Edith Layton (13 page)

“No, I’d love to
really
go fishing with you,” Annabelle said. “I’ve watched him angling for trout, you see,” she told the others, “but wasn’t able to try my hand myself. I feel so much better now that I believe I can.” She hesitated, then decided to beard the lion, because there was so much they hadn’t asked her and she was weary of
their unasked questions and assumptions. “I feel better every day,” she said, smiling at them. “I know I look very unlike myself, but I promise you I’m mending and hope to be someone you can recognize very soon.

“No!” she went on quickly, as they started to speak, “please don’t apologize again. It’s very kind of you, but, you see, I know I resemble something to keep crows out of the corn right now. But I’m assured that will change.”

Miles looked at her in surprise, then his warm smile sent silent congratulations to her. His brother and sister sat still for once, caught between laughter and embarrassment.

“But, my dear,” his mother said, “You must not overdo lest you have a relapse.”

“I do
not
overdo,” Annabelle said. “Nor will I risk any such thing.” She put on a bright smile when she realized she’d said that through her teeth. “Believe me when I say I feel better and anticipate feeling more so every day. Please don’t think I need special care.”

Before Miles’s mother could answer, her daughter spoke up. “Really?” Camille asked eagerly. “Do you think you’ll be feeling well enough to go to a party in a few weeks? Sally Hanover, the squire’s daughter, is having one for her eighteenth birthday, with dancing, and she’s inviting people from everywhere! Well, but she won’t be going to London for a come-out because she’s already
promised to Andrew, a neighbor’s son. What with one thing and another, I couldn’t go to London for my come-out last year. But this will be the next best thing. Could you go, do you think? Miles said you’d be overseeing my bows in London, making sure I don’t make a misstep. That’s why he chose you, after all. I mean…”

Camille’s eyes grew wide and her face red as she realized what she’d said. She hurried on, “This ball won’t be as grand as you’re used to, I’m sure, but would you like to go? You can give me some hints on how to behave when we do get to London.”

Her mother looked up, her faded eyes suddenly glinting. “Do you know,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, “that might be a very good idea, Annabelle. The squire isn’t as high
ton
, as you’re used to, but he knows quite a few good people. Local people, of course. So if you’re worried about them noticing the effects of your recent indisposition, you needn’t.”

“I certainly will go,” Annabelle declared before her hostess could go on about her health again. “Even if they have to carry me in on a litter.” She grinned. “No, don’t worry, because they won’t. I’ll be there. I may even look a bit less like a sick cat then too.”

They laughed because she did. But Annabelle was content. This would give her something to aim for, a goal other than just surviving. Social af
fairs brought out the best in her as well as all her competitive instincts. She wouldn’t compete with Camille, of course. Not only because she couldn’t compete with anyone now, but because the poor girl certainly would have enough problems socially without that.

Camille had a pleasant face and outgoing manner, but she was too tall, too wide, and too sturdily robust for real beauty. The girl’s face was squared off, as was her figure; her complexion was too fresh, her color too high. She did have lively well-opened brown eyes, her curly brown hair was pretty and her smile infectious, but Annabelle knew gentlemen didn’t write poetry to such girls.

Annabelle resolved to be at the dance. She could help Camille, begin to tutor her for her debut in London, and help herself by facing the world again. If anyone there knew her, and the talk about her own altered appearance shocked them enough to comment, she’d bear it. Her only other choice was to hide, and that she refused to do anymore. She’d suffered mockery before, endured shocked whispers too many times. That was why she’d married. Hiding wouldn’t end the whispers now. Growing a thicker hide would. If she could escape death, surely she could do that too.

“I long to go to a ball,” Annabelle announced into the darkness of the bedchamber. She’d been awake when Miles came to bed. They lay apart on
the great bed, but her voice was clear in the silence of the night. “But a country dance will do,” she added. “In fact, I’d kill to dance with the kitchen staff at this point. I’ve been too sick too long. I need to show everyone I’m still here.”

“You’re here, and here you’ll stay,” he commented on a yawn. “Now, shh. Go to sleep. The sooner to sleep, the faster you’ll mend.”

“You talk to me as though I were an infant,” she complained. “I’m not a child.”

“I know that, too well,” he said as reached out to pull her near. She didn’t resist. He gathered her in his arms and feathered a kiss on her brow. When her eyes opened in surprise, he lay his lips on hers. He felt the quick response in those warm plush lips as well as the quickening in her body, and the way her nipples rose against his chest. But he felt her ribs prodding him too.

