by M C Beaton
“You have given me enough, Godm … I mean, Emmeline,” said Annabelle slowly, “but there is just one thing…”
“Which is?”
Annabelle clasped her suddenly trembling hands together in her lap. She looked straight at her godmother. “I do not wish to be affianced to Captain MacDonald,” she said.
Lady Emmeline’s eyes fell before the girl’s direct look. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Tol rol. It’s your inexperience, girl. If you knew more of the ways of men, then you would appreciate a fine upstanding man like the Captain.”
She looked hopefully at Annabelle who said firmly, “I really mean it, you know. I do not wish to marry Captain MacDonald.”
“Umph!” said Lady Emmeline sulkily. Then her wrinkled, monkey face took on a crafty look under its mask of powder and paint. “Then so be it. I shall send a notice that your engagement is at an end to the newspaper in the morning. Do not trouble to speak to Captain MacDonald yourself. I shall see him for you.”
“Oh, thank you…,” Annabelle was beginning when Lady Emmeline interrupted her. “But the poor Captain is quite smitten with you, you know. I mean, it would not be fair to drop him entirely,heh? No harm in him escorting you here and there till you’re suited. After all, your papa would not want you to do anything rash. Seems to me he’s quite pleased about it.” She drew a crumpled letter from the sleeve of her kimono.
The rector had written to Lady Emmeline stating his joy and delight that Annabelle was already engaged. He went on at some length on the subject. Annabelle’s eyes were misted over with tears as she handed it back, and Lady Emmeline could only be glad that the girl had not noticed the missing sheet of the letter where the rector had then set out all his anxieties and hopes that it was a marriage of the heart.
“So you’ll try?” queried Lady Emmeline, her sharp eyes watching the girl’s expressive face. “Just to please a poor old woman.”
Annabelle nodded dumbly.
Lady Emmeline’s eyes suddenly narrowed like those of a large tabby cat. “Ah, Varleigh, now. He escorted you home?”
“Yes,” said Annabelle a little breathlessly and felt the guilty color beginning to mantle her cheeks.
“Well, there’s a triumph! Of course,” went on Lady Emmeline smoothly, “there has from time to time been some pretty debutante who has managed to pry my lord from Lady Jane’s side. But not for long. He only does it to make her jealous. Oh well”—here she gave a fake yawn—“I suppose that pair will be tying the knot before long. London’s ceased being scandalized at their affair. God knows, it’s been going on long enough!”
And having noticed that the barb had gone home, Lady Emmeline took herself off to bed.
But after Horley had snuffed the candles and Lady Emmeline lay abed in the dark listening to the wind in the trees outside and the high monotonous call of the watch, she began to turn over the events of the evening in her mind. She should never have left the girl alone with Varleigh. He had not been with Lady Jane for long, and it looked as if he would not be with her for much longer, but she certainly wasn’t going to let Miss Annabelle Quennel know that! She then thought of her assailant. Could someone be trying to kill her? Fiddlesticks! Who could want to? Probably I’m the target of some mad bet, thought Lady Emmeline sleepily. They’ll find something else to bet on, on the morrow. She was suddenly very tickled at the idea that her name might be appearing at this very moment in White’s betting book.
As for the Captain, she would tell him to play things easily. Annabelle was too shy and country bred to appreciate someone like the Captain. She needed some town bronze. Let her cancel the engagement. She would be engaged to the Captain again before the Season was out. He was just like his father, thought Lady Emmeline dreamily. Captain Mac Donald’s father had been her one and only love. Unfortunately she had been married to the Marquess at the time or perhaps Captain Jimmy MacDonald might have been her own son.
Annabelle should come about. All it needed was a bit of plotting and careful handling. Damn Varleigh! Why did he have to start poking his long nose into her affairs…
Chapter Six
“What the hell is going on?” demanded Captain MacDonald two days later. He had stayed on at Brick Hill to enjoy the roistering after the prize fight, and the first he knew of the end of his engagement was when he saw it staring up at him in black and white from the sheets of his morning paper.
