Taming of Annabelle (17 page)

All Minerva’s many kindnesses came back to her. How she wished she had never been so silly. Then she could have written to Minerva and asked her for her advice.

‘Come into my room, Bella,’ called Deirdre, ‘and I will show you what Lady Godolphin has given me!’

Annabelle left her mother to her disorganized packing and followed Deirdre’s sprightly figure into the girl’s room which she shared with Diana.

Deirdre proudly exhibited a fan with mother-ofpearl sticks and painted with a pretty pastoral scene.

‘She actually
gave
it to you?’ said Annabelle. ‘No doubt she will send the bill to Lord Sylvester.’

‘I have no doubt she will, too,’ laughed Deirdre. ‘She really is the most shocking old quiz, but I must confess to an affection for her. I would certainly like to be able to
attract the attentions of the gentlemen in the way she does when I am her great age. Colonel Brian is quite
épris.
’

‘But not enough to marry her,’ said Annabelle.

‘Well, you know,’ said Deirdre, ‘it is all very shocking. He
is
married, you see. I know, for Lady Godolphin told me.’

‘He is no longer married,’ said Annabelle, forgetting her promise to Minerva.

‘But how . . . who told you?’ gasped Deirdre.

‘Minerva told me. Colonel Brian’s wife died last summer and he kept it a secret, did not even have a notice of her death put in the newspapers.’

‘Is
Minerva
sure of this?’

‘Indeed, yes. For Lord Sylvester told her. He found it out quite by chance.’

‘Oooh!’ said Deirdre, delighted at such a piece of gossip.

Her cry of ‘Oooh!’ was echoed from the doorway, and both sisters swung round.

Lady Godolphin was standing in the doorway, her hand to her heart.

Even with her layers of paint, it was possible to see she had turned deathly white.

‘It is not true,’ cried Annabelle, desperate to repair the damage she had unwittingly caused.

Lady Godolphin gave a faint moaning sound and turned and fled.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Deirdre, beginning to cry. ‘What on earth are you going to do? If Minerva told you about Lady Godolphin, I’ll bet she swore you to secrecy.’

‘Be quiet,’ snapped Annabelle, her face flaming.

She rose and made her way slowly downstairs, wondering what on earth she could say.

Annabelle stopped short on the landing. Lady Godolphin stood in the hall, facing Colonel Brian.

‘Liar!’ she was saying. ‘You led me to believe you were still married.
Auditor!
’

Annabelle stood frozen to the spot. She felt she should flee, that she should not be listening, but shame and worry and fear kept her where she was.

‘My sweet,’ began the Colonel.

‘Don’t use endearments to
me
. I am no longer your sweet,’ retorted Lady Godolphin, putting the back of her hand to her brow in a manner strongly reminiscent of Mrs
Siddons. Annabelle let out a little sigh of relief. Lady Godolphin was beginning to enjoy the drama of the situation.

‘But I
love
you,’ pleaded the Colonel pathetically.

‘Follicles!’ roared Lady Godolphin. ‘You have broke my heart.’

‘Then if you will not listen to me, there is nothing left!’ cried the Colonel, snatching a paper knife from the hall table and holding the point against his heart.

‘No! Don’t!’ screamed Lady Godolphin. ‘I will listen. Arthur, why did you deceive me?’

The Colonel lowered the knife. ‘Until I had met you, you ravishing creature,’ he said intensely, ‘I had led a life of dull and blameless respectability. For the first time in
my life I had a real liaison. Then my wife, poor Bertha, died. I should have proposed marriage but I could not
bear
to let go of the ecstasy of my first illicit affair.

‘If you spurn me, then there is nothing left for me. If you marry me, there will be no happier man in London.’

‘Oh,
Arthur
!’ cried Lady Godolphin, throwing herself against his slight figure with such force that he nearly shot backwards through the door and out into the street.
‘Arthur, of
course
I will. I have never heard anything quite so ravaged.’

Annabelle came to her senses and skipped neatly and quietly back upstairs to Deirdre’s room.

‘All is well,’ she sighed. ‘They are to be married. Lady Godolphin has forgiven her Colonel. What a scene, Deirdre! They are very well suited! Quite like the Haymarket. He even
threatened to kill himself.’

‘You are lucky,’ said Deirdre. ‘Only imagine if she had
not
forgiven him. It would be all around the town how she found out from that well-known tittle-tattle, the
Marchioness of Brabington. You are a
shameless
gossip, Bella.’

