Taming of Annabelle (14 page)

Annabelle pulled the pillow over her head and willed sleep to descend again. But fear kept sleep away.

She was quite sure she would be banished back to the vicarage. Would he be there when she went down to breakfast? Perhaps she could have a tray sent up. Minerva had said that very few ladies
rose before noon and most had something light on a tray.

She had the sickening feeling of being in deep disgrace with no one to turn to. Mrs Armitage would simply be puzzled. She would say, ‘But why did you call him Sylvester when his name is
Peter?’ and there was no answer to that – or certainly not one that Annabelle meant to give anybody.

Betty, with a swollen and tear-stained face, eventually came in with a cup of hot chocolate which she placed on a table beside the bed. She drew the curtains and opened the shutters. Pale
sunlight flooded the room, and somewhere up by the chimneys a few birds were singing.

‘My lord says he will see you . . . I mean, my lady . . . at breakfast in a half an hour,’ muttered Betty.

‘Tell him I am indisposed,’ said Annabelle.

Betty returned in a short time with the message that my lord too was feeling not quite the thing and therefore he suggested that my lady should join him so that they might be ill together.

‘Only,’ sniffed Betty, ‘it sounded more like a command to me . . . my lady.’

Annabelle could only be glad that Betty’s lecture from the butler had damped her usual sly curiosity. She wearily arose and suffered herself to be dressed in a high-waisted, high-necked,
ankle-length gown flared at the bottom. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder and ended at the wrist with a lace frill. It was in a golden yellow colour of straw silk. Over her shoulders she wore
a patterned silk shawl with tasselled borders.

Betty was hopeless at dressing hair. Annabelle could usually manage to achieve a semblance of a fashionable style herself, but her hair had been so frizzed and teased and pomaded for the wedding
that she could hardly get the brush through it, and eventually, in exasperation, she simply wound it up in a knot on top of her head.

She dismissed Betty and opened her box of cosmetics. Perhaps if she looked ill enough, he would not shout at her. She applied a thick coating of
blanc
and then carefully painted purple
shadows under her eyes.

The effect looked more hideous than sickly and she was about to wipe it off when a footman scratched at the door and called that my lord was awaiting my lady.

Annabelle gave a nervous start and hurried to the door.

She followed the liveried footman downstairs, through the silent dimness of the house. For the first time, she wondered what the servants thought of the strange wedding night.

The Marquess was seated in a small breakfast room on the first floor. It was panelled with dark wood and hung with pictures of the chase. Above the fireplace, the most savage-looking stuffed fox
that Annabelle had ever seen – and she had seen many – glared venomously down into the gloom.

The houses opposite were slightly smaller which allowed sunlight to penetrate the bedrooms upstairs but not any of the public rooms on the lower floors.

The Marquess was dressed to go out. He was wearing a square-cut tail coat of blue wool with long narrow sleeves, slightly gathered shoulders and small rounded cuffs with biscuit colour
pantaloons and hussar boots. His black hair had been arranged
à la Brummell
in a mass of artistic curls.

His snowy cravat was tied in the Irish, and his buff waistcoat unbuttoned at the top to reveal the delicate frill of his cambric shirt.

He smiled at her in a vague kind of way and then turned his attention to his newspaper again.

Annabelle, eyeing him nervously out of one blue eye, walked over to the sideboard and lifted the cover of one dish after another. She realized she was ravenously hungry. But sick people did not
have healthy appetites. She sadly settled for two pieces of toast and took her place at the table.

He seemed completely at his ease, and completely absorbed in his paper. Annabelle cleared her throat several times, but he did not look up.

At last, the Marquess put down the paper and yawned. ‘Oh, my poor head,’ he sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I must pay for my night of roistering on the Town.’

Annabelle’s blue eyes flew to his in surprise, and then a wave of humiliation engulfed her. He had not even cared.

‘Are . . . are we going somewhere today, Peter?’ she ventured.

‘No, my lady.
We
are not. I have business matters to attend to. Illness does not become you. You are looking singularly horrible this morning.’

‘I-I am ill,’ said Annabelle defiantly.

