Taming of Annabelle (8 page)

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Annabelle curtsied demurely.

‘Nonetheless,’ he smiled, ‘it would afford me a great deal of pleasure to hear your voice, and I confess to a feeling of wanting to be spoiled by a pretty girl.’

Annabelle pulled forwards a chair and sat next to him and held out her hand for the book.

‘Letters!’ said Annabelle, who had been hoping for a novel.

‘I find them very interesting,’ said the Marquess. ‘They are written by a Mr Edward Burt who was General Wade’s agent in the last century. He describes the Highlands of
Scotland very well. I have never been as far north as the mountains of Scotland, and I am fascinated by his travels.’

Annabelle resigned herself. ‘Where shall I begin?’ she asked.

‘Just there. Letter XXII. Where it begins, “The common habit”.’

He settled back in his chair and Annabelle began to read.

‘“The common habit of the ordinary Highlanders is far from being acceptable to the eye; with them a small part of the plaid is set in folds and girt round the waist to make of it a
short petticoat that reaches half way down the thigh, and the rest is brought over the shoulders, and then fastened before, below the neck, often with a fork, and sometimes with a bodkin, or
sharpened piece of stick, so that they make pretty near the appearance of the poor women in London when they bring their gowns over their heads to shelter them from the rain.

‘“In this way of wearing the plaid, they have sometimes nothing else to cover them, and are often barefoot; but some I have seen shod with a kind of pumps made out of a raw cowhide
with the hair turned outward, which being ill made, the wearer’s feet looked something like those of a rough footed hen or pigeon; these are called
quarrants
, and are not only
offensive to the sight, but intolerable to the smell of those who are near them. The stocking rises no higher than the thick of the calf, and from the middle of the thigh to the middle of the leg
is a naked space, which being exposed to all weathers, becomes tanned and freckled; and the joint being mostly infected with the country distemper, the whole is very disagreeable to the eye.

‘“This dress is called the
quelt
; and for the most part they wear the petticoat so very short, that in a windy day, going up a hill, or stooping, the indecency of it is
plainly discovered.

‘“A Highland gentleman told me one day merrily, as we were speaking of a dangerous precipice we had passed over together, that a lady of noble family had complained to him very
seriously, that as she was going over the same place with a
gilly
, who was upon an upper path leading her horse with a long string, she was so terrified with the sight of the abyss, that, to
avoid it, she was forced to look up towards the bare Highlander all the way long”.’

Annabelle giggled and the Marquess looked up with a start and held out his hand for the book.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Annabelle,’ he said. I was so engrossed with the sound of your bewitching voice that I had forgot the subject matter might not be suitable for the eyes of a
lady.
’

‘Is he describing the
kilt
?’ asked Annabelle, who was in fact rather relieved to find some fact could be as entertaining as fiction.

‘I believe so. He spells the word phonetically.
Quelt
means kilt.’

‘I am so disappointed,’ mourned Annabelle. ‘From the poems of Mr Walter Scott I had formed a more romantic picture of the Highlander.’

‘Some of the chiefs and lords I met in Edinburgh look very fine in their national dress. This describes the dress of the poor Highlander, and I gather from friends that the poverty in the
North is still appalling.’

He spoke seriously and Annabelle dropped her eyelashes to mask her expression of total indifference. The Highlands of Scotland and their inhabitants seemed to her as remote as the West
Indies.

‘But,’ went on the Marquess in a rallying tone, ‘if the gossips in this house have it aright, it was
you
who seemed to have a charming capacity for putting the company
to the blush.’

‘I
did
use some terrible cant,’ said Annabelle with a charming air of candour. ‘But in truth I did not know what I said. I thought it was fashionable to use
cant.’

‘Not in ladies and not in mixed company for
anyone.
’

‘I should have known better,’ sighed Annabelle, ‘than to listen to a couple of back gammon players.’

‘My
dear
Miss Annabelle!’

