‘Annabelle must be leaving for the country,’ exclaimed Mrs Armitage. ‘She has quite forgot to tell us.’
The Marquess of Brabington’s tall figure appeared on the steps. He swept off his hat as Daphne and Mrs Armitage descended from their carriage.
‘You will find my wife in the drawing room,’ he said. ‘I regret I cannot wait to speak to you. I am leaving for Brabington Court. The estates have been sadly neglected of late.’
‘Annabelle goes with you?’ asked Mrs Armitage, a trifle flustered by the stern look on the marquess’s face.
‘No, she is content to remain in town,’ he said coldly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me …’
He walked past them and climbed into the carriage.
Daphne remembered the days shortly after Annabelle’s wedding when the Marquess of Brabington had seemed the happiest man in London. She and Mrs Armitage watched in silence as the marquess’s carriage drove off and then they entered the tall dark house.
They could hear the lusty wailing of the baby coming from the drawing room.
Annabelle looked quite unlike her usual beautiful and frivolous self. Her blonde hair was lank and her face had grown thin. She was walking up and down, rocking the screaming child, while the nanny, Mrs Arbuckle, made ineffectual efforts to remove the baby from her.
Daphne thought uncomfortably that baby Charles was the sort of child only a mother could love. When his face was not red with crying, it was dark with rage. She could never remember having seen a small baby with such a low brow. He had a thatch of thick wiry black hair and large chubby fists with which he was engaged at that moment in punching his mother’s face.
‘Oh, there you are,’ sighed Annabelle, admitting defeat and passing the boy to Mrs Arbuckle who carried him swiftly from the room.
Perhaps it was because the baby had seemed to arrive with so little warning and because one had had so little time to get used to the idea of Annabelle being a mother that had made little Charles seem such a ferocious cuckoo in the Brabington nest.
Annabelle had retired to the country for six months before the arrival of the baby, which certainly all went to show she was determined to bring a healthy child into the world, for nothing else could have persuaded Annabelle to be away from fashionable London for so long. She had led a very quiet life, refusing even to see Minerva. She had written regularly to all her sisters, only announcing two months before the birth that the baby was expected.
Daphne chided herself for having such nasty thoughts about this newest nephew and smiled at her sister.
‘Is not this weather frightful? I am like a wet rag,’ said Annabelle, plumping herself down inelegantly in a chair. ‘Do sit down Mother. Daphne, ring for the tea tray.’
Daphne tugged at the bellrope and Annabelle studied her sister’s beautiful face, modish gown, and artistically arranged hair.
‘’Faith,’ sighed Annabelle, ‘to think I was once the beauty of the family. You were always well enough, Daphne, but no one could have guessed you would blossom into a diamond of the first water.’
‘Mr Simon Garfield is to call here to take her to the Review in Hyde Park,’ said Mrs Armitage proudly.
Annabelle’s blue eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Mr Garfield. The very rich Corinthian Mr Garfield! Papa will be in alt. Except I have heard that Mr Garfield excels at all sports except fox-hunting.’
‘Annabelle,’ said Daphne anxiously. ‘Brabington was just leaving when we arrived. He is gone to the country.’
‘I know that, you silly goose.’
‘But … but I find it strange that you are not going with him.’
Annabelle gave a shrill laugh. ‘I was like you once, Daphne, all wrapped around with the gold tissue of love’s young dream. Mr Garfield must have captured your heart.’
‘No, Annabelle. I am almost affianced to Mr Archer.’
‘Cyril Archer? Oh, Daphne, how boring! Now Mr Garfield looks a very exciting sort of man.’
‘I don’t want to be excited,’ said Daphne crossly.
‘Ah, we’ll see,’ grinned Annabelle, and then her grin faded to be replaced by a look of pain. ‘Make the very best of it,’ she shrugged. ‘Nothing lasts.’
Daphne looked at Mrs Armitage for help. Surely that lady could see Annabelle and her husband must have had the most terrible kind of row. But Mrs Armitage began to talk dreamily about Mr Garfield’s perfections until even Annabelle became irritated and asked her mother tartly whether she did not wish to marry Mr Garfield herself.