He took his mouth from hers. “Now, sleep,” he said. “This too will come later.”

She turned away from him abruptly, almost with a flounce. She plopped her head down on her pillow. He chuckled, reached out again and drew her close, tucking her into the curve of his body, covering a small breast with one large hand. She lay stiffly at first, then slowly relaxed, and finally curled into him. He rested his chin against her shoulder. “Shh,” he said again, a smile in his voice. “Go to sleep now.”

They lay like stored spoons; she fit him neatly,
her bottom snugged into his abdomen. At least that shapely bottom was not bony in the least, he thought with a wry smile. Her growing warmth made the scent of her freesia perfume fill his nostrils. But he didn’t worry about an inadvertent arousal disturbing her or himself. He was still too aware of her frailty and how sturdy, oversize, almost brutish it made him feel by comparison. If he was afraid of anything, it was of hurting her physically, or mentally. He had to be careful of how he touched her, and equally vigilant never to show his distaste when he did.

No, he held her close because she needed comforting now. This was all for her. And so he was surprised at how peaceful he felt as he drifted off to sleep with her.

“N
ot red,” Annabelle said, “but you know that.”

Camille sighed over the fashion plate they were looking at. “Yes, but I was hoping you didn’t. Might as well hope for a miracle, right?”

Annabelle raised a brow in mock horror, then laughed as Camille did.

“But I’m not looking for a miracle,” Camille said, “just a nice frock or two. Don’t look at me like that! I’m serious. I’ll do fine whatever I wear, because I’m not looking to find a prince. I just want to have a good time.”

“Surely you want to meet some eligible men!” Annabelle said.

“Surely I will. I might even find one I want to marry. But if I don’t it won’t bother me, because I
know I will, in time. I don’t have much trouble making friends, you know.”

Annabelle didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing and turned to a new fashion plate. Camille was one of the nicest people she’d ever met, so she hesitated to say a thing that might hurt her. But her sister-in-law wasn’t beautiful or even especially attractive, and Annabelle knew too well how important that was for a single young woman. It wouldn’t be easy finding a husband for her, no matter how charming she was. Annabelle could only hope that Camille’s cheerful personality would stand up to the inevitable rejection she’d experience. She wouldn’t say a thing to question Camille’s confidence now. It was perhaps her best asset for the rigors of her coming London Season.

“What about this one?” she asked Camille, showing her a frock that would set off her figure to advantage.

“If you think so,” Camille said blithely.

Annabelle cast a fond look at her. In the weeks since she’d come to Hollyfields, she’d found her sister-in-law a delightful companion. The girl was like no one she’d ever known. Forthright as a boy, merry as a child, utterly without pretense, and friendly as no woman ever had been to her. That might have been because she herself was no longer threatening, Annabelle thought. Having no beauty meant no woman could resent her, as
her mother had always claimed other women did.

Whatever the reason, though she shared no interests with Camille, since the young woman was a horse-mad, sports-crazed outdoorswoman, still Annabelle couldn’t help but enjoy her company. Not only was her sister-in-law as bright as she was friendly, Camille was the only one at Hollyfields who treated Annabelle as an equal.

Miles was attentive, but worried. He treated his wife with the greatest care. That was the problem. He saw to her comfort, made sure she was occupied before he left the house, took her for rides in a carriage and ambles in the gardens, and refused to let her exert herself. He arranged for a local doctor to come see her progress on a regular basis and he made sure she ate and slept properly. All that concern made Annabelle worry about herself more. It also made her wonder if he saw her as a wife or just a responsibility now.

But that was better than how she felt about his mother’s treatment.

Alyce Proctor treated her like a dying woman, always sending Annabelle sad smiles, leaping in alarm if she so much as sneezed, fretting aloud if she did anything but sleep, sit, sew, or read. That made Annabelle wonder if all the outsize concern wasn’t really wishful thinking. Alyce didn’t encourage conversation. In fact, other than concerns for her health, she never exchanged more than the most polite pleasantries with her daughter-in-law.

And now that she’d lost her looks, Bernard, though perfectly pleasant when they met, largely ignored her.

Even the servants tiptoed around her.

Her own mother and father, having consulted with Miles by letter, sent word that they would wait until the end of the summer to visit. Annabelle missed them, but promptly agreed. By then she was sure she’d surprise them with her improvement.

