by M C Beaton
Annie was still very young. She had not realized that she was deeply in love with her husband. She had not realized that Marigold was not worth the trouble.
Annie felt small and humiliated and alone in a hostile world. Her cold, aloof mother was of no help. Miss Winter appeared to have forgotten about her niece as soon as the marriage ceremony was over. Perhaps if she had had intimate friends to talk to, it might have made her life easier. But the society women she took tea with and chatted to at balls and parties were the kind that Annie knew instinctively would betray a confidence at the first possible opportunity. She never stopped to consider that her choice of friends was unfortunate. Her experience with women—her mother, her nanny, her governess, her sister, and her aunt—had made her think that the whole human race consisted of hanging judges.
So she bitterly turned her plan of revenge over in her head and saw nothing wrong with it.
To Annie it seemed as if everything was going her way.
Her husband had returned from the country in time to escort her to the ball, and Marigold and Harry Bellamy were to be present at it.
The marquess did not return until the morning of the day of the ball and seemed almost surprised by the enthusiastic reception he received from his wife. Annie had been frightened that he would be delayed and that her marvelous plan would have to be left until another time.
The day was foggy. It started with a thin fog in the morning, with a little red disk of a sun moving above it. Then in the afternoon it turned from gray to a thick, blackish yellow, and by evening it was a regular “pea souper.” It was a freezing fog, too, riming the railings and pavements with hoarfrost.
The fog added to Annie’s feelings of excitement and anticipation: the bitter, smoky, autumn smell of it; the feeling of secrecy in the veiled streets outside.
Carriage lights flickered like fireflies through the gloom of the square outside as the fog swayed and thinned a little before thickening again and pressing against the window-panes.
Fog had crept into the house in St. James’s Square and lay in thick strata across the hall as Annie descended the staircase with Barton behind her carrying her evening cloak.
She was wearing a mauve silk evening skirt that rustled as she walked. Her blouse was of paler mauve lace, cut low over the bosom, and with pagoda sleeves. Around her neck she wore a thin band of black velvet holding her locket. Her fine, silky red hair had been dressed in a new style, gently waved over her brow and dressed in a chignon at the back and threaded with white silk flowers that were shaded at the edges with violet.
The door of the drawing room opened and her husband came out to meet her. Annie felt a queer little pain at her heart. She had forgotten how superb he looked in evening dress, with the gleaming white of his shirt setting off his handsome, tanned face.
His eyes had a strangely hooded look as he watched her descend. Annie waited for him to compliment her on her appearance, but he remained silent, merely taking her heavy black evening cloak trimmed with ermine and putting it about her shoulders. Did his hands remain on her shoulders for longer than was necessary?
But the next minute he was being helped into his own coat by Perkins and putting his tall silk hat on his head. The diamond studs on his shirtfront sparkled and flashed fire like the frost on the pavement outside.
He helped her into the brougham, then raised the trap in the roof with his cane and called to the coachman, “Do you think you can find your way? It’s a filthy night!”
“Think I’ll manage all right, m’lord,” came the coachman’s voice. “I’ll take her nice and slow.”
The marquess settled back against the leather upholstery as the coach began to edge its way through the fog-shrouded streets.
He pulled his coat tightly across his shirt. “Otherwise it will be filthy before we get there,” he said as if answering a question. And then, in the same tone of voice, he went on, “It’s a mercy that our prime minister is still alive! Certainly if Mrs. Winton had not changed the name of the society to Women of the World, I am sure that, in the circumstances, the ball would have to be canceled. As it is…”
“What happened? I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about?”
“Jimmy Macleod, our prime minister, was nearly killed today.” The marquess’s voice came out of the darkness of the carriage. “Some woman shot at him as he left the House. His papers had slipped from the seat of his carriage, so he bent down to pick them up. As he did so, a bullet whizzed over his head and buried itself in the upholstery.
