The Headstrong Ward (9 page)

Mrs. Branwell managed to whisper Anne's name. The bishop bowed over her hand. “My dear Lady Anne,” he boomed. “A pleasure, a true pleasure. My daughter has mentioned you.”

“How kind of her.” Anne examined the bishop with interest. He was indeed a large man, tall and with a matching bulk. His impressive figure seemed to cry out for a surplice and chasuble, and she would have wagered a good deal that he was high-church. He had Lydia's black hair, noticeably thinning, a narrow prominent nose, and comfortable jowls. But the most striking thing about him at first acquaintance was his voice. He had just the sort of voice one imagined a bishop should have—melodious, deep, and possessing a broad range of tones.

Just now, it was confiding. “You are the foster sister of our dear Laurence. We have long looked forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you.” Anne ventured a glance at Mrs. Branwell, and saw that she had once more retreated into silence and handkerchief-twisting.

The bishop followed her gaze. “Elvira,” he said, at once soft and somehow cutting, “you are ruining your kerchief.”

Mrs. Branwell started violently again, raised her eyes, dropped them, and hurriedly let go of the cloth.

Anne turned away, puzzled and rather upset by her behavior. Was the man a domestic tyrant? That would explain his wife's manner to him, at least. She would be careful not to draw his attention in that direction again. “I understand this is your family's first season in London,” she said.

He gestured expansively. “My family's, yes. But not, of course, mine. I have spent a good deal of time in town, what with one thing and another. I am a member of a number of societies which meet in London, and I naturally have a large acquaintance here.”

“Yes.” Anne was at a loss for a moment. “You must be very busy.”

The bishop folded his arms under his coattails and tossed his head back, looking smugly satisfied. “I am indeed. Very busy. The calls of my profession are, of course, heavy, and yet I cannot neglect those other interests which have been important to me since before I attained my present position.”

“N-no.” Anne frowned, searching for some better reply. Suddenly she remembered something. “You are interested in gardening, I believe?”

“Deeply.” He gazed down at her. “Do you also…?”

“Oh, no.” Belatedly Anne also recalled why this subject should not be pursued. She tried to shift the conversation. “What other groups do you belong to?”

Bishop Branwell waved this aside. “Gardening occupies much of my leisure time. I have just finished adding substantially to my succession houses. In the spring I shall initiate a series of experiments in hybridization of roses. They will be quite scientific. I believe one should be rigorously exact even in one's hobbies, perhaps particularly so there. Don't you agree, Lady Anne?”

Anne was saved from answering by the end of the set and the return of Lydia. The latter's fine eyes were sparkling with some emotion Anne found difficult to identify until they were focused on herself; Miss Branwell was annoyed with her. Anne looked around and discovered Laurence and Arabella in animated, and obviously happy, conversation on the far side of the room. She started to smile, then thought better of it.

“Papa!” said Lydia. “And Lady Anne. How glad I am that you have met at last. Have you had a good talk?”

The bishop nodded complacently. “We have been discussing gardening. Lady Anne is interested in my hybridization plan.”

“I'm sure she is.” Miss Branwell cast Anne a glittering glance. “Has she told you that her chaperone is a great gardening expert?”

“No!” Her father looked to Anne eagerly.

“Ah. That is just her modesty, I suppose. You must meet Miss Postlewaite-Debenham.” And Lydia took his arm and began to guide him across to the sofa where Mariah still sat.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Anne, rising. “Will you excuse me please, Mrs. Branwell. Or perhaps you would like to come?”

The other woman stared as if she thought Anne had suddenly lost her mind, and quickly shook her head. With a wry smile of agreement, Anne moved across to Mariah.

Lydia had already initiated hostilities when she caught up with them. The subject under discussion was pruning. “My dear Miss Postlewaite-Debenham,” the bishop was crooning, “you must admit that the vital juices retreat gradually from the stems, and therefore—”

“I admit nothing of the kind,” snapped Mariah, clearly annoyed, though whether by the man's argument or his manner, Anne couldn't tell. “Roses have done quite well with one pruning for hundreds of years. I see no reason for a change.”

“But, madam, change is not always an evil in itself. It may be good as well as bad.” The bishop's vowels were rotund. “Think, for example, of the—”

“I know roses,” interrupted Mariah. “And I daresay mine are finer than yours, with only one pruning.”

Branwell's mouth fell open, and his generous jowls shook. He was obviously not accustomed to being interrupted, and still less to having his opinions and plantations denigrated. Anne looked from his slowly empurpling countenance to his daughter's smugly satisfied one. Both of them were primed for the annihilation of the unfortunate Mariah—the one to do the deed, and the other to savor it. Hurriedly she looked for Laurence. He was still with Arabella, but their conversation was less intense. She tried to catch his eye, failed, and, with a quick look at the group around her, strode across to fetch him. He must hear this.

