by M C Beaton
Annabelle was not looking her best. Guy had been in a drunken rage all that morning. She was pale and nervous, and she was wearing another shabby gown in an outmoded style. Her hair was scraped up under a muslin cap. Lady Trompington thought Mrs. Carruthers looked like a servant girl and decided to unbend a little.
But Annabelle unwittingly sabotaged all her ladyship’s good intentions of trying to unbend by saying sweetly, “So kind of Lord Darkwood to invite us to the ball.”
“Indeed?” Lady Trompington’s stare was awful.
“Yes,” said Annabelle. “His lordship sent my husband a most charming note the other day saying our invitations had been mislaid and he begged us to come.”
She looked curiously at Lady Trompington, whose skin had become mottled.
“Yes, my brother must have invited every peasant in the village. Of course, once a rake, always a rake,” said Lady Trompington with a thin smile.
“Are rakes Jacobite?” asked Annabelle, sounding amused while Cressida suppressed a little gasp of surprise at Lady Trompington’s insolence.
“No, my dear, but so used to roistering with coachmen and tavern wenches that they are apt to forget what is due to their name. Charles is still a sad rake. I have not known him ever to fix his interest on any female for more than a fortnight.”
“How sad!” exclaimed Cressida.
“Very tiresome,” said Lucky Trompington. “One always must be so careful about the company one keeps. One can… er… catch low manners just like the common cold.” She paused for effect and then continued in a pleasanter tone. “I am acquainted with your aunt Lady Kitson, Miss Knight.”
“She is most kind,” said Cressida. “I am to go to her in the autumn for the Little Season.”
“Very good. Very good indeed. There you will find young ladies who will be a good influence on your character.”
“I am fortunate in having the company of Mrs. Carruthers,” said Cressida, beginning to become very angry.
“Poor child,” sighed Lady Trompington. “Poor, poor child.”
“This is too much,” said Cressida, springing up. “I am going to fetch Papa.”
When she had left the room, Lady Trompington realized Annabelle was fixing her with a level stare. “I need not worry about upsetting poor Miss Knight,” said Annabelle. “As long as she is gone from the room, I take leave to tell you, you are a spiteful, overdressed, bad-tempered, insufferable woman.”
“You common slut,” said Lady Trompington, getting quickly to her feet. “I shall tell my brother of your insults. Do not attend our ball. I command you!”
“I was under the impression that Lord Darkwood was giving the ball and not you,” said Annabelle, too angry to feel dismayed.
“He will listen to me! Yes! And the good vicar. But I shall not stay in your company one second longer. Tell Mr. Knight I shall call on him.”
“Tell him yourself,” said Annabelle gleefully. She was normally shy and retiring and never in her life before had she been so gloriously rude.
Lady Trompington swept out. She could hardly wait to unburden herself to Charles.
But to her fury and dismay, the earl seemed mildly amused. “Got your comeuppance at last, did you?” he teased. “If there had been more Mrs. Carrutherses in your pompous life before this, dear Sis, then you might not have become quite so tiresome. Yes, I guessed you had deliberately not sent them an invitation. I have a copy of the list of people I asked you to invite. I expect not only the Carrutherses, but everyone else on that list as well!”
Lady Trompington spent the days before the ball feverishly planning ways to humiliate Annabelle Carruthers, but could not hit on any great plan except that of cutting her in front of everyone at the ball. This was not really a very good idea, though, as she was sure her brother would make up for her behavior by paying the horrible Mrs. Carruthers particular attention.
But something that she believed to have nothing at all to do with the Carrutherses put her in a good mood before the ball.
She liked shopping in the village for trifles for she enjoyed all the low bows and deep curtsies of the village people. They behaved just as they ought. She was strolling along the village street with her maid a pace behind her and her footman carrying parcels a few steps behind her maid when she almost collided with an elegantly dressed gentleman. She gave him an awful glare and made to move on, but he stopped short and swept her a low bow. “How delightful to see you again, Lady Trompington.”