“Damme,” he said wrathfully. “Can’t you control that girl?”
“Quiet down and listen,” said Lady Emmeline, admiring the Captain’s handsome figure. “We rushed the girl, you know. Handle her gently and she’ll come about.”
“Why Annabelle” demanded the Captain wrathfully. “Lots of other gels would be glad to have me.”
“I’m sure of it,” said Lady Emmeline soothingly. “But my late sister, Caroline, was fond of Annabelle’s mother. Poor Caroline was always fretting about the Quennells and when she knew she was dying, she made me promise to help them. And so I shall. I’m fond of you, Jimmy, love you like a son, but a family promise is a family promise.”
“But the gel won’t get any money an’ she marries someone else?” demanded the Captain.
“Don’t know,” said Lady Emmeline. “She saved my life, you know. I suppose it was all meant as a joke or some sort of wager, but I’d have died if I’d gone into that river.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” demanded the Captain. “Has everyone gone mad?”
Lady Emmeline told him all about her adventure, and the Captain said nastily that he thought it sounded more like a production at the Haymarket Theatre, and then followed it up with a hearty laugh as he saw the clouds gathering on Lady Emmeline’s wrinkled brow.
He started pacing up and down the room, his brow creased in thought. “Look! Let me talk to Annabelle and I’ll put it right. I’ll do what you say, of course. I won’t rush my fences.”
“Very well,” said Lady Emmeline, touching the bell. “Send Miss Quennell down,” she said to one of her many footmen who had answered the summons. “Do not say that Captain MacDonald is here. Merely say that I wish to see her.”
And so it was that Annabelle, tripping lightly into the room some ten minutes later, found only the Captain, waiting beside the fireplace with one glossy Hessian boot propped on the fender and the inevitable glass of ruby red liquid in his hand.
She looked at him, blushing with embarrassment, but he merely smiled at her in a kindly way and said, “Don’t take fright, Annabelle. I ain’t going to eat you. I only want to say how sorry I am that our engagement is at an end.”
“I am sorry to have caused you so much distress, sir,” said Annabelle in a low voice.
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” said the captain cheerfully, “except, of course, that there ain’t a war on, and I’ve become used to squiring a lady around. You won’t mind if we stay friends, will you? Until you’re suited, that is?”
Annabelle moved over to the window with her back to him and gazed out into the square. How was she to be expected to meet anyone else if she were to be constantly seen in the Captain’s company?
But as she gazed into the square, a smart highflyer phaeton rolled past with Lord Varleigh at the reins and Lady Jane perched up behind him, laughing and holding on to a ridiculous little hat.
“Thank you,” said Annabelle in a subdued voice and turning round. “That is very kind of you.”
“Splendid,” beamed the Captain. “Tell you what— run and fetch your bonnet and I’ll take you for a drive. You haven’t seen much of London apart from St. James’s.”
The sun shone in at the window. Everyone else who mattered seemed to be out there having a marvellous time.
Annabelle agreed and was ushered off the premises by an ecstatic Lady Emmeline.
“I know what I’ll do,” said Captain MacDonald when Annabelle was safely ensconsed beside him in the carriage. “I’ll take you to all those places they show the country cousins. You’ll like that.”
To her surprise she found herself thrilled and surprised by her outing. They drove first to the middle of Westminster Bridge and stopped to look at the great green and gray river with its barges and wherries and brown sails. Upstream lay the terraced trees and houses in front of Westminster Hall, the new Millbank Penitentiary and the low, willowed banks, and downstream, the crumbling old taverns and warehouses of Scotland Yard.
Then they drove over the high-balustraded bridge, with its bays and hooped lampposts, to the Surrey shore. After a short depressing ride through rows of mean, small dwellings and dingy factories, they returned once more to the river and over the camelback of London Bridge where the river narrowed into cataracts and poured down through arches. And so into the City, the commercial hub.
Annabelle found it all bewilderingly unlike the quiet streets of the West End.