‘Oh, dear, what have I said now?’

‘I could not possibly explain.’

‘But it was a very respectable coachman who said that. He said, “Them back gammon players makes me want to flash my hash.”’

‘Worse and worse,’ said the Marquess, burying his head in his hands.

‘Now, you must tell me or I shall ask Minerva.’

‘Do. She will not know – fortunately – what you are talking about.’

‘But
she
will ask Lord Sylvester.’

‘Very well. It is either my blushes or Sylvester’s, and I am informed that my face lacks colour. I will translate.

‘Back gammon players are gentleman who prefer the company of their own sex.’

‘As do most men,’ said Annabelle, surprised. ‘Else why do you all congregate in coffee houses and clubs?’

‘That is as far as I am prepared to go. To flash your hash means to vomit.’

‘Well,
that
is not so bad. What does old hat mean?’ said Annabelle provocatively, as if she did not know – now – what it meant.

‘Miss Annabelle, if you persist in sullying that pretty mouth of yours with disgusting language, I shall be tempted to kiss it clean.’

Annabelle raised her fan to make one of the many gestures with which a lady received an overwarm remark from a gentleman. She could rap him playfully on the wrist or raise the fan to cover her
blushes.

Instead, she stopped with the fan half-raised and looked at him with wide blue eyes.

‘Then why don’t you?’ she said.

‘Brazen hussy!’

‘Ah, you were funning. And I heard you called a very brave man.’

He leaned forwards and took her chin gently in his hand. Annabelle closed her eyes. The Marquess kissed her gently on the mouth and then drew away murmuring, ‘I thought Sylvester held your
affections.’

‘He is engaged to my sister, sir!’

‘Ah.’

‘It is you, my lord, who . . . who . . . I have formed a
tendre
for you, my lord.’

‘You are so very young, Annabelle.’

‘It seems the Armitage girls are destined to fall in love with men in their dotage.’

He looked deep into her eyes. Annabelle conjured up Lord Sylvester’s face, imagined it was he who was gazing into her eyes, and her own glowed with warmth and love.

The Marquess took a deep breath and said half to himself, ‘I would be a fool to let such a moment go by.’

He took her hand in his. ‘Annabelle,’ he said. ‘We hardly know each other, and, yes, your youth is a great disadvantage. No. Let me speak. The man you will want at twenty-one
may not be the man you want now. We shall get to know each other, first as friends, and then, if I am convinced that your mind is set, I shall write to your father and ask his permission to pay my
addresses.’

A heady feeling of triumph assailed Annabelle. She had won! Now all she had to do was to play her cards aright and soon she would be able to plead prettily that she be married at the same time
as Minerva.

He rested his head against the wing of the chair, his face suddenly white and drawn.

‘Leave me now, my child,’ he said faintly. ‘I am curst weak.’

Annabelle stood up. ‘I shall send help,’ she said anxiously.

‘Simply ring that bell over there and I shall do the rest,’ he said. ‘Go now. I shall see you again soon.’

Annabelle rang the bell and then hurried from the room. She would not tell Minerva or anyone until it was a
fait accompli.
Now she would need to bribe Betty with a scarf or some trinket
to make sure that upstart miss kept her mouth firmly shut.

After she had left, the Marquess of Brabington was helped by two stout footmen to his bedchamber. He lay back against the pillows staring up at the canopy, his hands behind his head. What did he
really
know of Miss Annabelle? Had he been too precipitate? But somehow he found he could not think beyond her beauty. He had been dazzled from the first moment he had set eyes on her. Then
her memory had faded a little. He was always conscious of the difference in their ages.

But he loved her, he thought with a smile. And that was too rare and beautiful a thing to be picked over and analysed. He closed his eyes and settled down for sleep, seeing his life stretching
out in front of him, one long, sunny road with Annabelle on his arm; a laughing, enchanting, adoring Annabelle, forever beautiful, forever happy, and quite, quite uncomplicated.

