Taming of Annabelle

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘If I married him,’ said Annabelle to the fire, ‘then I should be a marchioness. And . . . and . . . I would suggest a double wedding, and wouldn’t that take the wind out of Minerva’s sails. Lord Sylvester is only a viscount so it means I would take precedence over Minerva at all the balls and parties. I should make him the happiest of men while Lord Sylvester becomes tired of his prosy wife. He did say Minerva bullied him. We should be accounted the most handsome pair in London.’

  Annabelle’s formidable vanity began to reassert itself. She rang the bell to summon Betty and curtly ordered the maid to lay out her grey gown, watching all the while for any signs of dumb insolence on Betty’s part. But Betty had seen the militant look in Annabelle’s eye and knew better than to do anything that might bring one of Miss Bella’s famous tantrums down on her head. Betty was surprised at her mistress’s choice of gown, knowing that Annabelle had threatened many a time to throw that ‘dowdy Quakerish rag away’.

  It was made of nankeen in the pelisse style with small raised buttons down the front from the high neck to the floor-length hem. The sleeves were long and close fitting to the wrist.

  But Annabelle had a part to play and she meant to play it to the hilt. As soon as she had been helped into her underclothes and gown, she dismissed Betty, saying she would arrange her hair herself.

  ‘Now,’ thought Annabelle, sitting down at the toilet table and studying her wan face, ‘I must look reposeful with a faint suggestion of the nurse.’

  She brushed out her long blonde hair until it crackled, and then pinned it up in a knot on top of her head, letting only one curl escape.

  Then she opened a small locked chest where, unbeknown to her parents, she kept her cosmetics.

  Annabelle made better cosmetics than anyone between Hopeworth and Hopeminster and often earned pin money for herself by selling them to the women of the village.

  She took out a stick of white grease paint and looked at it thoughtfully. She had made it with a mixture of prepared chalk, zinc oxide, bismuth subnitrate, asbestos powder, sweet almond oil, camphor, oil peppermint and esobouquet extract. Although she had experimented with it in the privacy of her bedchamber, she had never worn it in public.

  Very cautiously and carefully, she applied it to her face, making sure not to put too much on. Popular rouges were bright red, dark red, and vermilion, but the skilful Annabelle had concocted herself a pale pink rouge.

  Instead of painting a round circle on each cheek, she smoothed it on very carefully, blending it in with the white greasepaint. Then came the rose poudre de riz which she had made from cornstarch, powdered talc, oil of rose and extract of jasmine. She moved the haresfoot delicately over her skin, and then sat back and frowned at her reflection. Annabelle’s lashes were as thick as Minerva’s, but they were fair.

  After some thought she took an orange stick, went over to one of the lamps and scraped off some of the lamp black, and then, returning to the looking glass, carefully applied the black to each lash until she was satisfied that they were dark enough to look natural, but not black enough to look fake.

  She heard a soft step in the corridor outside and hastily bundled her cosmetics back into their tin box and slammed down the lid just as Minerva came into the room.

  ‘Oh, Annabelle,’ said Minerva, forgetting for the moment the lecture she had come to deliver, ‘I have never seen you in better looks. When you make your come-out, you will be the most beautiful girl London has ever seen!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Annabelle, lowering her blackened eyelashes to mask a sudden spasm of irritation. Why must Minerva’s praise always be so generous and unaffected? Surely she must feel just a little jealousy. Now she, Annabelle, was quite pleased to see that her sister was looking a trifle haggard and that she had dark circles under her eyes.

  Then several crude and quite unmaidenly thoughts as to how Minerva came by those signs of fatigue flashed through her brain and she became more than ever determined to put Minerva’s nose out of joint. Just let’s see how sweet Minerva stayed when she realized her famous wedding was to be shared by her sister!

  But there was one good thing. If Minerva had not noticed the paint and merely thought Annabelle’s glowing complexion was the result of natural beauty, then so would everyone else.

  Feeling composed, she raised her eyes to her sister and said quickly, ‘Merva, I know you have come to scold me about last night. But what did I say that was so very wrong?’