Postmen in scarlet coats with bells and bags mingled with porterhouse boys with pewter mugs. Bakers cried “Hot loaves,” chimney sweeps with brushes, hawkers with bandboxes on poles, milkmaids with pails, all were crying their wares over the din made by the bells of the dust carts and the horns of the news vendors.
And the shops!
Windows were piled high with silks and muslin and calicoes, china and glassware, jewels and silver. Businessmen in broadcloth edged past children bowling hoops and workmen in aprons and padded leather jackets and raree-show men carrying the magic of their trade on their backs.
Annabelle stared openmouthed as they bowled across the wide cobbled expanse of Finsbury Square. Then across Old Street and past the gloomy facade of St. Luke’s Hospital for the insane with its large figures of Melancholy and Raving Madness. And then a long way round by Islington and Pentonville, out to Hampstead and Highgate, back towards London past the Yorkshire Stingo Pleasure Gardens at Lisson Grove and Mr. Lord’s cricket ground—now scheduled for building—and along the Edgeware Road where Annabelle at last recognised the wooden Tyburn turnpike and the northern wall of Hyde Park.
All through the journey the Captain kept up a light easy flow of conversation. Annabelle found she had enjoyed her day and was no longer afraid that the Captain would subject her to an excess of civility. And nor did he. Instead of trying to kiss her, he merely bent punctiliously over her hand and said he hoped to see her at the opera.
Annabelle found Lady Emmeline bubbling over with the latest on-dit. The Russian Czar, Alexander, as a member of the coalition who had defeated Napoleon, was visiting London. The latest was that the great Czar fancied himself in love with Lady Jersey and now Almack’s was most definitely more fashionable than Carlton House since the Prince Regent’s unpopularity with his subjects had become a byword.
And the bliss of it all, went on Lady Emmeline, was that no one, but no one, had.even noticed the cancellation of Annabelle’s engagement. They had now such a juicy piece of gossip to chew on.
Annabelle felt unaccountably depressed. She wondered if Lord Varleigh had read his morning paper or if he, too, had been too taken up with the latest on-dit to notice it.
THE Haymarket Theatre was crammed to its flame-colored dome when Annabelle and Lady Emmeline took their places in their box that evening. All the other boxes were filled, row after row with women in white satin gowns and diamonds and men in orders and gold lace. Catalani, that famous singer, began to drown out the noise of both chorus and orchestra with her well-known piercing voice. It was some time, therefore, before Annabelle realised that the Captain had entered and was sitting quietly in the comer, his face shielded from the light by one of the red curtains. A very ripe aroma exuded from him which seemed to be made up of various liqueurs and vast quantities of snuff.
Annabelle eyed him warily, but he was leaning forward now with his head resting on his hand, apparently absorbed in Catalani’s caterwauling.
Suddenly he said something. Annabelle could not quite make out what he had said but understood it to be some comment on the music.
The Captain’s voice rose and whatever he had said before, he said louder again, but Catalani’s voice had risen also at precisely the same time.
Annabelle turned in some irritation and raised her eyes in a manner which would have pleased Lady Emmeline’s butler.
“I SAID, ‘I LOVE YOU!’” roared the Captain.
The music from both orchestra and singers had unfortunately reached a lull, and the Captain’s words rang round the theater. Everyone giggled and stared and several of his cronies, recognising the Captain, sent up a cheer.
“Please, keep your voice down,” whispered poor Annabelle.
“I LOVE YOU!” shouted the Captain like a war cry, and his great voice echoed round the theater. How the audience roared and hooted and cheered and how the drunken Captain loved it. He had completely forgotten about Annabelle and was now performing his own interpretation of a Highland fling on the parapet of the box.
Annabelle tried to appeal to Lady Emmeline for help, but that infuriating old eccentric was laughing until the tears streamed down her rouged cheeks. Annabelle began to think they were all mad. If a lady made the slightest indiscretion, it was all over London the next day, and the doors of Almack’s were firmly barred to her. But a gentleman, it seemed, could behave like a drunken lout and still be considered “the finished man.”