Lady Trompington raised her quizzing glass and studied the man before her. He was wearing a curly-brimmed beaver on top of pomaded curls. His shirt points were so high and stiff that they dug into his cheeks. His cravat, to Lady Trompington’s unschooled eye, seemed to be a miracle of starched muslin. He was wearing a blue coat with a dog-skin collar over a biscuit-colored coat with large brass buttons. His trousers, which appeared to have been painted on his rather thin legs, were canary yellow and his Hessians shone like black glass.
“We met at my aunt’s musicale last Season,” murmured Mr. Temple, for it was he. “The Duchess of Norton.”
A dawning smile thawed the ice of Lady Trompington’s face.
“My card,” said Mr. Temple, proferring one with another deep bow.
“Why, what brings you to Upper Chipping?” asked Lady Trompington.
It had not taken Mr. Temple long to find out Guy Carruthers’s dreadful reputation in the village. He rightly decided it would not endear him to Lady Trompington to state he was visiting the Manor. He wanted an invitation to that ball to keep an eye on Carruthers. He had already waylaid the earl, but to little effect. Lord Darkwood had looked unimpressed by the mention of the ducal aunt. It did not dawn on Mr. Temple that it was because the earl was fairly sure the relationship was a fiction.
“I am recovering from a fever,” said Mr. Temple, “and felt in need of some country air before the rigors of the Season begin.”
“We are honored to have you in Upper Chipping,” said Lady Trompington. “Do you reside here long?”
“Perhaps another few days.” Mr. Temple looked wistful. “I pine for civilized society. The company of bumpkins does not amuse me.”
“So fatiguing,” agreed Lady Trompington. “I wish I could offer you some civilized society, Mr….” She glanced at his card. “Temple. But all we have to offer is some sad romp of a ball given by my brother, Darkwood, to which he has invited every turnip head in the village.”
Mr. Temple’s wistful look increased. “But you would be there…”
He allowed his voice to trail away in a question.
“If you think you would not find it all sadly provincial,” said Lady Trompington, “do pray attend. We would be honored to have your company.”
“I would count myself honored if I could manage to have one dance with you,” said Mr. Temple, raising her gloved hand and kissing the air an inch above the back of it.
Lady Trompington actually blushed. “Of course, you may have your dance,” she said graciously. She then gave him instructions as to the time of the ball and how to get there, not knowing he already knew both, and took her leave, after throwing him an almost flirtatious look.
Annabelle had lost her courage. Mr. Knight told her the next day after that disastrous scene, that Lady Trompington had called on him and had said very harsh words about this Mrs. Carruthers. Although the vicar obviously thought the earl’s sister a very nasty lady, indeed, Annabelle now dreaded the thought of meeting her again. Guy would probably be drunk, and she was sure Lady Trompington would make the most of that.
But all through the day of the ball, Guy showed no signs of picking up the brandy decanter. He was, however, as restless as a cat and as the sun began to set, took to pacing up and down the hall.
Annabelle, up in her bedchamber enjoying a warm bath in front of the fire, heard a carriage arrive and wondered who could possibly have come to call.
She sent one of the maids to find out and on hearing it was Mr. Temple decided to stay abo
vestairs until that young man had left.
Meanwhile, in the library, Guy had grabbed at the five hundred pounds that Mr. Temple had brought him. Gambling fever burned in his eyes, and he barely heard what Mr. Temple was saying.
“You have not been listening, my friend,” said Mr. Temple. “Part of the arrangement is that you should leave for London on the morrow.”
“Hey, what? So soon?”
“Time for you to earn your wages.”
Guy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like your tone, sirrah.”
“Odso? Then hand back the money for we have means to make you work for us for naught.”
“The devil you have,” said Guy sulkily. “Oh, demme, sit down and have a glass of something.”
“I fear I do not have the time. I must return to the inn to change for this ball.”
“You’ve been invited?” Guy cursed inwardly. He did not want Mr. Temple hanging about the card tables like a death’s head.