In a moment, the three of them were back. They had missed the bishop's opening salvo, but they were in time to hear him say patronizingly, “The ladies must always have the last word, of course. But it makes them perhaps a
little
deaf to wiser counsel. They are always so eager to cap the latest remark.”

Mariah looked at him with contempt, and not a sign of the chagrin he no doubt expected her to feel. Laurence raised his eyebrows a bit.

“Yes indeed,” added Lydia Branwell in strident accusatory tones, “we should listen to the opinions of those who know more about a subject than we.” Her remark was so clearly directed at Mariah, and so clearly unfriendly, that Mrs. Castleton frowned and started to speak.

But Mariah was before her. “Oh, I am always ready to do
that
,” she said. Before anyone could reply, she rose. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must speak to Charles about something.”

She was gone before Lydia and her father recovered. Anne had to stifle a giggle. The bishop looked exactly like a large fish out of water.

“Whatever was that about?” asked Laurence in the silence that followed.

Lydia turned, saw him, and glared at Anne. Then she slipped her hand through her father's arm and said, “We must go back to Mama. Come, Laurence, I will tell you all about it.” She swept off, and Laurence, still frowning, hesitated a moment, then followed.

When they were out of earshot, Anne sank onto the sofa. “Whew!” she said.

The Castletons looked at her. “You are up to something, aren't you, Anne?” asked Mrs. Castleton.

“I?”

The older woman smiled. “And I have an idea what it is.”

Anne gazed uneasily at her, but she merely smiled and nodded. After a moment, Anne smiled back.

“Well, I don't know whether I like it,” said Arabella. “You know what happens whenever you meddle, Anne.”

“
This
time, it is necessary,” replied the other firmly.

Her friend continued to look doubtful, but another set was starting up, and she was solicited for it. As she walked away with her partner, Edward Debenham approached Anne. “Come and dance,” he said.

“I should love to.”

They took their places, and the music started. “How can you bear talking to those poisonous Branwells?” asked Edward. “I wouldn't come near you until they took themselves off. Can't abide them, particularly the bishop.”

Anne shrugged noncommittally.

“Oh, come. You can't convince me that you like them. I've seen your eyes when you talk of the fair Lydia. What a horror that girl is. I cannot understand Laurence's blindness, as I have told him more than once.”

“I know,” retorted Anne acidly, “and you would be much better advised to hold your tongue.”

He stared down at her. “What do you mean? You don't want Laurence to
marry
that Friday-faced creature, do you?”

She bit her bottom lip. She had not meant to be so vehement. Meeting Edward's pale gray gaze, she eyed him speculatively.

“Whatever it is, no,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I know mischief when I see it, Anne, and I want no part of it.”

But Anne had made up her mind. “I
don't
want to see Laurence marry Miss Branwell,” she said.

“Who could?” agreed Edward cautiously.

“And I mean to do something about it, unlike you and your brother. I don't call that mischief!”

“I've been doing something,” replied Edward, aggrieved. “I've been telling him since he offered for her that she was a poor bargain.”

Anne gazed up at him, her gray-violet eyes wide. “How,” she wondered, “can men be so stupid?”

Edward looked surprised.

“Can't you see that that is
precisely
the wrong way to go about it? What would you do if Laurence criticized one of your decisions, a serious one, mind?”

“Why I should tell him to…” Edward paused.

“I know. I have seen you do it. All of you. So for you to snipe at Miss Branwell simply makes Laurence defend her the more. It is the worst possible course of action.”

Edward looked both irritated and amused. “I suppose you have a better idea?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What?”

“I mean to show Laurence what sort of girl Lydia Branwell really is. I shall be very polite to her and agree with all Laurence's praises, but I shall make opportunities for her to show her true colors. I did so once tonight. And you know, Edward, you could help me.”

He gazed down at her, bemused.

“It is not always easy to gather all the right people together,” continued Anne. “If I had someone to help, I daresay I could find many more chances.”

“You are quite serious, aren't you?”

“Well, of course I am.”

“But what you plan could be very unpleasant. Miss Branwell isn't stupid, you know. She will eventually see what you are doing, and then I daresay she will be after
you
.”

“What does that signify?” asked Anne impatiently.

“Well, I mean, she's a tartar. She might…” Edward groped for an example. “She might do something dashed uncomfortable.”

Anne shrugged. “I am not frightened. And what could be
more
uncomfortable than having her married to Laurence?”