Camille was helping her with that. She’d teased and bullied Annabelle until she consented to go walking with her every morning. Miles thought it was a fine idea, and so Annabelle had done it to preserve the peace. But it quickly became a ritual: Annabelle, Camille and her ten dogs, and their daily tramp through the morning dew.

Annabelle was more used to seeing the moon set than watching the sun rise, but she actually began to enjoy greeting the newborn day and breathing its fresh air. She was also elated when she realized she could walk farther every day. Now she was trying to repay Camille in some small way.

“Not red, no,” she told Camille now. “You have to be a married woman or have been on the town a while to get away with that.” She neglected to mention that red would be a disastrous color for Camille. She already had too much of it in her face. “Young women wear white.”

“Not white!” Camille yelped. “I’d look like a feather bed!”

“No,” Annabelle agreed, “Not white. Too insipid, I think,” she added, refusing to agree with Camille’s accurate appraisal of her figure. “Although that is what’s expected of you. Still, I think you have the looks and personality to get away with something different from the run of the mill.”

“Pink?” Camille asked hopefully.

Annabelle repressed a shudder. Camille would look like an overblown rose in pink. “No, something cool and elegant,” she said, looking at Camille with speculation. “Yes. Pale green. Or a light wash of blue.” Colors that would bring down that high color and complement it at the same time, she thought. “Some white fabrics with lovely subtle contrasting vertical stripes, absolutely,” she added.

“To make me look willowy? Ho! Even a magician can’t do that.”

“To make you look fashionable,” Annabelle said firmly. “Perhaps even gold, if its not too blatant a shade. It would suit you very well. We’ll make you a wardrobe of irresistible materials and attractive colors, not sensational ones. And when you have ten children instead of ten dogs, by all means, you can wear red.”

They both giggled at the very idea.

“Telling warm stories again?” Miles asked as he ambled into the salon where the two sat over a table covered with fashion plates.

Camille laughed. “Hardly. Belle’s trying to get me to stop telling ’em! She says they may be all right for the gents hereabouts but I’ll get my walking papers if I tell stable stories in London Town.”

Miles cocked his head to the side. “‘Belle’?”

“Oh, it’s what I call her and she doesn’t mind,” Camille said.

“I don’t, truly,” Annabelle said, looking up at her husband. What she didn’t say was that only one man had ever called her that. It was the first nickname she’d ever had, and as such, it both bemused her and made her sad that no one else had cared enough to give her one.

“I like it. Shall I call you that as well?” he asked Annabelle.

Before she could answer, Camille snorted. “Well, it’s a deal easier if you have to call her in a hurry than shouting out a mouthful like Annabelle!”

“I see, as when she’s being chased by a bull or in the path of a runaway carriage?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Camille said with satisfaction, and looked abashed when both Annabelle and her brother burst into laughter.

“You’re not getting Annabelle overexcited are you?” Alyce Proctor asked as she hurried into the room. “I told you it was her naptime, Camille,” she scolded. “What are you still doing here?”

“We’re looking at fashion plates,” Annabelle said. “And I’m not tired in the least.”

“What could you have been thinking of?” her mother told Camille angrily, ignoring Annabelle. “It’s two in the afternoon, she must have her nap. Now, out and let her go upstairs and rest.”

“I don’t need a nap anymore,” Annabelle said as she rose to her feet. There was color in her cheeks and a militant sparkle in her eyes. There, suddenly, Miles again glimpsed the woman he’d married.

His mother turned to Annabelle. “So you may think, but it’s far too soon for you to overdo. I’ve seen healthier women succumb after an illness when they try too much too soon, and Lord knows you are not a healthy woman, my dear.”

Annabelle blinked. “Has the doctor told you something he didn’t tell me?”

“He told us to continue to watch over you,” Alyce said, “and so I, at least, try to do.”

Annabelle’s face went blank. She nodded, then turned and quickly left the room. Camille followed, looking dismayed.

Miles stayed very still. “What else did the doctor tell you?” he asked his mother softly, when the other two had gone. “It must be something he didn’t tell me. Because last I heard, he was pleased with her progress. Which I also believe you just set back.”

His mother’s face fell. “Oh my,” she said, “I never meant…I only wanted to be sure…Good
heavens, do you think I alarmed her? I’ll just go have a word…”

He stopped her with a touch on her shoulder. “No, I think you’ve said enough to her today. Now, again, did the doctor tell you anything I should know?”

“No, no, only what he told you.” She looked at her son, and tears filled her eyes. “I see what it is. Yes, of course. She’s quite grown up, I ought not to have nagged at her. But I am in the habit of mothering, you see.”