  ‘I asked Sylvester,’ said Minerva, ‘and you must understand that what you said – in all innocence – was in fact a piece of low cant which should never pass the lips of any lady. I am only glad you left the company so early. That at least shows some sense. I am sure everyone will realize that you were a trifle well to go, what with you not being used to so much wine or such late hours. Now I am not going to say any more . . .’

  ‘Good,’ said Annabelle rudely.

  ‘The Marquess of Brabington has arrived and we are all to take a little luncheon together so I am come to fetch you.’

  ‘Then let us go,’ said Annabelle, rising to her feet.

  As they went downstairs, Annabelle turned over the events of the previous day, and by the time they reached the dining room, she was beginning to feel very ill-used.

  Lord Sylvester had led her on, had led her to believe that his affections were not untouched. Had he not kissed her hand? And had he not said he would see her later?

  At least I am now indifferent to him, thought Annabelle rather savagely.

  But as they entered the dining room, her eyes flew immediately to the tall figure of Lord Sylvester and she was flooded with such a strong feeling of love and longing that she nearly gasped.

  Now with her eyes sharpened with jealousy could Annabelle see the warmth and love in his green eyes as Lord Sylvester walked forwards to meet Minerva.

  Tearing her gaze away from this painful sight, she found the Marquess of Brabington looking at her and dropped him a demure curtsy.

  Why, she thought, this will not be so very bad after all.

  She had forgotten that he was an extremely handsome man with his strong nose, cleft chin, thick black hair, and eyes of a peculiar tawny shade.

  He was looking very pale. Then Annabelle became aware of an undercurrent of excitement in the room. All the ladies were chattering and talking gaily and from time to time their eyes would slide coyly in the direction of the handsome Marquess.

  Everyone took their places around the table, Annabelle crossly noticing that Minerva was between the Marquess and Lord Sylvester while she herself was back with Mr Charles Comfrey and Mr John Frampton.

  Since it was more breakfast than luncheon and not a formal meal, conversation went across the table instead of being confined to whoever was on one’s right or one’s left.

  Lady Godolphin was seated opposite Annabelle, wearing a nutty brown wig this time, and a more modest dress than she usually affected.

  Annabelle poked at the dish of fish, eggs and rice in front of her.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘Kennel grease,’ replied Lady Godolphin. ‘My favourite dish.’

  ‘She means kedgeree,’ whispered Mr Frampton in Annabelle’s ear. ‘My lady is in form this morning.’

  Lady Godolphin kept staring at Annabelle in an unnerving way. She had decided that Annabelle wanted manners, and so, in between great mouthfuls of rice, she began to expound on the necessity of good behaviour in young ladies.

  ‘When I was Minerva’s chaperone,’ said Lady Godolphin, ‘I told her that I may have my prejuices, I may be too strict, but I can’t abide Sophy Tray nor yet ladies without Property. Ladies without Property tie their garters in public, that they do, and Worse!’

  ‘Propriety,’ muttered Mr Frampton.

  ‘Who is Sophy Tray?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘Sophistry.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And our handsome hero here,’ went on Lady Godolphin, waving a forkful of rice in the dire
ction of the Marquess, ‘has set a few hearts a-flutter, but it ain’t no use you young gels gettin’ your hopes up. Everyone knows Lord Brabington to be a famous Missing Jest.’

  ‘Do you mean that I am a poor sort of joke?’ asked the Marquess with interest.

  ‘I think my lady means misogynist,’ said Minerva in rather governessy tones. ‘Someone who does not like women.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ pointed out Lady Godolphin crossly. ‘You’ll need to take her in hand, Comfrey. Got a nasty habit of repeating what one says and translating as if one spoke behindy, as the Colonel here calls one of them Indian languages.’

  ‘She really is impossible,’ said Mr Comfrey to Annabelle.

  ‘Oh, Minerva is always like that,’ said Annabelle sweetly. ‘Poor Lord Sylvester. She will tell him from morn till night to mind his Ps and Qs.’

  ‘I was referring to Lady Godolphin,’ said Mr Comfrey, very stiffly on his stiffs. ‘I would not dream of criticizing Miss Armitage. We all think Sylvester is a very lucky fellow. To be wedding all that beauty and maidenly modesty . . . well, I just hope I am as fortunate.’