‘I?’ demanded Annabelle furiously. ‘
I?
When you were
dragging
every word out of me.’

‘That is not true. Don’t blame me because you simply don’t know how to keep a secret.’

Annabelle made a dive at her sister. Deirdre jumped over the bed to the far side, Annabelle plunged after her, and both rolled over and over on the floor, clawing and punching and kicking.

‘My lady?’

Both girls stopped their fighting and sat up. Annabelle’s hair was tumbled about her ears and the lace fichu of her gown was torn.

The Marquess of Brabington was leaning against the door jamb watching them, his face quite expressionless.

Annabelle leapt to her feet. ‘I am sorry you find me thus, my lord,’ she gasped, ‘but Deirdre needs schooling. She is quite unbelievably spoilt.’

‘It wasn’t my fault, Peter,’ cried Deirdre. ‘She started it.’

‘Peter?’ said Annabelle awfully. ‘Pray address my husband by his title in future, miss!’

‘She may call me Peter if she wishes,’ said the Marquess lazily. ‘It makes me feel quite one of the family. I came to tell you, my lady, that our presence is requested this
evening at the Duke and Duchess of Allsbury’s.’

‘What do
they
want?’ demanded Annabelle rudely.

‘This gets more like a nursery scene every minute,’ said the Marquess coldly. ‘They wish the pleasure of our company.’

Deirdre was staring, wide-eyed, from one to the other.

Annabelle flushed and bit her lip. ‘Very well,’ she said.

‘Good, I shall expect you at eight o’clock.’

‘Where?’

‘At home, of course. Now I must leave. You may carry on.’

‘I am not in the habit of brawling,’ said Annabelle stiffly. ‘The provocation was great.’

But the infuriating Marquess had left.

‘You really don’t like each other much, do you?’ said Deirdre, round-eyed.

‘That’s quite enough from you, miss,’ said Annabelle crossly. ‘Marriage is something
you
will never understand.’

‘I am sure I shall be married myself quite soon,’ said Deirdre airily.

‘
You!
’ said the Marchioness of Brabington gathering up the rags of her dignity. ‘Who on earth would want to marry
you.
’

Deirdre’s mocking shout of ‘Someone who
loves
me,’ followed her down the stairs.

Annabelle fumed silently on the road back to Conduit Street. How could she have been so silly as to tell Deirdre the gossip about Lady Godolphin? Thank goodness, everything seemed well in that
direction. She shuddered to think what the Marquess would say if he found out.

She sent Betty away so that the maid could begin her preparations for the journey to Hopeworth, and sent for the butler, Jensen, and asked him to employ a lady’s maid as soon as
possible.

The butler said that a certain Lady Habbard’s maid was looking for new employ and had a good reputation, and that he would try to engage her services. Then he handed Annabelle a note, said
it was from the Marquess, and withdrew.

Annabelle opened it, wondering what he had to say to her that he had not seen fit to say in front of Deirdre. The note was short and curt. ‘My lady,’ she read. ‘It is my wish
that you forego your drive with Sir Guy Wayne. He is not a suitable escort. I trust you will oblige me in this matter. B.’

Annabelle crumpled up the note in a fury, and then slowly smoothed it out and read it again.

A little smile curved her lips. Peter was jealous! There could be no other explanation.

If Sir Guy Wayne were not respectable, he most certainly would not have been invited to the ball last night, thought Annabelle naively, unaware that the ballrooms and drawing rooms of London
held a great many villains who were invited for their bloodline and not their character. She turned her attention to the little pile of cards and bouquets which had arrived from her partners of the
night before. Nearly all had called in person as was shown by the neatly turned-down corner of each card.

She decided to dress with especial care for the outing.

But while she was waiting for Sir Guy to arrive, she began to experience some qualms of doubt. Just suppose the Marquess was right? Just suppose Sir Guy
had
an unsavoury reputation?

But the sight of him driving up in a swan-necked phaeton, very much a man of the world, looking beautifully tailored and urbane, put her fears to rest.

When she was seated beside him he complimented her gracefully on her gown of jonquil muslin and said she outshone the sun. Annabelle glowed at the compliment and hoped her errant husband would
be in the Park to see how admired she was, and how she had ignored his letter.