The arrival of the tea tray saved Mrs Armitage from replying.
Searching in her mind for a safe topic of conversation Daphne told Annabelle about Betty’s distress. ‘I am sure it is not the headache, you know,’ Daphne finished earnestly.
‘I am sure there is some trouble between Betty and John Summer. They were to be married but nothing came of it. Papa must be paying John a fair wage because his livery is very fine but …’
‘This heat,’ interrupted Annabelle acidly, ‘is quite bad enough without having to listen to gossip about servants.’
Daphne’s beautiful mouth folded into a stern line. ‘What has come over you, Bella?’ she said severely. ‘When did we refer to Betty and John Summer as servants in that tone of voice? Only mushrooms and counter-jumpers talk of their servants so.’
‘Oh, Miss Hoity-Toity with your newfound London airs,’ sneered Annabelle.
‘Girls! Girls!’ cried Mrs Armitage feebly. ‘You will bring on one of my Spasms. And Daphne, I have observed since last night that your face has started to move a great deal. You will bring on premature wrinkles.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Annabelle maliciously, ‘what has happened to our dim little sphinx-like Daphne? You are become positively human and your nose is quite shiny. Has Mr Garfield kissed the sleeping princess to life?’
‘You are sadly gone off in looks, Bella,’ said Daphne coldly, ‘which is no doubt why you are become such a jealous cat.’
‘Do not let us quarrel,’ sighed Annabelle, going suddenly limp. She pushed a fretful hand at the heavy mass of her hair. ‘I do not know what I am about these days. I say such terrible things to Peter, but I can’t help it. He cannot even bear to look at his own son! It … it’s unnatural.’
There was an awkward silence, and then Annabelle shrugged and started to gossip about clothes and notables. Daphne could not help glancing every now and then towards the clock. The air in the dark drawing room was oppressive.
Why had Annabelle not tried to redecorate? There must be thunder about. Daphne glanced again at the clock. She felt a suffocating feeling of anticipation in her bosom. If only Mr Garfield would arrive so that she might get it over with and return to the calm tenor of her ways. She did not want to see Mr Garfield although he had been most kind about the dogs. He was too upsetting. The hands of the clock which had seemed to crawl around the face suddenly leapt forward and the clock struck four.
As the last chime died away, there came a rap at the street door. Mrs Armitage leapt to the looking glass with quite amazing alacrity and began to arrange her straw hat at a more becoming angle. Daphne nervously straightened her gown, and Annabelle watched them both with wide, cynical eyes.
‘Mr Garfield.’
Annabelle’s hand flew to her hair. Daphne blushed and Mrs Armitage simpered.
‘Welcome, Mr Garfield,’ said Annabelle. ‘So you are come to take my little sister out. Do have a care. These country misses have not yet acquired our town bronze and become alarmed in crowds.’
‘I have never seen Miss Daphne other than very poised and very beautiful,’ said Mr Garfield.
‘You must see my darling son,’ cried Annabelle, jumping to her feet. As she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass over the fireplace a look of dismay crossed her features, and she hurriedly whipped herself out of the room.
‘I am sure the Review will be a splendid sight,’ sighed Mrs Armitage. ‘I had so hoped to see it but Mr Armitage did insist on going to his club a
nd there is no gentleman to escort me.’
She cast a roguish look out of her faded eyes at Mr Garfield but Mr Garfield seemed vastly interested in the polished toes of his boots.
‘How go Bellsire and Thunderer?’ asked Daphne desperately.
She felt she had wandered into a strange dream where she sat in a darkened room talking to a man with yellow eyes while her normally beautiful sister behaved like a shrew and her normally indifferent mother began to show alarming symptoms of rivalling Lady Godolphin in the arts of middle-aged flirtation.
‘They consented to let me go,’ he smiled. ‘They really are hunting dogs, you know, Miss Daphne, and quite unsuitable for a gentleman’s residence. I am persuaded your father would be delighted to have them back again.’
‘Oh, I am sure he would,’ said Daphne eagerly. Then she strove to put her usual calm mask on but somehow she could not achieve it. Every part of her felt alive and tingling.