  He turned away from Annabelle to speak to his neighbour and Annabelle cursed herself for having let her jealousy trip up her tongue. Of course she had known Mr Comfrey was referring to Lady Godolphin, but it was so maddening the way everyone admired Minerva. If they only knew what a bore she could be.

  Mr Frampton then turned politely to tell her that the gentlemen were going out shooting that afternoon and asked whether the ladies had decided as to how they would spend their day.

  ‘We have not yet had time,’ replied Annabelle, thinking hard. ‘I am surprised Lord Brabington should wish to engage in any form of sport after his ordeal.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Brabington will feel up to it,’ replied Mr Frampton carelessly.

  Just then, the Duchess’s voice sounded down the table. ‘The ladies have a treat in store for them this afternoon. While you gentlemen are floundering about in the snow with your guns, we shall be very cosy here. Lady Coombes has promised to show us her watercolour sketches of Wells Cathedral.’

  There was a polite murmur from the ladies, the younger contingent trying to look pleased.

  Annabelle then vowed to herself that whatever happened she was not going to spend the afternoon listening to Lady Coombes. The Marquess, provided he did not retire to his bedchamber, should be hunted down. There was no time to lose.

  Annabelle was beginning to feel much better now that she had a plan of campaign in mind. And no one had commented on her horrible gaffe of the night before. No one seemed to remember it.

  But in this, she was to be proved wrong. No sooner was breakfast over than the Duchess of Allsbury with a polite smile requested the presence of Miss Annabelle Armitage in the morning room for a few minutes.

  ‘I will come too,’ said Minerva quickly.

  ‘No, my dear,’ said the Duchess. ‘What I have to say to Miss Annabelle must be said in private.’

  A mutinous look began to appear in Annabelle’s blue eyes. She could see a sermon rearing its ugly head and resented the fact she was about to be lectured like a child. She was a woman of seventeen years, after all!

  Nonetheless, there was little she could do but meekly follow her hostess to the morning room.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Annabelle,’ said the Duchess with her chilly smile. ‘I find it necessary to remind you that the Allsbury name is a very old one.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annabelle, feeling younger by the minute.

  ‘Our families are shortly to be allied,’ went on her grace, ‘and it is important to remember that conduct which would pass unnoticed in a country vicarage may not be becoming to an Allsbury.’

  ‘You do my parents an injustice,’ said Annabelle hotly. ‘My father is very strict!’

  ‘Indeed! From your conduct and speech last night, I assumed he was as I had heard him to be, a disciplined man on the hunting field and quite undisciplined off it.’

  ‘If behaving like an Allsbury means criticizing your guests’ parents, then I would rather not behave like an Allsbury,’ said Annabelle, assuming a quaint dignity. ‘By all means tell my father when you see him what you think of his character, your grace, but do not put me in the unfortunate position of defending a gentleman who needs no defence whatsoever.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Duchess. ‘Instead of telling you what I think of your language and manners, I shall write and tell your father.’

  Annabelle went quite white and the Duchess surveyed her with malicious satisfaction. Her grace had noticed the way Brabington’s eyes rested too frequently on this pert miss, and she did not want such a matrimonial prize snatched away when she had young relatives resident who were more deserving of such a distinguished marriage. Also, if she riled the Reverend Charles Armitage in just the right way by criticizing Miss Annabelle, then he might forbid Minerva to marry Sylvester.

  As if she had read her thoughts Annabelle said evenly, ‘If you think that complaining of me to papa will somehow cause a family row in which Minerva will be forbidden to marry your son, then I take leave to tell you, ma’am, that you do not know your son very well.’

  ‘I made a mistake even in trying to talk to you,’ said the Duchess haughtily. ‘Your father will hear from me. Since you are here at my son’s suggestion then I cannot unfortunately send you away, much as I would like to do so.’

  ‘Good day to you, your grace,’ said Annabelle with what the Duchess thought was a quite infuriating air of dignity.

