabelle was forcibly reminded of Lady Godolphin confronting Colonel Brian. She took a deep breath.

‘Look here, Miss Evans,’ she said quietly. ‘I do not know why you came here. I feel, somehow, that you are not telling the truth. My husband would never have behaved in such a
way.’

Harriet kept her handkerchief to her eyes while she thought busily.

Then she dropped the handkerchief, and got to her feet and looked down at Annabelle, her eyes alight with laughter.

‘The trick has not worked, I see,’ she smiled.

‘Trick?’

‘Oh, it was an idea of Peter’s to see how much you loved him. He thought it would test your fidelity. I used to be an actress, my lady, but obviously I am not as good as I thought I
was.’

Annabelle walked over to the fireplace and tugged the bell rope so ferociously that it came away in her hand.

‘Jensen,’ she said as the butler’s curious face appeared at the door. ‘Show this person out, and she is not to be admitted again.’

She turned her back on Harriet and stood looking into the fireplace.

Harriet made her way thoughtfully back to Islington. As she paid off the hack, she was not surprised to find Sir Guy Wayne lounging on the doorstep.

‘Come in,’ she said curtly, drawing off her gloves. He followed her into the cluttered parlour.

‘I did as you requested,’ said Harriet in a flat voice. ‘She did not believe me. But when I told her it had been set up by her husband in order to test her fidelity, oh, she
believed that.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Quite sure, and I tell you, Sir Guy,
that
caused her more hurt than had she believed the other.’

‘Good,’ he commented, drawing out a bag of guineas. ‘You have earned your fee. I trust you are prepared to leave for Brighton today.’

Harriet took the money and then looked at him doubtfully. ‘I fear you will find you have wasted your money, sir. She will simply confront Brabington with the matter when he arrives home,
he will deny it, and that will be the end of it.’

‘I am gambling that she will not,’ smiled Sir Guy. ‘I have never found my observation of human nature to be at fault. I have picked up rumours that the fair Marchioness was
much smitten with Lord Sylvester Comfrey and merely married Brabington so as to outdo her sister. That, I feel sure, is why he flaunted you in the Park. Had the wedding night been one of bliss,
then he would not have done such a thing.

‘He did it to revenge himself on her. They are now in love and lately. That too I have observed. But this new love is a painfully fragile thing. She will remember his behaviour on the
first few days after the marriage, and, as for him, he will remember hers. So she will be prepared to believe the worst. An I am not mistaken, she will simply turn cold and indifferent and will
look around for a means to revenge herself on him. And I, my dear Harriet, will be at hand to supply her with the means. Then how can his lordship call me out when the young wife comes to my arms
so willingly?’

Harriet shuddered. She wanted to fling the money in his face. But she needed it so badly. And she was sure he was mistaken. The Brabingtons were probably now in each other’s arms and the
whole thing would have been already forgotten.

Annabelle went automatically through the rest of the day, numb and stiff and hurt.