The door opened and a refurbished and beautiful Annabelle appeared wearing a saucy pink silk gown with many ribbons.
‘Alas!’ she cried. ‘Little Charles is sleeping like an angel and I dare not wake him.’
‘I shall no doubt have the pleasure of seeing your son another time, Lady Brabington,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘And now if you are ready, Miss Daphne …?’
‘You are leaving so soon?’ said Annabelle, waving a pretty fan and flirting with her large blue eyes over the top of it. ‘It is so hot here, I pine for fresh air. I am sure the air of Hyde Park would be very beneficial.’
‘On the contrary, I fear it is about to rain,’ smiled Mr Garfield. ‘But Miss Daphne is still countrified enough to stand the rigours of inclement weather, so, in that, I am fortunate. Your husband will no doubt return soon …’
‘Lud! Brabington’s gone this day to the country.’
‘Then you should follow him,’ said Mr Garfield, picking up Daphne’s parasol and stole. ‘The air would do you and your child the world of good.’
He swept Daphne rather hurriedly from the room.
‘I have decided it would be best to walk,’ said Mr Garfield when they had left the house.
Daphne took his offered arm. She wondered whether to apologize for her mother and her sister’s odd behaviour. They had practically thrown themselves at Mr Garfield’s head!
The air was very still and humid beneath a sky which seemed to be darkening by the minute.
Mr Garfield’s broad shoulders pushed through the crowd and secured them a place at the front.
Coloured flags hung limply between the trees and a hot-looking band were playing hot-sounding military marches.
Then the drums began to beat to arms from every quarter summoning the reviewers and the reviewed to the field.
The avenues of the park were crowded with elegantly dressed women escorted by their beaux. The crowd was so great that when the Prince of Wales entered the park, it was thought advisable to lock the gates to avoid too much pressure.
Colours stood out very sharply in the close, darkening scene. There were uniforms of every hue. The Honourable and Ancient Artillery Company wore blue with scarlet and gold facings, pipe-clayed belts and black gaiters. The Bloomsbury and Inns of Court Volunteers were dressed in scarlet with yellow facings, white waistcoats and black gaiters. The Volunteer Rifles were clad in green.
Daphne was thrilled by her first sight of the Prince of Wales. To others he might appear gross, but to Daphne every inch of his corpulent form looked royal.
The Volunteers were a useful body. They served as police, and were duly drummed to church on National Fast and Thanksgiving days to represent the national party. The strength of the Volunteers had been at its peak over ten years ago when everyone had dreaded an invasion by Bonaparte.
Although now not so great in number, they were still very popular with the highest to the lowest since every man had a wish to be with the colours, an enthusiasm shared by the Prince Regent who had many times longed to go into action and who had so many times been refused permission. A large warm drop of rain plopped down on Daphne’s nose and she looked anxiously up at the sky. The clouds were dark purple, so heavy they seemed to lie on top of the trees. Near at hand, the thunder growled.
There was a great blinding flash. Faces stood out white, colours sharp and brilliant, and the blackness swept over the Park as the rain came down with a great torrential burst.
There was no possibility of fleeing from the Park. The gates were locked and the Prince Regent was still reviewing the troops. Mr Garfield took Daphne’s parasol and held it over both their heads. Slowly the glory of the troops began to fade as their splendid uniforms lost all their gloss.
The smoke of a whole campaign could not have more discoloured them. Where the ground was hard, they slipped; where soft, they sank up to the knee. The water ran out of their cuffs as from a spout and filled up their half boots so that they squished and squashed with every step.
Water was beginning to run down the handle of the parasol and drip through the thin silk onto Daphne’s head. Her smart straw bonnet was becoming limp, her feet in their yellow silk sandals were beginning to sink into the quagmire that was forming at her feet.
Worse than that, many of their neighbours were beginning to crush in close to try to share some of the parasol and Daphne was rammed up hard against Mr Garfield. It was indecent, thought Daphne, that a muslin gown should offer so little protection. She might as well have been naked. She was conscious of every hard muscle in Mr Garfield’s tall hard body. She tried to inch away from him, but found she could not. She squirmed uncomfortably against him and that seemed to make matters worse.