The following days were to be passed without a glimpse of the Marquess. It was said he had a high fever and Annabelle fretted as the physician came and went. Lord Sylvester always seemed to be
watching her curiously, and she had to endure the fact that her love for him had not abated one whit.

At last came the glad news that the Marquess’s fever had abated and that he was recovering quickly. The ladies of the house, with the exception of the Duchess, had quite warmed to
Annabelle since she now appeared quiet and reserved, seeming to take no interest in the gentlemen whatsoever.

And then after a thaw and a following driving wind, the Reverend Charles Armitage, vicar of St Charles and St Jude, made his arrival.

Annabelle heard his loud voice as she was descending the stairs and peeped over the bannisters.

The vicar was standing in the hall, clutching a letter in one hand, his face grim. Before him stood the Duchess of Allsbury.

‘What’s this here,’ the vicar was demanding, ‘about Bella behaving bad?’

‘I think she should answer for herself,’ said the Duchess coolly. ‘Her behaviour has been quite pretty of late but one shudders to think of a recurrence of her disgraceful
manners.’

Annabelle heard a step behind her and swung around to find the Marquess of Brabington smiling down at her.

Down below in the hall, the angry vicar had been joined by Minerva and Lord Sylvester. Annabelle shuddered before the wrath of her father to come; like a child, she turned and pressed her face
into the Marquess’s coat and whispered, ‘I’m afraid. Papa will horsewhip me.’

The Marquess put an arm about her and held her close. He knew his worth on the marriage market. He knew the one way to allay any parent’s wrath was to present himself as a future
son-in-law. And yet . . . and yet . . . it was a great step to take.

He raised her face and looked down into her eyes. ‘If he knew we were to be married, he would no longer be angry,’ he murmured half to himself.

Annabelle’s beautiful blue eyes blazed with hope as she put up her hands and clung to his lapels.

‘Do you love me?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes,’ gasped Annabelle desperately. ‘Oh,
yes.
’

‘Then let us greet your father,’ he said, tucking her arm in his.

All faces turned up to them as they descended the stairs.

‘See here, Bella . . .’ began the vicar.

‘Ah, Mr Armitage,’ said the Marquess smoothly. ‘You are arrived just in time. It is rather a public place to ask you for your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter,
Annabelle, but that is what I wish to do.’

‘
What!
’Anger was chased away by amazement to be replaced by a look of joy. His Bella to marry a marquess. The vicar dropped the Duchess’s letter on the floor, held out
his arms and Annabelle rushed into them.

‘Hey, my pretty puss,’ said the vicar, rumpling her bright curls. ‘Couldn’t wait for a Season before you got wed?’

He released her and went to shake hands with the Marquess. ‘Of course, you have my blessing,’ he said, striking that young man jovially on the shoulder. ‘I thought I had made a
mistake letting you go, Bella, but I cry
peccavi.
’

‘And there is more marvellous news,’ said Annabelle, smiling at Minerva. ‘Peter has agreed that we shall have a
double
wedding. I will be married in the same church and
at the same time as my dear sister!’

Lord Sylvester noticed a strange, rather quizzical expression crossing the Marquess’s face.

But Minerva rushed forwards, her face radiant, and enfolded her sister in a warm embrace.

‘I am
so
happy, Annabelle,’ she said with tears in her eyes.

Annabelle drew back a little and frowned. ‘You are not mad at me, Merva, for arranging to share your wedding?’

‘
Mad
? Of
course
not. It is the most wonderful thing. Now my wedding day will be doubly blessed!’ said Minerva, clasping her hands as if she were praying.

Hearing the commotion, the rest of the guests crowded into the hall to find out what was going on.

Annabelle was soon surrounded by a sort of bewilderment of congratulations. Her heart hammered as a voice nagged over and over in her brain, ‘Minerva did not mind
at all
. I have not
scored one hit. And I am affianced to one man and – God help me – in love with t’other!’