“Yes, Lady Trompington has taken a liking to me. Before I leave, I must remind you that you must never say anything of our dealings to your wife.”
“What d’ye take me for? Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Till this evening.”
After he had left, Guy looked longingly at the brandy decanter and then at the clock. Best to keep a clear head. Besides, he did not have a valet and must dress himself for the evening. Better get ready.
After an hour and a half, he succeeded in dressing himself to his satisfaction. The tying of his cravat had only taken half an hour. He was wearing a dark green coat and knee breeches with clocked stockings and dancing pumps. He was standing in the drawing room, admiring himself in the mirror over the fireplace, when his wife entered.
He stood very still, looking at her reflection in the mirror.
She was wearing a gold silk gown with a rose silk overdress, the hem of which was embroidered in a gold key pattern. The low neckline revealed the excellence of her breasts. Her thick and glossy hair curled from under a gold and pink turban, made in the style shown in the famous portrait of Lord Byron where he is dressed as a Turk. She looked very beautiful, almost like the sweet and carefree girl he had married. He felt a thickness in his throat, and the easy tears of the habitual drunkard sprang to his eyes.
“By Jove,” he said, turning around. “If you ain’t a picture.”
“You look very fine yourself,” said Annabelle happily. She was happy because he was sober and because he looked more like the handsome man she had once known.
“We’ll be the best couple there,” he said, walking forward and taking her hands.
But as he walked forward and looked down into her face, for he was well over six foot tall, he saw the trace of sadness that was always there now in her eyes. A shiver ran through him and he pressed her hands tightly. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “but, demme, one never knows what will happen. Should I die, my dear, I’ve left a letter written to you. You know that little secret cupboard behind the paneling in my bedchamber? I’ve left it there. But don’t ever look at it till after I’m dead.”
“Oh, Guy, don’t speak of such things. Perhaps… oh, perhaps if you were not to drink so much, you would not think of death or… or… gamble so much.”
He dropped her hands and turned away with a scowl. “Always preaching and moralizing,” he said bitterly. “I think I’ve married a Methodist.”
“I’m sorry Guy. It’s just that…”
“Just nothing!” he snapped. “Get your shawl, and let’s get out of here!”
Annabelle arranged a fine Norfolk shawl about her shoulders, mentally chiding herself for having made her husband angry. Surely she should have known by now the futility of trying to remonstrate with him about his drinking and gambling.
There was a full moon as they walked together down the drive, Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers, members of the gentry, who did not possess one carriage. The notes crackled in Guy’s pocket when he slipped his hand inside to feel their bulk. He should have left most of it at home, but he felt lucky. He felt sure the bad days were over. After the ball, he would turn Temple over to the authorities and let him squeal his head off. Guy began to feel happy again. Friends close to the crown, indeed! And he had believed him! No, Temple was a charlatan. But, wait, why kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs? Surely Temple would pay dear for his, Guy Carruthers’s silence? Guy began to laugh. Annabelle asked him nervously what it was that was amusing him so much, but he only gave her a quick hug and said he was happy because they were together. Annabelle smiled at him and took his hand in hers, relieved that his bad mood had gone.
Chapter Three
Most of the guests had already arrived by the time Annabelle and Guy made their way up the long drive that led through the Darkwood estates to the earl’s home, Delaney.
Guy was always late for everything and Annabelle had become accustomed to this irritating habit of his, for to try to rush him meant he would sulk and then they would be even later.
Annabelle trudged along, the iron rings on her pattens clanking on the ground. How awful to arrive in these dreadful clog things. But the ground was still damp, and she could not risk soiling her dancing slippers.
At last they came in sight of the house. Annabelle was not yet old enough to have all hope and youth and romanticism beaten out of her. All the windows were ablaze with candlelight and there came the jaunty sound of fiddle and drum across the night air and Annabelle’s heart lifted. Just for this one evening, she would forget her troubles and enjoy the ball. She was even able to face up to the likelihood of some terrible snub from Lady Trompington with equanimity. Because of her friendship with Cressida, she had come to know many of the village people. Most of them had been learning the new dance, the quadrille, in the village hall. Cressida said that Jem Hunt, the grocer’s boy, had become so adept at the steps that he danced like the veriest beau.
