He knew much about her. Nay, he knew everything about her—every trial, every triumph, every flaw. At one time the adoration in his demeanor sent her heart soaring, but tonight his expression was void of all emotion, as if they were no more than indifferent strangers.
She had not even realized that a smile curved her lips until it was too late. It was such a natural response. He had garnered smiles from her since the time they had been children. And he had always returned them with equal fervor.
But today his countenance darkened and he turned back to the lady on his arm.
The obvious dismissal stole the stale air from her lungs and weakened her knees. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She looked around for an escape. Someone to talk to. Anyone. A reason to think that she had not been abandoned completely.
But all around her, people she had known most of her life were engaged in other conversations. Conversations that did not include her, and likely never would again.
A tear was about to fall when a welcome, familiar voice broke her solace. “I detest him on your behalf.”
Annabelle’s breath rushed from her lungs in relief as she turned toward the voice and beheld Katherine McCleod. Annabelle reached out to take her dear friend’s hands as she approached. “You can’t possibly know how happy I am to see you.”
Katherine embraced Annabelle, patted one of Annabelle’s wayward locks into place with assumed authority, and then shook her head. She lifted her nose in the air and cast a condescending glance in Samuel’s direction. “He is making a fool of himself, flirting in such an obvious manner. It is sickening.”
Annabelle looped her arm through her friend’s and turned her back to the seemingly happy couple. “I don’t think it will ever be easy to see him, even after all this time.”
“Probably not, especially after the shock and suddenness of his betrayal. And might I add that I don’t care much for the lady, either.” Katherine fluttered her fan in front of her face and cut her dark eyes toward the woman they were discussing.
The long-stored tension in Annabelle’s shoulders dissipated. “You are rescuing me, you know.” She laughed, touching her glove to her forehead to absorb the moisture gathering there. “This is a wretched state in which to be. I feel like I am in exile—as if everyone is staring at me, wondering why I am here.”
“You are here because you were invited.”
“I am here because my brother was invited, and I had no choice but to attend. My chamber seems a much safer place.”
“Society as a whole is fickle.” Katherine shook her head at the perceived injustice. “We are all just one misstep away from scandal. I am quite sick of it. I am eager for the season to draw to a close so we can return to the country and find some peace at last.”
Annabelle lifted her fan to her face to cover her smile at her friend’s lie. In truth, Katherine lived and breathed for society’s endless cascade of chatter, the more shocking and outrageous the gossip, the better. But despite her propensity for spectacles, her companionship was welcome and, for a bit, put Annabelle at ease.
“Where are your brother and sister-in-law? I cannot believe they would leave you alone like this.”
Annabelle tilted her head. “I presume Thomas is in the billiards room. I have not seen Eleanor since dinner.”
Katherine snapped her painted fan open. “It is a pity that you and Mrs. Thorley are not closer.”
Annabelle would have liked to enjoy a more sisterly affection with Thomas’s wife, but Eleanor had never warmed to her. And since the demise of the family fortune and the public embarrassment of Annabelle’s broken engagement, their strained relationship grew colder by the day.
Katherine drew nearer, her scent of lavender and vanilla sickly sweet in the already stifling space. “I have heard reports that a Mr. Treadwell is to be a guest in your home. Is this true?”
“I understand he is to be, although I have not seen him myself.”
“I just encountered him in the parlor. I have been introduced to him on a prior occasion, but it has been several years since I last saw him. What a handsome gentleman he is. Never have I seen such brilliant blue eyes on a gentleman or lady.” Katherine’s eyes grew wide and her voice grew nasally, as it did anytime she had news to share or gossip to uncover. “I could not help but wonder if your brother invited him to encourage a relationship between the gentleman and yourself.”
Annabelle’s stomach dropped. At one time news of a handsome stranger would have breathed fresh life into her girlish dreams and fancies, but her brother’s insistent instructions regarding Mr. Bartrell could not be ignored. Mr. Treadwell might be amusing, but Mr. Bartrell was wealthy—an attribute that always trumped any other. Annabelle fussed with the lacy hem of her glove. “I am aware of no such plan.”