“Yes.” He seemed much struck.

“Will you help me, then?”

“Ah, well, I don't know, Anne. Laurence won't relish interference.”

“He won't know anything about it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, you are just like your brother. You don't care a whit about Laurence; you are too selfish.”

He goggled. “Did you ask
Charles
to help you?”

Anne laughed shortly. “No indeed, not after I had spoken to him on this subject. He cares nothing about it. I did not expect you to be the same.”

“Yes, but, Anne—”

“Abandoning your brother to that sort of…of
managing
female. He deserves better from you.”

“But—”

“I daresay he has done you a score of services, and you cannot so much as lift a finger when he needs your help.”

“Would
he
say he needed it, though?” asked Edward bluntly.

Anne shrugged and turned her face away, but her companion did not notice. He was frowning and considering her argument. After a short silence, one side of his mouth quirked up and he murmured, “Good old Laurence.”

“What?”

“I was just thinking of something that happened while I was up at Oxford. Here, Anne, I'll tell you what. I will help you if you promise I shan't have to spend much time with the Branwell. I cannot abide that girl.”

Anne smiled brilliantly up at him. “You won't. I shall take care of that.”

He nodded. “Very well. I'm your man.”

“Oh, Edward, you won't regret this.”

“I rather think I shall, actually, but a man can't turn cow-hearted when it's a question of his own brother, can he?”

“No indeed. I knew you would see it so!”

“Yes…but, Anne, I'm going to ask something in return.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“You are to promise not to be pushing girls at me and grinning in that terrifying way, as you have been doing.”

She grinned now.

“That's it. That's the look,” added Edward.

“But, Edward, I worry about
your
happiness, too,” she teased.

“Well, don't. I ain't Laurence, and I'm perfectly able to manage my own…uh…er…”

Anne laughed ringingly. “All right, Edward. I promise.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Now, what exactly do you plan to do?”

The music was ending. “Come and sit down, and I will tell you,” answered Anne.

“I daresay I shall regret this before the evening is out,” said Edward as he followed her from the floor.

The next few days were busy ones for Anne. By this time, she had social engagements nearly every night; she attended another ball, joined a party at Vauxhall Gardens, and went to the theater with Laurence and Edward. Mariah accompanied her when there was no other chaperone, but she made it clear that she did not relish the outings. And when a substitute was available, she excused herself at once. Charles did not appear at any of these functions. Indeed, he was out a good deal during the whole week. But Anne found herself thinking of him often. She could not get the memory of his “other self” out of her mind.

She had thought she knew Charles; she had had years to observe him, from a distance, and to draw her conclusions, and she had done so. She thought of him as a distant, cold disciplinarian who cared for nothing and no one but himself. This opinion had been only slightly modified after her return from school. She saw that her view had been childishly exaggerated, but the basic judgment remained unchanged.

But now she was forced to question it. The Charles she had glimpsed at the Duchess of Rutland's ball was charming and warm. He laughed and joked in a way she would have declared impossible if she had not seen it herself. Indeed, had she met this Charles as a stranger, she would have pronounced him one of the most attractive members of London society.

His smile, his open look, his affectionate tone—all had drawn her.

And this, of course, made the contrast even harder to accept. Why did Charles treat his friends so well and his family so badly? Anne could not understand it. It was puzzling enough that he should have these two opposite faces, but why should the pleasant one be turned outward, toward strangers? To Anne, whose limited notions about family life came from her reading and short visits to the Castletons', his behavior seemed reprehensible. A man's family, she felt, ought to be the people closest to him, ought to be treated with the utmost consideration. But Charles turned this around.

And why? Anne pondered this question the longest. She could find no reason. Laurence and Edward, though not of course perfect individuals, were certainly above the common average. Laurence could be a little pompous, but he was also very kind and considerate; Edward, though sometimes heedless and a bit wild, was charming and, at bottom, sound. Why should Charles treat them with such cold disinterest? She did not include herself; she was not, after all, a real member of Charles's family.

Before the ball, the answer to these questions had been clear: Charles was a cold, rather disagreeable man. He might have sophistication and wit, but he was not the sort of person Anne admired or liked. Now she could not decide what to think. The only thing she was sure of, to her chagrin, was that she was jealous of the strangers who knew the “other” Charles. She longed to know him better herself, but because of who she was, this appeared impossible.

These meditations did not leave her in a pleasant mood. And Arabella several times commented on Anne's unaccustomed taciturnity. By the end of the week, as the date of the Branwells' musical evening approached, Anne had determined to put the whole matter from her mind. There was nothing she could do about it, and it was not improving her temper. The best thing for her to do, she decided, was to ignore Charles and his eccentric behavior, as he was ignoring all of them.

