Taming of Annabelle (6 page)

And to Annabelle’s tipsy mind that meant Lord Sylvester had as good as made an assignation. She meekly allowed Minerva to lead her from the room.
He
would come to her later. He had
said so.

Minerva looked at her sister’s flushed face and drowsy eyes and decided to leave all lectures until the morning. Together with the maid, Betty, she got Annabelle to bed, comfortably sure
that that infuriating miss would be fast asleep as soon as ever she tiptoed from the room.

But love is a wonderful thing. Tired as she was, tipsy as she was, no sooner had Minerva and the maid left than Annabelle sat up wide awake and trembling with anticipation and excitement.

Dreams of love and romance made the time go quickly, and quite an hour had passed when she suddenly looked down at the schoolgirlish cut of her nightgown and frowned. He should not find her like
this. She would creep along to Minerva’s room and choose a simply splendid nightgown. Minerva had already amassed most of her trousseau, or torso as that reprehensible old Mrs Malaprop, Lady
Godolphin, had called it.

Minerva’s room was situated some corridors away. Annabelle, not wanting to be found by the servants wandering about in her nightclothes, quietly put on a warm walking dress over her
nightgown and made her way stealthily along to Minerva’s rooms. The faint sounds of music and voices filtered from downstairs.

She went into Minerva’s bedroom and began to search through her chest of drawers for something suitable to wear.

All at once, she heard voices in the corridor outside.

She froze with her hands still buried among the silks and lace.

Then to her horror, she heard the door of the sitting room next door opening and Minerva’s voice saying, ‘You may come in, but just for a moment, Sylvester. I must know what it was
she said.’

Heart beating hard, Annabelle moved swiftly behind the bedroom door which was standing open and found that by putting her eye to the hinge, she could see clearly into the lamplit sitting room
next door.

Lord Sylvester and Minerva were standing facing each other in front of the fireplace.

‘What did Annabelle say that was so wrong?’ asked Minerva plaintively.

‘Young Charles Comfrey was talking about that green coat of his and wondering whether he should sport it at Almack’s during the coming Season or whether it would bring down one of
Brummell’s acid remarks on his head if he did so. Your sister said, if I remember aright, “No gentleman wears green any more. It is so terribly Old Hat.”’

‘Well,’ came Minerva’s puzzled voice. ‘Surely she meant that green coats are not fashionable any more.’

‘I am sure she did, my sweeting, but Old Hat is cant, and that is not what the expression means.’

‘Then what does it mean?’

‘To put it bluntly, it means a woman’s privities.’

‘A woman’s . . . but why Old Hat?’

‘Because both, my love, are frequently felt.’

Minerva raised her hands to her suddenly scarlet cheeks, unaware that in the next room her sister was doing exactly the same thing.

‘I
must
speak to her, Sylvester,’ wailed Minerva. ‘Your mother does not approve of me and
now
what will she think.’

‘Minerva,’ said Lord Sylvester patiently, ‘You should know by now I do not give a rap what anyone thinks, least of all my mother. So kiss me, Minerva, and let’s forget
about that tiresome child.’

‘But Sylvester, I . . .’

In front of Annabelle’s horrified and humiliated eyes, Lord Sylvester bent his head and ruthlessly and savagely began to kiss Minerva.

One little hope kept Annabelle rooted to the spot. The prim Minerva would surely cry out against such an embrace.

Lord Sylvester finally drew back and smiled tenderly into Minerva’s eyes.

‘Well . . . ?’ he whispered.

Hypnotized, Annabelle watched as Minerva’s little hands went up to Lord Sylvester’s cravat and slowly began to undo it.

She gave a choked little sound, and, moving like a sleepwalker, she went to the door of the sitting room and gently let herself out and closed the door just as gently behind her. Moving one foot
carefully in front of the other, feeling her way along like Madame Saqui ascending the slack-rope at Vauxhall Gardens, she finally gained the security of her own rooms. She laid herself carefully
down on top of the bed, closed her eyes, and plunged immediately into sleep, putting away all the pain and humiliation till the morrow.

The morning dawned white and cold with snow waves covering the Park. Annabelle lay in bed, very still, staring up at the canopy. Her soul felt as white and numb and empty as
the day outside. Somewhere at the very edges of her mind she knew that pain and humiliation were waiting to crowd in. But, for the moment, all she wanted to do was lie very still and think of
absolutely nothing.

Betty came in with her morning chocolate and drew the curtains, filling the room with white light. Soon the fire was crackling in the hearth. Annabelle caught the look that Betty threw in her
direction: sly, gleeful, full of recently relayed gossip.

The maid went out and Annabelle wearily sat up. She felt she had not slept at all. Then it all came crushing back in a great red wave of pain.

Minerva. Prim, staid, correct Minerva untying Lord Sylvester’s cravat. The passionate embrace. Clear as a bell, Lord Sylvester’s voice sounded in her brain: ‘So kiss me,
Minerva, and let’s forget about that tiresome child.’

Annabelle writhed in an agony of humiliation. She
could
not dress and go downstairs. How they would all laugh. How that terrible Duchess would gloat and tell everyone that the Armitage
family was as common as a barber’s chair.

But slowly, somewhere at the very depths of her misery, a little spark of anger took light and slowly grew into a flame. Minerva had always been the loved one, Minerva was always the good one.
Oh, to steal some of Minerva’s thunder.

There was a commotion below the windows and the sound of voices.

Annabelle suddenly swung her legs over the bed, glancing as she did so at the clock on the mantel.

Eleven o’clock!

Shivering in the still chilly room although she was still wearing her dress over her nightgown, she looked out of the window.

The Marquess of Brabington was being helped down from a travelling carriage by two strong footmen. Although she could see little more than the top of his hat, Annabelle knew it was he by his
scarlet regimentals.