“Whoever fired at him was an expert marksman—or markswoman rather. If he had not bent over at that precise moment, he would most certainly have been killed.”
“Did they catch the woman?”
“No,” said the marquess. “She escaped into the thick fog. A man saw her briefly. All he could say was that she was heavy-set and heavily veiled. She was carrying a rifle, which she thrust under her coat. You may not find your friend Miss Hammond at the ball tonight. The police are rounding up all the militant feminists in London.”
“Well, it can be nothing to do with Miss Hammond,” said Annie. “She’s in such a tizzy about the ball. And—and… she’s one of those women who really only talks. I think perhaps she’s a teensy bit mad.”
“Of course Shaw-Bufford must be a very disappointed man,” said the marquess.
“Why?”
“Well, if Mr. Macleod had been killed, then Shaw-Bufford would have been the natural successor.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are too hard on him,” said Annie quickly. “He never struck me as being particularly ambitious.”
“You’re lying, my sweet,” said her husband lazily.
“Don’t be rude,” snapped Annie. “By the way, what made you think the chancellor would ask me for money?”
“Because he needs a great deal of it in case he does not realize his ambition of becoming prime minister. It takes a lot of money to buy a peerage.”
“But if he’s ambitious and he’s in the Commons, what can he possibly want with a peerage? It would be the end of his political career.”
“In the Commons, yes. But what about the House of Lords?”
Annie shivered. “You make Mr. Shaw-Bufford sound quite sinister.”
“How much did he ask you for?” came her husband’s lazy voice.
“He didn’t ask me for anything.” Unfortunately, Annie, like most young girls who have been made to feel guilty all their young lives, was a spontaneous liar. She felt that she should never have agreed to give the chancellor money in the first place. She forgot that she had been ill and not in full possession of her wits at the time.
There was a silence. She was grateful that he could not see her face since the light from the carriage lamps was unable to penetrate the thickness of the fog. But, somehow, in the darkness, she fancied she could feel his brain searching hers, his sensitive antennae picking up her tension.
For one dreadful moment she sensed that he did not believe her, that he was about to say something.
But all he said was, “I wonder if we’ll ever get there. This is the filthiest fog I can remember.”
The fog became diffused with a yellow glare. They must be passing under the electric lights at Marble Arch. Then darkness descended again and the carriage began to move more rapidly.
Once again the marquess raised the trap.
“How is the going, John?” he called.
“Easier, my lord,” came the coachman’s voice over the rumble of the wheels. “Soon be there.”
The Wintons’ house was in Queens Gate. It was actually three houses knocked into one. The Wintons were very rich.
Fog had permeated the building so that despite the blazing fires, hundreds of candles, and banks of flowers, it was a bit like looking at a painting by Pissarro in reverse. Objects close up were distinct. A little distance away, however, and it was as if you were looking at them through gauze.
Two huge Indians in turbans waved enormous peacock
fans back and forth at the entrance to the ballroom, but all their efforts did was to circulate the fog rather than to disperse it.
Annie had one dance with her husband, trying not to be seduced by thoughts of more intimate caresses conjured up by his nearness. For she had seen Harry Bellamy and was wondering how to make her move.
To her surprise, Harry Bellamy asked her for the next dance. He had been in the habit of dancing only with Marigold.
But after they had taken a few steps, his motives became clear. “Y’know,” he said anxiously, “I felt the best thing, don’t you know, was to ask you for a dance. Everyone’s talking about that to-do in the park. ’Course I told them, I said, it’s just a little tiff between sisters. Nothing to it, I said.”
Annie turned a glowing face up to his. “Oh, Mr. Bellamy.” She sighed. “How clever you are. How diplomatic! Marigold is such a lucky girl.”
“Well, I say, that’s dashed decent of you. I thought it was the right move m’self, but Marigold called me a fool.”
“She must be joking,” said Annie, bringing her long eyelashes into play. “No one could ever take you for a fool, Mr. Bellamy. Oh!”