It was a beautiful spring day, warm enough to feel like summer. A brisk little breeze sent the new green leaves turning and glittering in the lazy afternoon light. Annabelle felt very much on
display, perched as she was on the high seat of the phaeton. She saw the Misses Abernethy and gave them a stately bow.

They had made the round and were coming back along Rotten Row at a smart pace and Sir Guy Wayne was wondering if he should squeeze Annabelle’s hand, or if that move would be too bold, too
soon. He had chatted to her easily and paid her many light compliments, all of which, he noticed with gratified surprise, were gratefully welcomed. He would have thought a girl of Annabelle’s
beauty to be quite in the way of receiving fulsome praise from a host of admirers.

They were bowling along, well pleased with each other, when Sir Guy said, ‘Here come two of the most formidable patronesses of Almack’s, Lady Castlereigh and Mrs Drummond
Burrell.’

Annabelle sat up very straight. Vouchers to Almack’s Assembly Rooms were a
must
during the Season. Any female who was refused vouchers could consider herself a pariah.

At that moment, one great yellow wheel detached itself from Sir Guy’s phaeton, and, the next instant, the carriage keeled over. Sir Guy landed face down in the mud of the still spongy
ground. Annabelle, who found herself shooting through the air, seized hold of a projecting branch of a lime tree with the agility of a monkey and hung there, waving her legs around looking for a
foothold. Her dress had ridden up around her knees, exposing to the common gaze a very saucy pair of lace pantalettes.

Mrs Drummond Burrell and Lady Castlereigh came abreast. ‘Dear me,’ said Lady Castlereigh. ‘Who is that gel swinging around the trees?’

‘That, I believe, is the new Marchioness of Brabington,’ replied Mrs Burrell with a shudder.

Both ladies turned their heads away from the offending sight, and therefore failed to notice the broken carriage which had caused the mishap.

Throwing all dignity to the winds, Annabelle wrapped her legs around the trunk of the tree and slid to the ground.

Sir Guy had scrambled to his feet and was trying to make light of things. A crowd had gathered around the broken phaeton. Someone was holding the horses’ heads. The traces had been cut,
and the frightened horses were still rearing and plunging. Soon the air was loud with descriptions of what had happened, what could have happened, and what might have happened.

Annabelle was jostled and pushed by the crowd. She looked hopefully in Sir Guy’s direction for assistance, but he was engaged in arguing with the fellow who had caught the horses and
quieted them, and who obviously expected to be paid for his trouble.

Remembering that Conduit Street was not very far from the Park, Annabelle turned on her heel and walked away.

To her relief, her husband was not at home when she arrived, looking hot and dishevelled.

The clock in the hall told her that it was six-thirty and that she had only an hour and a half to get ready to go out with her husband.

Betty and two of the housemaids worked like troopers, carrying up a bath and cans of water, washing Annabelle’s hair, and running hither and thither to assemble all the things she needed
for the evening.

Annabelle wondered what type of evening it was to be.

Would it be a rout, or a
musicale
? At last she decided to wear a white lingerie gown under a straw-coloured tunic with a pale blue spotted scarf over her shoulders. Once again, she wore
the necklace the Marquess had given her, reflecting, as she felt its weight, that there were other jewels belonging to the Brabington family, but so far he had shown no sign of giving her any
more.

With Betty’s help, she managed to achieve a Grecian effect by piling up her hair and threading it with thin silk ribbons.

Her eyes in the looking glass looked very dark. She painted her face delicately, no longer caring whether Betty knew she used cosmetics or not. Betty stood in open-mouthed fascination, watching
Annabelle’s clever hands.

At last it was time to join her husband. Annabelle found herself feeling breathless and uneasy and wished with all her heart she had not gone driving with Sir Guy. Now she would have to face up
to the prospect of a row.

Her husband was standing by the fireplace, one arm along the mantel, his eyes gazing into the flames.

He was not aware she had entered the room, and she hesitated in the doorway, watching him. He looked very handsome. His thick black hair was fashionably dressed
à la Titus.
He was
wearing a blue silk frock coat with a stand-fall collar and straw-coloured knee breeches, very tight and very fitting.

His white silk stockings moulded his calves without a wrinkle and his flat-pumps had small diamond buckles. Diamonds winked among the snowy folds of his cravat and sparkled on his fingers, the
massive, heavy design of his rings suiting his strong, square hands.