  Annabelle survived with her dignity intact until she reached the security of her bedroom where she flung herself face down on the bed and burst into tears. After a hearty bout of crying, she felt much better and all her old anger returned. Now more than ever was she determined to marry the Marquess.

  If Annabelle had told Minerva of what the Duchess had said, then Minerva would have told Lord Sylvester, and there would have been no question of her grace writing to the vicar. But Annabelle was very jealous of Minerva and could only be glad that she had removed all traces of her weeping by the time Minerva softly entered the room and asked what the Duchess had said.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing of any account,’ said Annabelle airily. ‘She thinks I am a child and should be constantly engaged in useful work. She wanted my assistance in completing some needlepoint for a firescreen and I said I would help her, but not today.

  ‘I pleaded the headache. And you know, Merva, it is quite dreadful, for no sooner had I got here than I did begin to feel my head aching. Do make my excuses to Lady Coombes. If I lie down for a little, then I will feel quite the thing.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Minerva warmly. ‘I am so relieved her grace said nothing to upset you. Sylvester feared she might, and sent me to find out. If she had lectured you too strongly, then he was going to deal with her himself. But I shall tell him there was nothing amiss and the Duchess only wished to give you some employ.’

  Minerva’s voice ended on a faint question as if she were not quite reassured.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother discussing me with your fiancé,’ yawned Annabelle, stretching her arms. ‘I am monstrous tired, Merva. Please leave me.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Minerva doubtfully. ‘Do you wish me to come back in an hour to see if you need anything?’

  ‘Don’t fuss so!’ snapped Annabelle, and then added in a milder tone, ‘Only see how my poor aching head makes me tetchy. I will be all right if I am left alone.’

  ‘Well, at least let me send one of the maids up with a hot posset.’

  ‘No. Nothing will serve but peace and quiet.’

  Minerva nodded doubtfully and went out and quietly closed the door.

  ‘Thank goodness she has gone,’ Annabelle told her reflection in the looking glass. ‘Now, to paint, or not to paint.’ Whether to renew the maquillage which had been washed away by her tears. Would he hold her in his arms today, after so short an acquaintance? If he did so, he might get paint on his coat.

&
nbsp; She compromised by rubbing her cheeks to bring a high colour into them and then rang the bell for Betty.

  When the maid arrived she said, ‘Go and discreetly find out the whereabouts of the Marquess of Brabington, Betty. I have some intelligence from my father to impart.’

  ‘Vicar’d tell Miss Minerva if he wished anything to be passed on,’ said Betty suspiciously.

  Annabelle swung around on her seat at the toilet table, her eyes blazing. ‘How would you like to be whipped, Betty?’ she screamed.

  ‘I’d tell vicar if you did,’ said Betty stoutly.

  ‘Do as I tell you,’ shouted Annabelle, ‘or I shall pinch you and pinch you until you are black and blue.’

  Betty could see Miss Bella working herself up into a tremendous passion and so she said a hurried ‘Yes, miss,’ and ducked out of the room quickly before Annabelle could throw anything at her.

  She seemed to be away a very long time and Annabelle marched impatiently up and down the room, wondering if the maid had dared to defy her.

  Just when she was about to ring the bell again, Betty returned, bearing a cup of herb tea. ‘I’m sorry I was so long, miss,’ she said, ‘but Miss Minerva told me to bring you this and I had to go to the kitchens and wait until cook brewed it.’

  ‘And?’ queried Annabelle, a dangerous glint in her eye.

  ‘And his lordship is in the library.’

  ‘Thank you, Betty,’ cooed Annabelle. ‘You may put that disgusting concoction on the table and go. Wait a minute! You didn’t tell Minerva I was looking for Lord Brabington?’

  ‘No, miss,’ said Betty, eyeing her suspiciously.

  ‘Then don’t, or it will be the worse for you. Don’t stand there fidgeting and staring. Go!’

  Annabelle took the cup of herb tea, tugged open the window and threw it out into the snow. Then she studied her reflection carefully in the looking glass, squared her shoulders and set off to capture the heart of the Marquess of Brabington.

  It was a pity he was in the library, thought Annabelle, with a sudden stab of pain. That room seemed unlucky, somehow.