The whole Debenham household was, perforce, to attend the Branwells' entertainment. Laurence's engagement made this attention mandatory. Anne went up to put the finishing touches on her toilette directly after dinner, leaving the three brothers over their wine. She had chosen a simple gown of white sarcenet, trimmed with white ribbons and a single white rose. The pale background made her red-gold hair and changing eyes even more vivid. Crane awaited her in her room, ready to tidy any stray curl or readjust a flounce. As she walked up the stairs, Anne considered the meal just past. It had been unusually pleasant. She and Laurence and Edward had gotten into an animated discussion about dogs, and the only disputes between the other two had been laughing ones. Edward was on his best behavior and did not make even one slighting remark about the Branwells. Charles had looked on with cool approval and, Anne thought, some surprise, but he had not added much to the conversation. She could not decide whether this was an advantage or a disappointment. Charles had several times evinced a weary resignation about this evening's entertainment, and it was certainly good that he had not repeated that. Yet she had a notion that he could have added a great deal to their discussion if he had consented to do so, and she rather resented his holding back.

These thoughts dissipated when Anne entered her bedchamber to find Crane facing the door, arms akimbo, brows drawn together. “What is it, Crane?” she asked, recognizing her maid's look of disapproval. “Couldn't you find the paisley shawl? I did
not
leave it at the Archers'. I know I did not.”

“I found the shawl, my lady.” Momentarily diverted, Crane added, “It was crumpled in the bottom of your wardrobe.”

“Oh, dear. I can't think how that could have happened. I did not put it there.”

Crane's lips merely tightened. “If I might speak to you about something, my lady?”

Anne's heart sank. “Of course.”

“It's the bird.”

For a moment, she could not think what Crane meant, and Anne had a lamentable desire to giggle. “Th-the bird? Oh, you mean Augustus?”

“Yes, my lady. No one else wished to inform you, but I feel it is my duty to tell you that he has bitten the housemaid.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes, my lady. She was giving the creature water, I understand, when he attacked her. She fell into a fit of the vapors and is not yet fully recovered.”

“She is not badly hurt?”

“As to that, I couldn't say. The creature took a nasty chunk out of her thumb.”

“Oh, dear,” said Anne again.

“Yes, my lady. The girl is unable to work, and it is a great inconvenience to the whole household. Fallow did not wish to tell you about the incident, but I thought it better to do so.” Crane looked smug. She and Fallow had not established a comfortable relationship.

“Well, I will apologize to the maid, of course. What is her name? And I will see to Augustus myself from now on. He will not bite
me
.”

Crane drew herself up. “If I may say so, my lady, I think it would be much better if you got rid of the creature. I've said it before, and I say it again—he is not a fit pet for you or for a gentleman's house.”

“I know your views, Crane,” replied Anne. “But I have become rather fond of Augustus and mean to keep him. What is the name of the girl he bit?”

“But, my lady…”

“Please, Crane.”

Under Anne's direct gaze, the dresser fell silent, pressing her lips together disapprovingly. “Her name is Ellen, my lady.”

“Thank you. I shall speak to her tomorrow. Now, I had best get ready. The others will be waiting for me.”

Within half an hour the Debenham party was riding through the streets toward the Branwells' rented town house. Laurence, having been spared Edward's usual caustic remarks, was very cheerful, and he kept up a flow of talk, explaining the plans for the evening's entertainment. “They have got Madame Callini to sing,” he told a rather unresponsive audience. “She has a wonderful voice. And there will be a chamber group as well. The violinist is the one the Prince had last summer in Brighton. Yes, I think I can promise you that the music will be memorable. Lydia arranged the whole; she is very fond of music, you know.”

The others, who were not particularly fond of music, nodded dutifully. Edward directed a furtive grimace at Anne.

“It is unusual, at an entertainment such as this, to find such quality,” continued Laurence blithely. “Most of these musical evenings are simply excuses for gossip and flirtation. But Lydia means to show what can be done if the effort is made.”

Thinking that this sounded like Lydia's own words, and afraid Edward would not be able to restrain a critical comment, Anne said, “Does she play herself?”

“Oh, yes. Both the pianoforte and the harp. Splendidly.”

“We will hear her tonight also, perhaps?” Anne resolutely ignored another grimace from Edward.

“No. She says she will not inflict her performance on the guests when they have the opportunity of hearing such superior musicians. I told her that was nonsense, of course, but Lydia is very modest about her accomplishments.”

