It was a blustery day at the end of February when she and Minerva at last set out. A great roaring wind was whipping the branches of the trees and tearing the clouds to rags. The village pond had turned into a miniature Atlantic and one of the tall chimneys of the Hall had fallen through the roof of the East Wing, injuring no one and causing the vicar a deal of quiet satisfaction, since his brother, Sir Edwin, had been pontificating only the week before about how he could not supply money to repair the roof of the church and pointing out how he always kept his property in order.
The two sisters were very quiet. Minerva was sad at saying farewell to her little sisters. Annabelle was feeling uneasy. Now that she had left the vicarage, it seemed a warm refuge, and the prospect of the future a terrifying unknown.
A pale shaft of sunshine gilded the thatch of the cottages around the pond. Annabelle looked out at the village as if she would never see it again. Every stone, every blade of grass seemed sharply etched.
Out on the Hopeminster Road there were already signs of spring. Rooks were building nests in the tall trees which bordered the brown ploughed fields. The branches of the pussy willows were tipped with little white balls, like balls of cotton wool, and in the grass verges beside the road clumps of snowdrops shone whitely through melting patches of ice.
The wind roared across the fields and sang in the trees.
If only, thought Annabelle, I could stop the carriage, and open the door and run away across the fields before the wind, and never return until everyone had forgotten about this marriage of mine.
But reality soon crowded back. The shame of returning the presents, the explanations, and above all, Lord Sylvester would never forgive her for jilting his best friend.
The fact that Lord Sylvester, disenchanted with Minerva or not, would, by the same token, hardly enter into a liaison with his wife’s sister and the wife of his best friend did not appear to trouble her thoughts.
Annabelle could not imagine the great love she held for Lord Sylvester never being reciprocated. And like most people deeply in love with the wrong person, she was convinced it was right somehow. All must be sacrified at the altar flame of this pure passion. Lesser mortals did not feel as she, nor were they capable of the same intensity of feeling.
In other words, Minerva wouldn’t mind very much . . .
FIVE
The Armitage sisters had been resident in London for some two weeks. Annabelle was shakily beginning to find her feet. The Marquess was at Portsmouth on military business, Lord Sylvester had not returned from the country, London was thin of company, but what she had so far met was terrifying enough.
She was quickly to find out that beauty without fortune, and beauty already engaged, was of little interest to the London ton. Her frequent attempts to attract the attention of the company to herself were frowned upon. It was irritating, too, to note that Minerva did not seem to suffer from the snubs she herself had to endure. Furthermore the Pinks of the Ton did not wish to listen to a young miss from the country with views of her own and Annabelle was quickly abandoned for some plain young girl who knew how to flirt with a fan and simper to a nicety.
Annabelle was unaware that during the height of the Season, she would be considered a reigning belle; that only the hardened bachelors who were more interested in their clothes than the ladies were to be found in the saloons of London at present.
Her vanity deserted her, and when the boys had leave from school, she cheerfully volunteered to cancel her social engagements so that she could take them to see the wild animals on ’Change and to Westminster Abbey and Astley’s Amphitheatre.
Still very much of a schoolgirl, Annabelle enjoyed these unsophisticated delights to the hilt.
On her return to Lady Godolphin’s mansion in Hanover Square she was informed by Mice, her ladyship’s butler, that the Marquess of Brabington was awaiting her in the Green Saloon and that my lady and Miss Armitage were absent from the house.
Annabelle tripped lightly into the Green Saloon to find the Marquess standing in front of the. fireplace. She had enjoyed her day, her vanity had been crushed with the lack of attention she had received in London, and these two factors combined to make her very glad to see the Marquess indeed.
She hugged him unaffectedly, her face glowing from the cold, and the Marquess felt all his worries ebb away. He had begun to have niggling doubts about the warmth of his love’s affections. She had replied to none of his letters. But when he felt her arms go about him in the most natural way in the world, his heart leapt, and he kissed her lightly on the cheek, and led her to a sofa where he drew her down beside him.
‘I have missed you,’ he said warmly. ‘Where have you been today?’
‘Taking my two small brothers to see the sights,’ said Annabelle. ‘In truth I enjoyed it more than any of the grand balls or parties I have attended.’
This was very much to the Marquess’s way of thinking. He took her hand in his and smiled down at her. ‘I called on Sylvester on the way back and he sends his love.’
Annabelle’s face shone with an almost religious radiance. He had sent his love. Ambition, vanity, love and longing came crowding back into her brain. Oh, if only this Marquess did not mean to sell out of the army.
