Taming of Annabelle (12 page)

The monarchy was toadied to, but generally despised, thanks to the rise in literacy, the wide distribution of newspapers, and some of the most brilliant and cruellest caricaturists who ever
lived.

The Prince Regent was Prince Florizel no more. Fat and florid, famous for his penchant for ageing mistresses and his enormous backside in skin-tight breeches, he was criticized mercilessly,
perhaps because he quite obviously minded the criticism so much.

His brothers were accounted a disgrace.

The Duke of York caused a scandal when it was found out his mistress was selling commissions.

The Duke of Clarence, when a sailor, ignored his superiors’ orders. In civil life, he talked like a groom, and lived with his actress friend, Mrs Jordan, who fathered him a whole brood of
little Fitzclarences.

The Duke of Kent was a socialist, a radical, and intrigued against the Prince Regent. He was a military martinet who caused a mutiny in Gibraltar over the severity of his discipline.

The Duke of Sussex was foolish and extravagant; the Duke of Cambridge, eccentric, wild, and with a loud bellowing voice. The only thing to be said in his favour was that he begat only legitimate
offspring.

The Duke of Cumberland was so bad that his own family spoke of him with horror. He goaded his Roman Catholic valet by sneering at his religion until the man hacked at him with a sabre, exposing
the Duke’s brain and making his evil face even more sinister. He survived the attack.

It was a world of double standards, of gross brutality mixed with refinement. One paid lip-service to the Ten Commandments, but the unwritten commandment, Thou Shalt Not Be Found Out, was the
one everyone bowed to. A married lady could have an affair, provided she were discreet. To be found out meant social ruin.

Minerva had been better equipped to deal with this mad world during her debut, armed as she had been with rigid Christian principles. Annabelle, with her craving for attention, her jealousy, her
immaturity, and her intense calf love for Lord Sylvester, was completely bewildered.

She still wanted to put Minerva’s classical nose out of joint. She dreamed feverishly of the murmur of admiration which would greet her own appearance at the church, and how Minerva would
have to stand in the shadow of her, Annabelle’s, radiant beauty.

Her wedding gown, emerging from under the skilled hands of Madame Verné, seemed depressingly simple, being of white satin, fastening under one arm, with a half train and a long veil of
Valenciennes lace.

But Annabelle’s disappointment in her gown fled before Minerva’s news that her own, presented by the Duchess, was old and fussy, ‘and the lace quite yellow’.

‘Oh, how can you
bear
it, Merva?’ asked Annabelle, round-eyed.

‘I am marrying the man of my choice,’ smiled Minerva, ‘so I can be quite happy in whatever I have. Sylvester will not mind.’

‘Aha!’ thought Annabelle. ‘The exquisite Lord Sylvester not mind?’ It just showed how naive Minerva was.

Minerva had thought she had discussed her honeymoon plans with her sister, but, in fact, she had neglected to do so. And so to Annabelle the Season stretched in front of her with dreams of Lord
Sylvester’s tall figure partnering her in the waltz.

At last the great day arrived. Annabelle was feeling all the calm of a soldier when he at last finds himself in the thick of his first battle.

Anticipation and dread had fled to be replaced by a heady excitement. She knew she had never looked more beautiful, and that Minerva, in her fussy, yellowing lace and large feather hat, had
never looked more plain.

Swelling with pride, the vicar of St Charles and St Jude led his two daughters up the aisle. Through the lace of her veil, Annabelle could see all the faces covertly turned in her direction. The
whole of society was there. Familiar figures from Hopeworth seemed to spring out of the crowd. There were Emily and Josephine, giggling and whispering, Squire Radford, small and frail, Lade
Wentwater in a huge Bonaparte bonnet. Even the famous leader of fashion, Mr George Brummell, was there, surveying the congregation with his ‘small grey scrutinizing eye’.

There was the Duchess of Allsbury, looking sour, and submitting to the fact that the marriage of her son was almost a
fait accompli.

And being the cynosure of all this distinguished congregation intoxicated Annabelle’s young senses.

After the wedding would come the London Season which began in April, balls and parties with herself and Minerva and Lord Sylvester and the Marquess appearing together, always envied.