A small knot of people, including Lord Sylvester, surrounded him and then he was helped into the house.

Annabelle sat down on the edge of the bed and began to think furiously. The Marquess had shown more than a passing interest in her on the two occasions when he had called at the vicarage. He was
a marquess, he was handsome, he was rich, and he was a hero. He was also Lord Sylvester’s best friend.

‘If I married him,’ said Annabelle to the fire, ‘then I should be a marchioness. And . . . and . . . I would suggest a double wedding, and wouldn’t
that
take the
wind out of Minerva’s sails. Lord Sylvester is only a viscount so it means I would take precedence over Minerva at all the balls and parties. I should make him the happiest of men while Lord
Sylvester becomes tired of his prosy wife. He
did
say Minerva bullied him. We should be accounted the most handsome pair in London.’

Annabelle’s formidable vanity began to reassert itself. She rang the bell to summon Betty and curtly ordered the maid to lay out her grey gown, watching all the while for any signs of dumb
insolence on Betty’s part. But Betty had seen the militant look in Annabelle’s eye and knew better than to do anything that might bring one of Miss Bella’s famous tantrums down on
her head. Betty was surprised at her mistress’s choice of gown, knowing that Annabelle had threatened many a time to throw that ‘dowdy Quakerish rag away’.

It was made of nankeen in the pelisse style with small raised buttons down the front from the high neck to the floor-length hem. The sleeves were long and close fitting to the wrist.

But Annabelle had a part to play and she meant to play it to the hilt. As soon as she had been helped into her underclothes and gown, she dismissed Betty, saying she would arrange her hair
herself.

‘Now,’ thought Annabelle, sitting down at the toilet table and studying her wan face, ‘I must look
reposeful
with a faint suggestion of the nurse.’

She brushed out her long blonde hair until it crackled, and then pinned it up in a knot on top of her head, letting only one curl escape.

Then she opened a small locked chest where, unbeknown to her parents, she kept her cosmetics.

Annabelle made better cosmetics than anyone between Hopeworth and Hopeminster and often earned pin money for herself by selling them to the women of the village.

She took out a stick of white grease paint and looked at it thoughtfully. She had made it with a mixture of prepared chalk, zinc oxide, bismuth subnitrate, asbestos powder, sweet almond oil,
camphor, oil peppermint and esobouquet extract. Although she had experimented with it in the privacy of her bedchamber, she had never worn it in public.

Very cautiously and carefully, she applied it to her face, making sure not to put too much on. Popular rouges were bright red, dark red, and vermilion, but the skilful Annabelle had concocted
herself a pale pink rouge.

Instead of painting a round circle on each cheek, she smoothed it on very carefully, blending it in with the white greasepaint. Then came the rose
poudre de riz
which she had made from
cornstarch, powdered talc, oil of rose and extract of jasmine. She moved the haresfoot delicately over her skin, and then sat back and frowned at her reflection. Annabelle’s lashes were as
thick as Minerva’s, but they were fair.

After some thought she took an orange stick, went over to one of the lamps and scraped off some of the lamp black, and then, returning to the looking glass, carefully applied the black to each
lash until she was satisfied that they were dark enough to look natural, but not black enough to look fake.

She heard a soft step in the corridor outside and hastily bundled her cosmetics back into their tin box and slammed down the lid just as Minerva came into the room.

‘Oh, Annabelle,’ said Minerva, forgetting for the moment the lecture she had come to deliver, ‘I have never seen you in better looks. When you make your come-out, you will be
the most beautiful girl London has ever seen!’

‘Thank you,’ said Annabelle, lowering her blackened eyelashes to mask a sudden spasm of irritation. Why must Minerva’s praise always be so generous and unaffected? Surely she
must feel just a
little
jealousy. Now she, Annabelle, was quite pleased to see that her sister was looking a trifle haggard and that she had dark circles under her eyes.

Then several crude and quite unmaidenly thoughts as to how Minerva came by those signs of fatigue flashed through her brain and she became more than ever determined to put Minerva’s nose
out of joint. Just let’s see how sweet Minerva stayed when she realized her famous wedding was to be shared by her sister!

But there was one good thing. If Minerva had not noticed the paint and merely thought Annabelle’s glowing complexion was the result of natural beauty, then so would everyone else.

Feeling composed, she raised her eyes to her sister and said quickly, ‘Merva, I know you have come to scold me about last night. But what did I say that was so very wrong?’

‘I asked Sylvester,’ said Minerva, ‘and you must understand that what you said – in all innocence – was in fact a piece of low cant which should never pass the lips
of any lady. I am only glad you left the company so early.
That
at least shows some sense. I am sure everyone will realize that you were a trifle well to go, what with you not being used to
so much wine or such late hours. Now I am not going to say any more . . .’

‘Good,’ said Annabelle rudely.

‘The Marquess of Brabington has arrived and we are all to take a little luncheon together so I am come to fetch you.’

‘Then let us go,’ said Annabelle, rising to her feet.

As they went downstairs, Annabelle turned over the events of the previous day, and by the time they reached the dining room, she was beginning to feel very ill-used.

Lord Sylvester had led her on, had
led
her to believe that his affections were not untouched. Had he not kissed her hand? And had he not said he would see her later?

At least I am now indifferent to him, thought Annabelle rather savagely.

But as they entered the dining room, her eyes flew immediately to the tall figure of Lord Sylvester and she was flooded with such a strong feeling of love and longing that she nearly gasped.

Now
with her eyes sharpened with jealousy could Annabelle see the warmth and love in his green eyes as Lord Sylvester walked forwards to meet Minerva.

Tearing her gaze away from this painful sight, she found the Marquess of Brabington looking at her and dropped him a demure curtsy.

Why, she thought, this will not be so very bad after all.