Katherine lowered her painted fan. “I’m relieved to hear it. Mr. Treadwell is dashing, yes, but such a dubious reputation precedes him. Just this evening I overheard two ladies discussing him and his questionable relationship with a young lady in Brighton.”
Annabelle offered a smile. “I think I am quite safe from Mr. Treadwell and his dubious reputation, or so you call it.”
Obnoxious masculine laughter rang out, and Annabelle lifted her gaze to look past Katherine. A shiver of dread pulsed through her. Thomas and Mr. Bartrell walked in her direction. She scanned the crowd, looking to see if Mr. McAlister accompanied them, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She swallowed the lump of discomfort welling within her. Mr. McAlister’s written words hung heavy in her mind, and she had hoped to gain more clarification before encountering her brother.
Katherine, too, turned to identify the source and then whipped her head back around, nearly disrupting the jewel-encrusted comb holding her chestnut hair in place. She said nothing—a feat that, in and of itself, spoke volumes.
The men drew closer, and the deplorable manner in which Mr. Bartrell assessed Annabelle from the top of her head to the hem of her gown brought an uncomfortable flush to her cheeks.
His slovenly physique suggested frequent overindulgences of food and drink. Despite the impeccable cut of his emerald wool coat, it still managed to hang askew on his awkward frame. A limp marred his gait, and a bruise beneath his left eye suggested a recent skirmish.
Mr. Bartrell approached her boldly, the scent of brandy and perspiration clinging to his person. His voice boomed, rising above even the resounding clamor of the music and crowd. “If it isn’t the beautiful Miss Thorley.”
He reached out, grabbed her gloved hand with his bulky one, and pulled it toward him in rough ignorance. He leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of it.
The thought of his lips on her hand—even her gloved hand—mortified Annabelle, and in a precipitous moment of panic she jerked her hand from his clutch.
She froze, realizing what she had done. His action had been rude, yes. But so had hers. She could feel her brother’s weighty gaze on her.
Annabelle found her voice and squeaked an introduction in an eager attempt to cover her breach of etiquette. “Mr. Bartrell, you are acquainted with Miss McCleod, are you not?”
At the introduction Katherine curtsied stiffly.
He gave a wobbly bow. “It is always a pleasure to meet one of Miss Thorley’s charming friends.”
Katherine’s eyebrow arched, and she smiled coolly in response but said nothing. Her silent expression of shock at Mr. Bartrell’s uncouth behavior validated Annabelle’s rejection.
He seemed unaware of his impropriety. In fact, he flashed a broad smile, revealing two missing teeth, and rubbed his hands together in front of him. “My daughters were thrilled to have met you last week, Miss Thorley. They have spoken of nothing else since your visit.”
Annabelle cringed inside at the memory of meeting his three children. They had been moody young ladies, and the eldest was only six years her junior. The thought of filling the role as mother to such girls jolted her. She grasped for something to say. Anything. She nearly choked on the dry wo
rds. “They are lovely girls.”
“Lovely, yes. But such headstrong natures! Even the little one.” A sly grin crossed his face. “I’ve no idea where they would encounter such a nature, would you, Miss Thorley?”
Annabelle could not make herself smile at his lackluster joke. “I do not.”
A new melody started, and Mr. Bartrell extended his hand to her. “May I have the pleasure?”
Annabelle hesitated. She could think of no quick excuse.
Katherine reached out for Annabelle’s arm, halting the conversation. She flashed a practiced, flirtatious smile she often employed to get her way and directed her words to Mr. Bartrell. “I do have to beg your forgiveness, sir, but I must have just one more moment of Miss Thorley’s time. We are in the midst of a particular project, and you know how we ladies are. I know I can count on you to excuse her, can I not?”
Irritation blazed in his ruddy face, and his demeanor darkened in an instant. He cut his eyes toward Thomas, but then, as if knowing there was no way to cordially refuse Katherine’s request, he cocked his head to the side and bowed.