So elated was she, so determined to play her part to the hilt, that she did not even spare Lord Sylvester a glance but smiled shyly at the Marquess in a way which she was sure was exactly how a
bride should smile.

But then the wedding service began.

Annabelle felt the cold chill of reality strike into her very soul.

She had heard the wedding service many times when her father married couples from the village of Hopeworth. But never had the words had such meaning, held such awful weight.

‘To have and to hold from this day forwards, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s
holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.’

The church did not make any allowances for extra-marital lusts. With every word of the service, she felt the strong iron bands of matrimony fastening about her.

Then the Marquess’s voice, husky with emotion, saying, ‘. . . with my body I thee worship.’

Bewildered, stricken, frightened, Annabelle trembled at her new husband’s side, and for the first time thought of the night to come and the days to follow.

The bells rang out, their sound noisy and jumbled like the thoughts in Annabelle’s head, when she was finally led down the aisle as the Marchioness of Brabington.

It was Minerva’s moment of triumph, although she was aware of nothing else but the warm feel of her husband’s hand in her own.

Her radiance and beauty transcended the fussiness of her dress. Behind her walked Annabelle, veil thrown back, eyes wide and hunted.

Her mind craved the reassurance, the justification, that she had not inflicted all this on herself. Why should
she
feel such dreadful pangs of conscience, when everyone knew that most
married couples in society cordially loathed each other, and quite a number of them lived separately.

Divorce was very rare, but separation was extremely fashionable and
tonnish
.

But the words of the wedding service, the
commitment
to marriage, lay heavy on her soul.

The wedding breakfast was held at the Duke and Duchess of Allsbury’s town house in Grosvenor Square. Annabelle listened dully to the speeches and the noise and laughter that rose and fell
about her.

Snatches of conversation reached her and then her fright made her deaf to the rest. She drank a great deal of wine, until her husband gently put a hand over her glass, and she trembled before
this first sign of marital authority.

The Duchess of Allsbury, who seemed determined to pretend it was a mere social gathering and no one was getting married at all, was complaining bitterly about the prison conditions in which
Leigh Hunt, editor of
The Examiner
, was living. It was not that they were harsh, it was that they were ridiculously cosy, was the burden of her grace’s complaint.

Leigh Hunt had been imprisoned the year before for pointing out in
The Examiner
that the Prince Regent was ‘a violater of his work, a libertine over head and ears in debt and
disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country or the respect of
posterity.’ It was said that Mr Hunt’s cell was ‘papered with trellised roses, the ceiling painted with sky and clouds, the windows furnished with Venetian blinds, and an
unfailing supply of flowers.’ He was also allowed his books and piano.

‘Which is ridiculous,’ said the Duchess, ‘after what he said about our dear Prince Regent.’

‘What was he charged with?’ asked Lady Godolphin, who rarely read anything in the newspapers other than the war reports.

‘Sedition,’ said the Duchess in awful tones.

‘Dear me!’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘Wouldn’t he marry the girl?’

But Annabelle lost the thread of that conversation. She was staring down at her husband’s square strong hands. Soon he would have licence to do what he wanted. ‘Licence my roving
hands and let them go, Before, behind between . . .’ Lord Sylvester was laughing at something Minerva said. He was cool and elegant as ever, long, white, almost feminine hands holding the
wine glass. ‘If only I could be Minerva. If only I could have married Sylvester,’ thought Annabelle, and closed her eyes as a sudden wave of pain washed over her.

‘Are you feeling faint?’ came the Marquess’s anxious voice.

‘No,’ whispered Annabelle. ‘I-I have had too much to drink.’

To Minerva, the wedding breakfast seemed interminable; to Annabelle, it was all too short.

Minerva and Lord Sylvester were to leave first. Minerva folded her arms around Annabelle and hugged her tightly. ‘I
shall
miss you, Bella,’ she said, her large grey eyes
swimming with tears. ‘But I shall write every day.’

Annabelle gave her sister an impatient little push and stood back.

‘Don’t talk fustian, Merva,’ she said. ‘Why should you bother to write from St James’s when we shall practically be living next door? You silly goose! We shall be
together almost every day of the Season.’