‘Which is why I am not taking you anywhere.’ The tawny eyes seemed to mock her.

‘I feel a trifle better,’ ventured Annabelle, ‘and the sun is shining and . . .’

‘Then you may have the use of one of the carriages,’ he said equably.

‘I have no money,’ said Annabelle. ‘So I cannot really
do
anything.’

He pulled a heavy purse from his pocket and passed it over to her. ‘Use that,’ he said, ‘and I will make arrangements for you to draw funds on my bank.’

‘Thank you, Peter,’ mumbled Annabelle.

‘And since we are to go about in society, perhaps we should practise the conventions at home. I will address you as “my lady” and you will call me Brabington.’

‘It . . . it seems so
cold.
’

He made no reply to this, but put down his napkin and rose and stretched.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ he said. He strode to the door.

‘About last night, Brabington,’ cried Annabelle, ‘I feel I must explain . . .’

‘Oh, don’t please talk about last night,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I drank more than was good for me and I shudder to think what else I did.’

He raised his hand in a mocking little salute, and then he was gone.

Annabelle sat bewildered. He did not love her. A man in love would have fumed and raged. What if . . . oh, horrible thought . . . what if he had not heard her mention Sylvester’s name but
had merely abruptly quitted the bedchamber because he was
bored
by her inexperience.

She raised her hands to her suddenly hot cheeks. Or was he being very clever and getting his revenge by this seeming indifference? But she should be
happy
that he did not love her. For
she did not love him. She loved Sylvester. She tried to conjure up a picture of Lord Sylvester’s face but found she could not.

Annabelle decided she could not think any more on the problem until she had washed her hair and face.

She rang for Jensen and told him to tell Betty to prepare a hair wash. ‘I had reason to send Miss Betty out to collect some items for my lady’s toilet table,’ said Jensen.
‘She is not trained and must learn.’

‘Then she will be taught by me,’ said Annabelle crossly. ‘Tell the kitchens I wish a wash prepared for my hair. It must consist of one pennyworth of borax, half a pint of olive
oil, and a pint of boiling water. Oh, and add a little rosemary.’

When Annabelle’s hair had been washed by a housemaid and a pomatum of olive oil, spermaceti, oil of almonds and essence of lemon gently rubbed into it with a warm flannel, her spirits
began to recover.

Peter was piqued, that was all. She would quietly amuse herself and show him she did not care, and soon she would win him round. It was of no use being married if one had to go everywhere
oneself.

After some internal debate, she sent a note round to Lady Godolphin’s asking Deirdre to be prepared to go for a drive in the Park that afternoon.

By the time Deirdre hopped into the barouche beside her, Annabelle’s
amour propre
was much restored, and she forebore from sending Deirdre back indoors to take down her hair and
take off the huge poke bonnet with which she had chosen to grace the outing.

Annabelle had forgotten how clear and carrying Deirdre’s voice could be. No sooner had they joined the line of carriages all heading in the same direction, than Deirdre began to exclaim
how
strange
it was that Annabelle should be free to go on a drive on the day after her wedding.

‘Why not?’ asked Annabelle, trying to look poised and indulgent as an older sister should.

‘I thought you would be passionately wrapped in each other’s embrace,’ replied Deirdre.

‘
On ne dit pas ces choses devant les domestiques.
’

Deirdre wrinkled up her pert nose in concentration. ‘Oh, don’t speak in front of the servants!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was fashionable to just ignore them. Everyone
in London speaks bad French, Bella, so you must be all the crack. I don’t know why I had to slave so many hours over my grammar. They all just translate literally. I was looking at a
girl’s fan at the wedding reception and she said, “
Donnez-moi ça dos
,” and I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about until she said she
meant, give it back.

‘I laughed and laughed until I
choked
, and I told Sylvester and he was
so
amused.’

‘If you don’t keep quiet, I shall take you straight home, miss,’ said Annabelle fiercely.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Deirdre, immediately contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned
his
name, for we all know what a . . .’

‘
Deirdre!
’

‘Very well. Is your marriage one of those arranged ones after all, Bella? I would not like one of those for myself for I am deeply romantic.’