Miles remained still. He wouldn’t remind her that she was not in the habit of mothering him. His nurses and governesses had done that. She’d been an idol, a beautiful, adored, but distant figure in his early years. When she did pay attention to him he considered himself honored that the exquisite, good-smelling, smiling lady was actually spending time with him.

When he’d grown older she’d been in the habit of being a loving wife to her new husband. That had taken up most of her time. Miles had left her to it, something he still regretted. When he returned to England again he found her changed, all that golden beauty vanished, wasted on a cad who’d used up her money and her personality, as well as her looks. It was more than mere aging—graying hardly showed on a lady who had been so fair, and smiles made charming wrinkles. But
her skin had creased like tissue paper and she seldom smiled; her once luminous eyes were washed out and flat. Even now Miles was startled anew whenever he allowed himself to see her as she really was.

What she was at the moment, was weeping. When she did that Miles saw her both as the beautiful lady she’d been and the poor faded creature she was, and felt like a monster either way. “Please don’t cry,” he said helplessly.

She blew her nose. She raised her head and squared her narrow shoulders. He felt a rush of pity for the display of strength he knew was not there.

“I shall remove to the dower house, as I should have done the moment you returned with your bride,” she said resolutely. “No one has lived there for years, it’s all cobwebs and mold, owls nesting in the attics. But it can be put to rights in a matter of days, and there I shall go, as I ought. Of course, with Camille and Bernard still here, I’ll have to come back and forth a great deal—or shall they move in with me?”

“There are a dozen empty rooms here, Mama,” he said wearily. “There’s no need for anyone to go anywhere.”

“Then I shall avoid Annabelle, and stay out of your business.”

“No need for that either. Just don’t worry about her so much because it worries her when you do.”

“Very well,” she said with a coquettish smile that recalled the old days to him. “Then I shall continue to just worry about you.”

He laughed, as she’d meant him to, if not precisely for the same reason.

“You look wonderful,” Miles said when he saw Annabelle.

She finally let her breath out. He wasn’t lying. He could disguise his expression, but over these past weeks she’d learned to read the truth in his eyes. It was an invalid’s talent she’d developed in the days when she hadn’t trusted words. Now she could see those ice blue eyes were warmed with real admiration. She exulted.

She was only going to a local dance but she’d taken more time dressing now than for her first presentation to society. She twirled before him. “You like my hair?” she asked.

He laughed. “What I can see of it, clever lady.”

Her hair was covered by a blue satin toque, a fashionable French wrap of a cap, covered over with artificial blue flowers. Wisps of inky curls showed at her forehead and over her ears. They’d been sewn into the toque, as she’d finally found use for one of the wigs she hadn’t been able to wear. The toque matched her gown—blue and embellished by flowers at the long puffed sleeves and hem.

She was excited, elated, delighted. She thought
she looked almost like herself again. It was true she was still too thin and her skin hadn’t entirely recovered its creamy purity, but she thought she looked very fine, much better than she’d hoped she would so soon.

“I’ll do,” she said smugly. “But look at you. You look grand enough for London.”

He shrugged away her compliment. “I wear what I must. You’d think a country squire would have a more casual affair, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” she said, “A country squire is exactly the fellow who wouldn’t.”

They smiled at each other. But she thought he did look wonderful. Evening dress suited his athletic frame. Buff breeches showed off his muscular thighs, and he didn’t need to pad out his white stockings. His broad shoulders were set off by his tightly fitted jacket, his neckcloth was tied in fashionable style. His brown curls were cropped short and brushed forward. He looked very masculine and yet elegant. She felt proud to take his arm and go downstairs to meet the others in the hall.

“But see the evening’s star,” Annabelle said as Camille joined them.

“Bravo!” Miles said with approval.

Camille’s color grew higher. “Well, thanks,” she said, and grinned. “I do look a treat, don’t I?”

She wore a transparent gold silk overdress over a white gown, sashed at the high waist with
tawny silk. It hid the worst points of her figure and gave the rest delineation. Gold flowers woven into her curls lit up her face and brought up bright highlights in her sparkling brown eyes. But she knew she looked well and would have glowed without them.

“She’ll do,” Bernard said, himself transformed by fashion. He looked down proudly, again appreciating his bright blue jacket, violet waistcoat, yellow pantaloons. Rather, he tried to look down, but his shirt points were so high and his neckcloth so elaborately tied that he could barely turn his head.