“What’s the matter?” said Harry Bellamy, anxiously, as Annie stumbled and clung to him.
“My ankle,” said Annie, with a brave smile. “I twisted my ankle.”
“I shall fetch your husband…”
“Oh, no, don’t do that. If you could lead me to some anteroom where I could rest for a moment… I don’t think it’s too bad. And I would like an opportunity to ask your advice.”
“I say,” said Mr. Bellamy, fingering his moustache, “if you’re sure it’s all right…”
He placed an arm around her waist and led her from the ballroom. Marigold danced by with her partner and watched them leave, a look of shock on her face.
There was a small morning room on the ground floor, and it was there that Mr. Bellamy led Annie. He seemed to know the Wintons’ house quite well.
Annie, who had not hurt her ankle at all, of course, tried to remember to limp on the same foot but found herself alternating from the left to the right. As they reached the door of the morning room, Annie heard someone calling her name and bit her lip in vexation. Miss Mary Hammond came sailing up. Her large face looked very white.
“Have you seen Mr. Shaw-Bufford, Annie?” she panted.
“No, I have not,” said Annie crossly. “If he is anywhere, it will be in the ballroom with the rest of the guests.”
“I’ll look again,” said Miss Hammond. “Annie, I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment. I… well, I’m most awfully frightened and worried, and I don’t know what to do.”
Annie could not think of anyone as large as Miss Hammond being frightened. All she saw was an end to her plan to revenge on Marigold and her husband if she stayed to chat.
“I can’t,” she said. “Mary, I have wrenched my ankle and must rest it. Also I want to speak to Mr. Bellamy. I shall see you as soon as I can.”
There was a step somewhere on the landing above, and Miss Hammond turned even whiter. She threw an anguished look at Annie, hesitated, and then hurried off.
“You know, I think that woman’s mad,” said Mr. Bellamy.
“Yes,” agreed Annie, allowing him to lead her into the morning room.
Fog lay in long bands across the room. The air was musty and chilly.
They sat down on a small gilt sofa in front of the empty fireplace.
Annie, with well-feigned impulsiveness, took Mr. Bellamy’s hands in her own and gazed intently up into his face while trying to think of a problem urgent enough to justify taking him away from the ballroom. All at once she thought she had it.
“I feel this ball is a sham, Mr. Bellamy,” she said.
“Oh, I say,” said Mr. Bellamy, fingering his waxed moustache.
“Yes. They say it’s to raise funds for Women of the World, but it’s really to raise funds for a society called Women’s Rights, The Vote, and Feminine Equality.”
“What! That’s disgraceful,” said Mr. Bellamy, roused to rare animation. “I say, the whole pack of ’em ought to be arrested. Particularly after nearly killing poor Macleod. Women get the vote. Ridiculous!”
Annie felt like striking him, felt like howling that there was absolutely nothing wrong in women getting a say in the running of the country, but instead she said meekly, “What should I do?”
She gazed up at him with shining eyes, leaning very close to him. She was wearing the perfume her husband had given her, being unable to keep the bottle stoppered any longer. Its exotic scent curled about Mr. Bellamy’s pink ears. He looked down at her and grasped her hands more tightly, his rather prominent eyes beginning to bulge.
“Leave it to me,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll have a little word in Tommy Winton’s ear. I mean, we shouldn’t encourage these women. This could lead to anarchy. Anarchy! Little ladies like yourself should leave it to us strong men to handle things for you. You were very right to come to me. By Jove, I say, your eyes are awfully beautiful…”
He suddenly seized her in his arms and planted a wet kiss on her mouth just as the door opened.
The guilty couple released each other and swung around.
The marquess and Marigold stood on the threshold. The marquess looked calm and amused. But Marigold’s eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and anger. She looked much younger than Annie at that moment, younger and lost and vulnerable. All at once, Annie realized how very badly she was behaving.
Marigold would have rushed forward, but the marquess held her back with a gentle hand on her arm.