‘Now I really
am
taking you home.’

‘No, don’t. I will be quiet. How pretty the Park looks. See the leaves are just peeping out. I would love a dress of just that colour. I was rather disappointed in the great Mr
Brummell. Not
at all
what I had been led to believe. Did you see him at the wedding? His face is rather long and his whiskers are sandy. He is neither plain nor handsome. Do you think he is
famous simply becaust he introduced starch to cravats, Bella?

‘I do not know,’ said Annabelle repressively. ‘Now, not another word.’

They had entered Rotten Row and Deirdre fell silent as she eagerly studied all the hairstyles and bonnets and dresses.

But Deirdre could never remain silent for very long. ‘I say, Bella,’ she began, ‘I feel dowdy and countryish, and although you are wearing one of Minerva’s gowns, you do
not look very
tonnish.
Why is that, do you think? Perhaps we are too young. But Minerva has acquired a great air.’

‘Ooooh!’ hissed Annabelle. ‘I wish I had never brought you.’

For she too, had been uncomfortably aware that the other fashionable ladies had a certain something which she herself lacked. Some of them were dressed in the minimum, thin draped muslin
exposing glimpses of bosom and thigh. There was also something in their carriage, the way they handled their stoles and fans, that made poor Annabelle feel like a country bumpkin by comparison.

‘But do look, Bella, there is a lady who is so dashing and . . . oh, dear,
don’t
look! Isn’t that a fascinating tree over there?’

But Annabelle did look and her face went quite cold and set.

The lady was admittedly pretty and dashing enough to turn all heads. She had a ridiculously frivolous little bonnet of feathers and coloured ribbons perched on her glossy brown curls. Her round
and rosy face was all dimples and creamy skin with a huge pair of sparkling brown eyes. The thin muslin of her gown revealed a pair of generous breasts, the nipples straining against the cloth.

It was her escort who made Annabelle freeze.

Beside her in a dashing high perch phaeton, handling the ribbons to perfection, sat the Marquess of Brabington. As they passed the two sisters, the Marquess turned and said something to his
pretty friend and she put a possessive little gloved hand on his sleeve and dimpled up at him.

‘Oh, you
saw
,’ whispered Deirdre.

‘Oh, ’tis nothing,’ said Annabelle. ‘The lady is his cousin and he was obliged to show her the Fashionables.’

‘His cousin? Why wasn’t she at the wedding?’

‘An oversight. That is why he is trying to make it up to her.’

Deirdre looked doubtful. ‘What is her name?’ she asked.

‘I cannot remember. But Peter will no doubt remind me when we go to the opera tonight.’

‘Which opera?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Annabelle crossly. She tried to affect a worldly-wise air. ‘My dear child, one goes to the opera to be
seen
, not to listen to the
music.’

‘I should not like that at all. But there is only one performance and that is at the Haymarket. Catalini is singing. Lady Godolphin is taking us, so we shall see you there.’

‘Of course,’ said Annabelle. She would ask Peter to take her. He
could
not refuse. He surely did not mean to leave her completely alone. Who
was
that woman? And so her
thoughts churned and turned.

Annabelle was glad to be rid of Deirdre when she at last dropped her at Lady Godolphin’s in Hanover Square.

By the time she reached Conduit Street Annabelle had somehow persuaded herself that the Marquess
had
really been entertaining a relative.

It was inconceivable that the man who had looked at her so warmly and tenderly should feel nothing for her at all.

She hovered nervously in her room, waiting for her husband to return, so that he might tell her which social event they were to attend that evening and so that she could decide what best to
wear. At last, the housekeeper entered with a menu for my lady to inspect.

‘It looks very well,’ said Annabelle. ‘You are sure there is nothing here my lord dislikes?’

‘Oh, no, my lady, but seeing as how your ladyship will be dining alone, Cook wondered if you would care for any special dish?’

‘Dining
alone
!’ screamed a voice in Annabelle’s head. But she said aloud, ‘No, this will do very well. Stay! My lord told me of his engagement for this evening but
it has slipped my memory.’