Grateful for the separation, Annabelle allowed Katherine to guide her away. But Thomas’s long, determined stride soon overtook the ladies’ smaller ones. He muttered an excuse to Katherine and then gripped Annabelle’s arm, pulling her away from her friend.
“How could you be so rude to Bartrell?” He directed her through the crowd.
Annabelle attempted to pull her arm free while she tried to match his pace. “How could I be rude? How could you be so rude as to interrupt my conversation with Katherine in such a boorish manner? She’s the only person in attendance at this miserable ball who is willing to even speak with me, but now I’m fortunate she even acknowledges me at all.”
“I could care less about Miss Katherine McCleod,” Thomas hissed.
Annabelle refused to walk another step. “Take your hand off me immediately.”
Thomas gripped her arm tighter and finally stopped walking. He turned to face her. “Have you taken leave of your senses? No man wants to be married to a woman as cold as you were.”
“Married?” she hurled back, her eyes widening. “Let me be perfectly clear. I’ve no desire to be married to Mr. Bartrell. In fact, I very much doubt that any woman would desire to be married to him, regardless of her situation and circumstance.”
“You speak like an ignorant fool.” Thomas leaned in and lowered his voice. “It’s time you realized your position in this world. A position, I might add, that is in great jeopardy. I saw you earlier, mourning after Goodacre like a pitiful child. He is no longer a part of your future, and if you are not mindful of your actions, your future will be grim indeed.”
Rage filled her mind and ruled her tongue. “How dare you presume to speak so callously about my ‘position,’ as you call it? If it weren’t for you and your reckless actions, I might be married to Mr. Goodacre at this very moment.”
“My reckless actions? Consider where you would be without all I provide for you. Think with your head, not with your feminine heart, Sister, or mark my words, you will end up worse off than you could ever imagine.”
Thomas’s gaze roamed around the room to make sure no one was watching their exchange and straightened his coat with a sharp jerk. Without another word he turned on his heel, and Annabelle stared at his back as he strode away.
Her gaze shifted to Eleanor. Her sister-in-law had apparently been watching them, but her countenance was void of any sisterly sympathy. Void of condemnation or judgment. Pitiful acceptance.
Was that what lay before her?
To marry someone as vile as Mr. Bartrell and lose all sense of self?
Panicked, she looked around for her safe friend, but Katherine was nowhere to be found. And who could blame her?
Perhaps Thomas was right. Annabelle was living in a fantasy, in the false belief that her life was going to be joyous and at ease. Time had changed her circumstances, and she needed to change with them.
What would it be like to be free of the cares of society? To leave her home at Wilhurst House and never look back at London, with its pretentious parties, dizzying social scenes, dirty streets, and soot-filled air? What would it be like to begin again in a different town, like a freshly stretched canvas hungry for new art?
The elegant dancers blurred in and out of her vision, and she swiped a tear from her cheek. She no longer belonged in this world.
Oh, if she could only run away.
The idea was ridiculous, really. But as ridiculous as it was, it blossomed in her mind.
She could leave, she supposed, but she would need somewhere to go.
Her options were limited, for to whom could she turn? Katherine was helpful, but her propensity toward gossip made Annabelle nervous. Her former governess would likely accept her without question, but she now resided in Scotland. The journey would be arduous and far. Her childhood friend Lydia lived in the north, but she was now married and would be a mother soon. Annabelle could not possibly impose.
She ran her finger over the lace overlay on her bodice—a desperate attempt to fit into a world that no longer accepted her. Fear that this lonely, cold life was her destiny settled in her chest, and she could not dislodge the unpleasant thought from her mind. She glanced around the room at the familiar faces and glittering displays of wealth. Yes, it was lovely to think of escaping these constraints once and for all, but it was not to be. It was a daydream and would remain just that—a dream.
Chapter Six
Would the evening’s mortification never end?