‘But I
told
you,’ said Minerva desperately. ‘Sylvester and I are going to Naples to start our honeymoon. We leave
now.
I . . .’

A group of laughing guests broke in between them, forcing Minerva towards the door of the hall where Sylvester was waiting.

Minerva stared back at Annabelle, saw how her sister’s shocked eyes flew to Lord Sylvester’s, saw all the love and longing there. And then Sylvester had an arm around Minerva’s
waist and was leading her from the house.

‘Annabelle looks as if she has seen a ghost,’ said Squire Radford from his seat in the shadows of the hall. The vicar turned and looked down.

‘Maybe I should have stopped it, Jimmy. Let us get away from these poxy guests and find us a decent bottle of port. I have need of your advice.’

‘Do you never ask your Maker for advice?’ asked Squire Radford with a flash of humour lighting up his old eyes.

‘Oh, I leave my calling card quite frequently,’ said the vicar. ‘But you know what the Bible says, “Help yourself, and heaven will help you”.’

‘Jean de la Fontaine said that.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A French gentleman, famous for his fables.’

‘Like that Greek chap Edwin’s always prosing on about?’

‘Aesop?’

‘Him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s foreigners for you.’ He cocked an ear. ‘She’s off!’

There came a terrible banshee wailing from the Square outside.

‘Merciful Heavens! Who is it?’

‘My wife.’

‘Then don’t you think we . . .’

‘No,’ said the vicar. ‘She’s enjoying herself. Having the Spasm of all time with the flower o’ London society to see her. Come along Jimmy.’

The two gentlemen found a quiet morning room on the ground floor with windows overlooking the gardens at the back. A gentle drizzle was beginning to fall, blurring the windows. The vicar rang
the bell and ordered a bottle of port and asked for the fire to be lit for the day had become chilly.

Squire Radford settled himself in a chair on one side of the fire and the vicar sat facing him in the other. The Squire was a gnarled little old gentleman with thin stick-like legs encased in
clocked stockings and ending in large buckled shoes. His feet barely touched the ground. His small head was covered, or
shaded
rather, by an enormous, elaborately curled white wig. He wore
sober black with a modest white cravat.

He looked more like a clergyman than did his friend the vicar who was sporting a sky-blue morning coat with silver buttons the size of soup plates.

‘Now,’ said the vicar, after the port had been brought and the first two glasses quickly downed, ‘it’s like this, Jimmy. I knew that there Annabelle o’ mine did not
give a fig for Brabington.’

‘My dear Charles,’ exclaimed the Squire, ‘you are become over-greedy in your social ambitions. One daughter married to a viscount is enough . . .’

‘No, no. I thought I was doing the right thing. Brabington is a fine young man. Any woman who hadn’t got windmills in her head would fall in love with him. But Bella had this
tendre
for Lord Sylvester, see?’

‘No, I am afraid . . .’

‘It’s like this. All gels o’ that age get hot for someone they can’t have. And Bella’s always been mortal jealous o’ Minerva. So I thought that Brabington
would soon bring her to heel. He’s a soldier.’

‘Dear me. And you expect him to regiment her affections?’

‘Put like that, it sounds silly. What troubles me is Annabelle always seemed to be the sort o’ gel who should get married young. Too many dangerous hot passions churning around
there. Now, I wonder if I’m wrong. If ever I saw a scared virgin who thought she’d made the mistake of her life, it was my Bella, leaving the church. And when Sylvester left she stared
after him like Juliet seeing that there wood marching.’

The Squire twisted his glass and studied the ruby droplets creeping down the side. The fire hissed and smoked as the drizzle outside changed to a steady downpour.

‘I shall tell you a story, Charles,’ he said, in his high, precise voice. ‘Although I am out of the world and buried, as it were, in Hopeworth, I was a wild young man in my
youth. Several of my old cronies still live in town and refuse to accept their age. They paint like courtesans, smell like civet cats, and fight their increasing girth with Cumberland corsets. They
call on me from time to time, bringing with them the gossip of the town. Quite a time ago, one such friend told me an
ondit
which was circulating about the Marquess of Brabington.