“Ah,” was all Anne could think of to reply, but they fortunately reached the house at that moment, and a footman opened the carriage door.

All three Branwells greeted them on the landing inside. Or rather, the bishop and Lydia did so. Mrs. Branwell merely stood between them, looking tired. “You will want to go directly to the drawing room,” said Lydia. “A great many people have already arrived, and the good seats are being taken. I set aside yours in the first row, but someone may usurp them if you do not go right in.”

Laurence agreed, and the party moved off. In the drawing-room doorway, however, Charles paused. “There are the Steadhams. I must speak to them,” he said, starting to turn away.

“But our seats,” objected Laurence.

“Oh, keep mine for me, by all means, Laurence.” The younger man's cheek reddened at his mocking tone as the viscount walked away.

“There's Kelso,” added Edward hurriedly and a bit guiltily. “Have something important to ask him.” And he too left them, before Laurence could speak.

“Isn't there someone
you
must see, Anne?” he said then, looking annoyed.

She smiled at him. “No, I am ready to go to my seat. Laurence, you know they don't care for music. It is too much to expect that they sit in the first row. Besides, Edward might fall asleep and disgrace you before everyone.”

He smiled reluctantly. “He might indeed. Come, we shall give their seats away to more deserving persons at the first opportunity.”

“A splendid idea.” They walked up the room together. The furniture had been removed and replaced by rows of gilt chairs set before an elevated platform containing a pianoforte and several music stands. They nodded to various acquaintances as they went. “Oh, there is Arabella,” said Anne. She waved to her friend, struck by an idea. “Talking of deserving persons, Laurence, Bella is extremely fond of music. She plays also. Let us offer her one of our favored seats.”

Laurence agreed enthusiastically, and in a moment this was done and the three of them were settling in the front row of chairs. Laurence repeated his catalog of the coming treats to Arabella, who received it with much more interest than his family had shown. Soon they were engrossed in a discussion about the singers to be heard in London this season, and Anne was free to look about the room.

She was beginning to recognize certain signs in a crowded drawing room, and they told her that this group was unusual. It seemed to be divided between a small number of very earnest guests, who huddled in animated discussion and almost none of whom she knew, and a large proportion of bored fashionables, who swung their fans idly or raised quizzing glasses in jaundiced weariness. Anne smiled slightly. It was fortunate that Mariah had convinced Charles she need not come. She would not care for this party.

The Branwells came in, escorting several late arrivals, and made their way to the front of the room. Mrs. Branwell sank into a chair at once, but the bishop made a show of establishing his daughter on the raised platform and capturing the guests' attention. Lydia waited with her fine head held high. Anne saw Charles sit down with a group of his friends near the back of the room—she hadn't expected him to join them—and smiled as Edward slipped out with some fellow officers, no doubt in search of a quiet place and a hand of cards. Then, as Lydia began to speak, she turned to look at her.

“We have a great treat tonight,” said Miss Branwell. “Madame Callini of Milan is with us and has promised to sing several of her justly celebrated arias. I won't delay that pleasure any longer, but will merely present…Madame Callini.” She extended a hand and looked expectantly toward the rear doorway. The audience turned also.

There was a moment of silence. Someone giggled, then quickly controlled himself. “Madame Callini?” repeated Lydia, louder and with impatience in her voice. The doorway remained vacant. Whisperings started in the crowd.

Her eyes flashing, Miss Branwell glanced at her father, who looked thunderous, then stepped down and strode through the drawing room and out at the rear. As one, the guests began an avid discussion of this contretemps.

“I wonder what can be the matter?” said Laurence. “Perhaps I should offer Lydia my assistance?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Anne. “I wager she would be very grateful.” To herself, she thought that this was a fine opportunity for Laurence to observe his fiancée's temper.

He rose. “I hope there hasn't been an accident.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Arabella from his other side. “Poor Miss Branwell, she must be so worried.”

Throwing her a warm look, Laurence departed. Anne watched him go with a faint smile, but just as he reached the doorway, Charles stopped him with a raised finger and called him over. As Anne frowned in annoyance, the viscount could be seen admonishing his brother and finally urging him into a chair nearby. “Stupid!” exclaimed Anne.

“What?” Arabella turned from the gentleman on her right and gazed at her friend.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“What do you think is wrong?”

“I suppose Madame Callini is being temperamental. Singers are known for that, are they not?”

“Some are. But how dreadful for the Branwells—to have all these people waiting, and no…” She stopped as Lydia entered the drawing room again. There was no sign of Madame Callini, but four very cowed-looking male musicians trailed after her. Lydia appeared to be controlling her rage with great difficulty.