Annabelle’s cheeks flamed and tears of humiliation blurred her vision as she tugged the hood of her cape lower over her eyes with her left hand and looped her right through the crook of her sister-in-law’s arm. The cape’s heat was stifling, but it protected her from the rain and the stares of onlookers. She kept her voice low. “Keep walking.”
Behind them, Thomas’s slurred speech rose above the clatter of departing carriages, and the crude laughter of his comrades muffled the gentle patter of rain and demanded the attention of the other departing guests.
The walk from the Baldwins’ front entrance lasted only a few seconds, but for Annabelle it was as if time were standing still, freezing her in eternal degradation. At the carriage door, the footman lifted his gloved hand to help her enter. She glanced over her shoulder as her slipper landed on the step. A gathering of fashionable ladies huddled beneath a canopy, their eyes fixed on the boisterous spectacle. As if the scandalous rumor surrounding her family did not draw enough condemnation, her brother’s lewd behavior ensured they would never be accepted in polite society again. If there was any question about restoring their family to a respectable station, Thomas’s conduct tonight shattered it.
She plopped in the seat and leaned her head back on the tufted cushion. Next to her, Eleanor sniffed. Annabelle turned to her just in time to see a tear drop from her sister-in-law’s eye and roll down the curve of her round chin. Empathy filled Annabelle, and she reached over and squeezed Eleanor’s gloved hand.
Annabelle had never felt frightened of Thomas. Not really. But as the group of drunken men invaded the small, dark carriage, a thin cord of fear wound its way around her and began to tighten.
The entire carriage lurched as the men tumbled into the vehicle. Three of them—Thomas, Mr. Treadwell, and Mr. McAlister crammed onto the seat opposite her. Disappointment nipped. Even Mr. McAlister was under the influence. The meaning of his letter would have to wait. She inched closer to Eleanor, but to her horror, Mr. Bartrell wedged himself between Annabelle and the carriage wall.
He was too close. His strong scent of rum and port overwhelmed her, and she lifted her glove to her face to block the smell. Her pulse pounded and her head felt light as the carriage door swung closed and latched, trapping the nauseating scent of spirits and heat in the small space. There was no escaping. Not until the door opened once again.
She attempted to inch nearer to Eleanor, but her gown held he
r captive. Annabelle cleared her throat. “Mr. Bartrell, you are sitting on my gown.”
He did not respond. Instead, his head was thrown back in raucous laughter.
Annabelle spoke louder to be heard above the commotion. “Mr. Bartrell, you are on my gown. Will you please move?”
She gave her skirt a little tug, and he turned his attention toward her.
Annabelle sank back against the seat, immediately regretting addressing him. He glared at her, the torchlight outside the window illuminating the perspiration on his full face and the intoxicated redness surrounding his dark eyes.
Annabelle’s stomach clenched.
He leaned closer.
She shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his attention.
His words slurred and saliva sprayed from his mouth with each word. “Why are you so sour tonight, Miss Thorley?”
She grimaced as his hot breath grazed her face. The spirits had loosened his tongue—and his manners. Annabelle yanked her skirt free, and the delicate silk overlay ripped.
One of her last decent gowns. Ruined. She narrowed her eyes at him.
Mr. Bartrell slid his thick arm along the back of the bench, scraping the back of her cloak.
Every muscle in her body tensed. She glared at Thomas as best she could in the carriage’s darkness, hoping he would notice Mr. Bartrell’s assumptive behavior and put a stop to it. But her brother—her protector, her guardian—was engaged in conversation and paid no attention to the indecent display right in front of him.
Annabelle’s fingers ached from the tight grip she maintained clutching her cloak close, as if by doing so she could protect her person from the reprehensible behavior around her.
Fortunately, the ride to Wilhurst House was a short one. Instead of delivering the passengers to the main entrance, the driver directed the carriage back toward the mews, no doubt to protect the family from any nocturnal onlookers who might behold the men in their intoxicated state.
The men did not seem to notice the change in protocol, and when the carriage finally drew to a stop, Mr. Bartrell stumbled from the carriage and turned. He bowed low and offered his hand to assist her down from the vehicle.
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 4