“We were looking all over for you,” he said lightly.
“Your partners are languishing upstairs, my love.”
“I—I sprained my ankle,” said Annie wildly. “Mr. Bellamy brought me here so that I could rest it.”
“How very kind of him,” said the marquess. “But you really must not neglect your fiancée, Bellamy. My wife has me to look after her, you know. I shall have a little talk with you about that afterwards.” Mr. Bellamy visibly cringed although the marquess’s voice was as good-natured as ever. “Run along with Lady Marigold. You’re missing all the fun.”
For once Marigold was speechless. Harry Bellamy went over and took her arm, and she looked up at him with an odd, beseeching look.
The door closed behind them, leaving Annie and the marquess alone.
“We will give them a few moments to get back to the ballroom and then we will talk,” said the marquess.
“I had better get back as well…”
“Oh, but you can’t, my love. Not with your poor sprained ankle. Come with me!”
Annie opened her mouth to protest, shut it again, and took the arm he was holding out to her.
“I wish you would make up your mind which ankle it was you sprained,” he said as he led her across the vast, deserted entrance hall. “You are limping on one foot and then the other.”
“I think I sprained both,” said Annie wretchedly, wondering why it was that one lie always led to a whole regiment of lies.
“I think you have sprained your brain. In here.”
He pushed open the door of the Wintons’ library. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth. Gaslight hissed quietly in the brackets over the mantel. Books that looked as if they had never been opened stood in serried ranks behind the glass fronts of the cases.
“Now,” said her husband, turning to face her. His smiling mask had dropped and he looked very grim indeed. “Explain yourself!”
“I did,” said Annie miserably. “I sprained my ankle… ankles… and Harry Bellamy took me away to rest a little. I saw nothing wrong in it. He is soon to be my brother-in-law.”
“It seemed to me as if you were trying to make sure he would never be your brother-in-law but your lover instead.”
“Why should you care?” Annie flashed back. “You and your fancy women!”
“Yes, me and my fancy women. Well, my dear, I manage not to disgrac
e you by kissing them in public. You simply got that poor sap, Bellamy, all roused up in order to make Marigold jealous. Is there no end to your jealousy? Or perhaps you would rather have married an idiot like Bellamy?”
“At least he would have been faithful to me.”
“I think we should get one thing clear,” said the marquess, coming to stand over her. “I, my dear, have certainly not led a celibate life. But I have at least been faithful to you since the day I married you.”
“Pooh! Balderdash and tommyrot! What about the seductive Miss S.?”
“An old love. I met her in Paris and walked her down the Champs Elysées where I was photographed by a society photographer. We had an aperitif in a café and then I delivered her into the arms of her latest protector.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
He looked at her curiously. “Tell me, Annie,” he asked, “are you so wrapped up in yourself that you never stop to think that other people have feelings, that other people get hurt? It’s time you grew up and stopped behaving like a child thumbing her nose at adults. What you did this evening was childish and thoughtless and cruel.”
“Nothing,” said Annie, fiercely, “nothing I could ever do to you would be as cruel as your treatment of me. To go away and leave me alone for months. To cancel our honeymoon.”
“A honeymoon is for lovers, Annie. It is not for a girl who has simply married me to compete with her sister.”
“Will you never forget that?” said Annie bitterly.
“Make me.” He stood looking down at her. “Make me, Annie. Make me forget your words.”
She looked at him, trying to summon up the courage to take a step toward him, to throw herself into his arms and beg his forgiveness. She looked beyond him to the window, where the curtains were drawn back, trying to forget all the hurt.
The fog outside the window swirled in a rising wind. Through the curling, swirling fog, in the square of light cast on the garden outside by the gaslight in the room, a horrible, distorted, bloated face turned and danced.
It was much like one of the faces of the South Sea carvings back at Crammarth Castle with its mouth protruding from lips drawn back in a ghastly sort of grin.