In despair, she twisted about and found herself bosom to chest with a fat, florid man with a wicked gleam in his eye, and so she wriggled back around again.
‘Better the evil you know …’ murmured Mr Garfield’s voice somewhere above her.
Drowned, sodden and battered, the flower of London society stood stoically while sheets of rain poured down, the thunder bellowed and the lightning flashed.
At long last, after two hours, the Prince Regent’s carriage moved off and the gates of the park were unlocked.
Mr Garfield held Daphne back as she tried to make a frenzied dash through the crowd.
‘We are so very wet,’ he said ruefully, throwing away the remains of her parasol, ‘that it will not hurt us to get a little wetter. We will be trampled underfoot by the mob if we try to leave now.’
He led her over to the shelter of a large oak. Daphne dragged her thin gauze stole about her shoulders.
Never before had she been so conscious of her body. Never before had she shown so much of it in public. Her wet dress was clinging to every inch of her form. The straw brim of her hat sagged over her eyes. She impatiently undid the ribbons and let her hat fall to the ground.
Mr Garfield pulled off his coat and put it about her shoulders. He was smiling down at her in a way that was making her breathless and frightened.
‘Oh, do let us go,’ she said, feeling she could not bear it any longer.
She set off across the quagmire of the Park.
And then, through the pounding rain, she thought she saw the elegant figure of Mr Archer. He was walking towards the gate, carrying a large umbrella.
Sanctuary. Safe Mr Archer. Dull, unimaginative Mr Archer who never frightened her or did all these strange things to her body.
Daphne heard Mr Garfield call out behind her but paid no heed.
She plunged towards the retreating figure of the man with the umbrella. The next minute she had sunk up to her garters in the mud. She floundered to extricate herself. Mr Garfield came up behind her and put a strong arm about her waist to help her. But the emotions roused by the feel of that hard muscled arm under the softness of her bosom made Daphne struggle so wildly and so violently that they both fell over in the mud.
Mr Garfield lay full length on the ground beside Daphne, propped his head up on one hand and surveyed her wide, startled, terrified eyes w
ith amusement.
‘Fair Daphne,’ he said. ‘Only you, out of all the ladies I know, could still appear exquisite when covered with mud.’ Still laughing, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, seemingly oblivious of the thundering rain and the muddy ground. For one brief moment all that held her to the world was his lips against hers. And then Daphne became alive to her situation. She had involuntarily wound her arms about his neck. They were both lying in the mud, and a passing lady stared down at them and let out a hysterical giggle.
‘Help me up, Mr Garfield,’ said Daphne icily. ‘I am like to catch my death of cold.’
He got to his feet and pulled her up and then lifted her up into his arms clear of the mud and started to walk off with her towards the gate.
‘Put me down,’ said Daphne weakly.
‘When we reach dry ground.’
‘You should not have kissed me.’
‘The temptation was too great. You should not have fallen in the mud. You looked so deliciously abandoned.’
‘Sir, you must remember I am almost affianced to Mr Archer.’
‘Indeed? Does he kiss you like this … and this … and this …?’
‘Oh, Mr Garfield. You should not. Put me down. Oh, Mr Garfield.’
At last he raised his lips from hers and smiled down at her worried, startled face.
‘I shall tell my father,’ whispered Daphne.
‘Who would be delighted.’
‘No, he would not,’ said Daphne regaining her composure as they reached the gates of the Park and he set her down. ‘He would be most shocked that a gentleman should subject me to … to …’
‘To such an excess of civility.’
‘To such humiliation. Such familiarities, sir, should be between married people.’
Mr Garfield looked down at her in surprise. He took her arm and tucked it in his, and led the way along the glistening pavement. He had just realized that he had been guilty of quite dreadful behaviour. Unless he meant to marry her, then he had better apologize and try to convince her he was foxed. If she did tell her father, then the good vicar would soon be appearing with the marriage service in one hand and a gun in the other.
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