The performers on stage were continuing as if nothing had happened.
Suddenly there was a stir in one of the boxes along the row from Annabelle. Through the cavorting of the Captain’s long limbs on the edge of the box, she could see a small gentleman with a beaky profile being welcomed by his friends.
The Captain saw the gentleman as well and the effect on him was electric. He bolted into the box like a rabbit into its burrow. Then the door at the back of the box slammed and he was gone.
“Who is that man?” said Annabelle, pointing with her fan.
“Oh, ’tis the Duke of Wellington,” said Lady Emmeline. “I hope he did not see Captain MacDonald, or poor Jimmy will be receiving a dressing down from his colonel in the morning.”
Annabelle was thankful to learn that there appeared to be some law and order in the higher ranks of the British army. The aristocrats who made up most of the ranks of officers seemed to treat their military service as if it was some sport akin to fox hunting and, during peacetime, hardly ever appeared in uniform except during the long ceremonial parades for the Czar’s visit.
How she wished she did not have to bear the antics of the embarrassing Captain! Her cheeks were hot with shame, and it was with some relief that she finally realised no one at all was bothering to look in her direction.
Annabelle had not, however, noticed that Lady Emmeline had been watching her closely. I have thrust her at the Captain too much, thought that wily old lady. Perhaps if I tell her she’s free and can do as she pleases and make sure little Annabelle and her Captain are thrown together … why then … who knows what may happen?
From the darkness of his box Lord Varleigh studied Annabelle through his quizzing glass, finding the appearance she made more appealing than the sights on stage. Lady Jane Cherle followed his gaze and her heart sank. Whenever Lord Varleigh saw the Quennell female, his attention seemed to be immediately rivetted on her. Annabelle was everything that Lady Jane feared and despised—a beautiful and missish idiot who had never suffered from the cold breath of scandal. Well, perhaps that could be arranged. She had no intention of losing Sylvester Varleigh—even if she had to intrigue, or kill, to keep him.
As Annabelle and Lady Emmeline alighted from their carriage in Berkeley Square later that evening, Lady Emmeline paused on the pavement, her whole face looking very serious and intent in the flickering light of the flambeaux blazing outside her house. She dismissed the carriage and then clasped Annabelle’s arm. “I am enjoying myself,” said the old lady, the wind from the square blowing her flimsy dress against the bones of her corset, “and it’s all thanks to you.
Youth keeps you young,” she went on, her eyes fastening almost greedily on Annabelle’s fresh features. “You can marry who you like and when you like, my dear. You’ll be a daughter to me. Yes, a daughter!”
Leaning heavily on the young girl, she moved into the house.
Unseen by either, a dark shadow detached itself from the railings a little way off down the street and slipped silently away to merge with the blacker shadows of the night.
Chapter Seven
Lady Emmeline’s newfound delight in her goddaughter had not abated on the following morning, and she started to plan a ball to be held in Annabelle’s honor.
The long ballroom which was at the back of the four-story house had not been used in years, and an army of servants was sent to dust and polish and scrub and take the Holland covers from the crystal chandeliers.
Madame Croke was sent for in order that a stupendous ball gown could be planned for Annabelle, who awaited the arrival of the dressmaker with some trepidation.
Annabelle conjured up a picture of Madame Croke as a hard-faced woman with snapping black eyes and the mannerisms of a demimondaine.
To her amazement Madame Croke was a small, faded, spinsterish woman with a small, faded voice. She was soberly dressed in a gray tweed pelisse worn over a gray Kerseymere wool dress. The severity of her bonnet would have graced the head of the sternest governess. It was hard to believe that this quiet mouse of a woman was capable of dreaming up some of the most outrageous toilettes in London. She had brought with her a folio of sketches for Annabelle to shudder over. Each gown looked more daring and scanty than the next.
When Annabelle at last arrived at a drawing of a simpering lady wearing little else other than jewel-bedecked gauze, she closed the folder firmly and said: “These will not do, Madame Croke. They are more suitable for a member of the demimonde than for a debutante.”