She could sense the rising excitement in her husband, but he could not be looking forward to any gambling. They did not have any money and, in any case, she doubted if a country ball would offer any higher sport at the card tables than Pope Joan and silver loo.
They separated from each other in the hall to leave their cloaks in the respective rooms allotted to ladies and gentlemen. Annabelle was glad the dressing room for the ladies was empty except for a maid, sitting in a corner.
She carefully checked her appearance in the glass. Yes, she had done well. There was nothing in her dressmaking to show that she had made it herself. It was as good as anything that might have come from the hands of a London couturiere.
She went back into the hall and joined Guy, and together they mounted the long stairs to the gallery where the ball was being held. Because they were late, the earl, his sister, and her husband had left their position at the top of the stairs to join their guests in the ballroom.
Sets were dancing the quadrille with that intense worried look on their faces that quadrille dancers have as they try to remember the intricate steps. The earl came forward to greet them, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he recognized Annabelle. A smile curved his mouth. He knew his sister’s nose would be put out of joint by the style and elegance of Mrs. Carruthers’s gown. Her eyes were very beautiful he noticed, an odd sort of deep gray, fringed with thick lashes.
He began to talk easily to Guy about crops and horses. Lady Trompington came up to join them, her eyes snapping. “You are neglecting your other guests, Charles.”
“I shall get to them presently,” he said mildly. “Mrs. Carruthers you have already met. May I present her husband, Mr. Guy Carruthers.”
Lady Trompington held out two fingers for Guy to shake. He stared at them, his color rising, and then gave a little shrug and seized her whole hand and shook it vigorously. Annabelle meanwhile had been aware that Jem Hunt, the grocer’s boy, was being urged by his friends to ask Lady Trompington to partner him in the next quadrille. To Annabelle’s dismay, Jem approached them. She had a wild hope that Jem m
ight ask her and so avoid a dreadful snub, but Jem bowed gracefully before Lady Trompington and said, “Pray do me the very great honor, my lady, of allowing me to partner you in the next quadrille.”
There was an awful silence.
Now Jem did not look like a country bumpkin. He looked more like a sort of village Adonis. Although his clothes were coarse, he was tall, slim, and had golden hair, wide blue eyes, and a Greek profile.
“Know your place, my good man,” said Lady Trompington frostily, “and solicit some village maiden instead.”
Annabelle stepped forward. “And here is one lady who would consider it a very great honor to dance with you, Mr. Hunt.”
Jem looked at her in a dazed way as she gently tugged at his sleeve and guided him to the floor. She thought she heard the earl say, “Bravo.”
“I’m mort ashamed,” whispered Jem. “I should never have had the impertinence to ask her. Reckon her’ll probably get her husband to horsewhip me.”
“Nonsense,” said Annabelle lightly as they stood together in the set. “Where is Lord Trompington?”
“Little gentleman over there,” said Jem, giving a discreet nod.
Annabelle looked across the room to where a little man with a face like a tortoise stood. He was painted, rouged, pomaded, and corseted and with his round shoulders, large belly, and thin shanks managed to look remarkably like Mr. Punch.
“I don’t think he’s up to horsewhipping you,” said Annabelle with an infectious giggle.
Jem began to laugh as well, and then he saw his friends were regarding him with awed admiration and laughed the more.
The quadrille began. Jem was an exquisite dancer. Annabelle was graceful and knew the steps well.
Lady Trompington stood and watched them, seething with fury. Her brother had told her in no uncertain terms that since she had refused to dance with Jem Hunt, then she could not dance with any other gentleman. But worse was to come. She had been triumphant at managing to persuade Lady Clairmont to attend, having learned that the star of London society was visiting friends in the neighborhood. Lady Clairmont was a leader of the ton. Everyone copied her clothes and her manners and even the stern patronesses of Almack’s were said to be in awe of her.