‘When may we expect Lord Sylvester back in Town?’ asked Annabelle, wondering if she could draw her hand away without offending him.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. He was about to go on to tell Annabelle how anxious Lord Sylvester was to see Minerva again, but Annabelle suddenly said, ‘We have not discussed what you will do after we are married.’
‘Why, I will be married to you, my sweeting.’
‘I mean, will you be rejoining your regiment?’
The Marquess looked thoughtfully at the fire and gave a little sigh. ‘I suppose my days of fighting are over,’ he said. ‘I would love to be in at the kill when we finally drive the French over the Pyrenees. But I will be a married man, and then, added to that, there are the responsibilities of my estates. I cannot remain an absentee landlord all my life.’
‘The war cannot go on forever,’ said Annabelle, throwing her head back in a noble way that was reminiscent of the old Minerva. ‘If you would rather fight for your country than stay with me, I will understand.’
He held her hand in a tighter clasp. ‘You are an amazing girl, Annabelle. The war has many hardships, but . . .’
He fell silent, remembering the rough sedge mats spread out under the trees at night, the accoutrements hanging from the branches, the bundle of fine branches to lie on and the green sod for a pillow. Remembering the screech from the bullock carts laden with the maggot-infested bodies of the dead or dying; remembering the mad exhilaration of battle and the comradeship of his men.
‘But it is no place for a woman,’ laughed Annabelle.
‘Oh, there are women enough.’
‘But such women!’
‘No, I do not mean camp followers. I mean the wives – particularly the Irish wives. Incredible bravery and fortitude.
‘There was a laundress called Biddy whose husband, Dan, was a soldier in the 34th. We were retreating last winter and the French were hard at our heels.
‘Her husband was wounded and he dropped down by the roadside saying he could go no further. She told him to get on her back and she would carry him, but the man refused to part with either his knapsack or his firelock. She knew the French would be on them soon, and so, in desperation, she decided to carry the lot. I can still remember her Irish brogue. She said, “Well, sir, I went away wid him on me back, knapsack, firelock and all, as strong as Samson for the fear I was in, an’ fegs, I carried him half a league after the regiment into the bivwack; an’ me back was bruck entirely from that time to this, an’ it’ll never get strait till I go to the Holy Well in Ireland, and have Father McShane’s blessin’, an’ his hands laid over me!”’
Annabelle eyed her beloved nervously. Was he hinting that she should follow the drum?
‘There are no ladies wh
o go to war!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘women like that laundress are very great ladies in my opinion. But if you mean ladies of quality, yes, most certainly. The most famous beauty we have to lighten our days is the former Juanita Maria de los Dolores de Leon. After the capture of Bajadoz, two ladies, sisters, both of them Spanish, threw themselves on the mercy of the British. Juanita was fifteen and the most beautiful creature anyone had ever seen. Two days later she was married to Captain Harry Smith of the Rifles, and, since then, she has been the darling of the army, sharing all our adventures and hardships.’
Annabelle became more than ever convinced that he expected her to volunteer to join him. For a moment she indulged in a brief dream in which she became the heroine and darling of the British army herself, but then Lord Sylvester’s face swam into her mind, and she set her lips in a stubborn line.
‘I do not think mama’s health could stand the shock if I were to go to war with you,’ she said.
‘I would not let you,’ he laughed. ‘You are not the stuff that heroines are made of. I mean, heroines of war,’ he added hastily.
‘Then you will rejoin your regiment?’
‘Give me time,’ he said slowly. ‘No one expects me to rush back so soon after my wedding. Enough of this talk of war. You have not kissed me, my love.’
‘Oh, we must not!’ said Annabelle hastily. ‘I am not chaperoned and Mice has left the door open, you see, and someone might come in or Minerva might return.’
‘Annabelle, my love, I would swear you are afraid of me.’
Annabelle hung her head. ‘Merely shy,’ she whispered.
‘Pre-wedding nerves,’ he said sympathetically. He raised her hand and kissed it. ‘I am prepared to wait till we are married. You will find me very patient.’
‘Thank you,’ said Annabelle, feling quite miserable with guilt. He looked so handsome, so caring, those strange eyes of his golden in the firelight.
‘My parents are dead, as you know,’ he said, releasing her hand and searching in one of his pockets. ‘But these belong to the Marchionesses of Brabington.’ He handed her a flat box.
Annabelle slowly opened it. An attractive and colourful antique necklace and brooch glittered and sparkled up at her in the light. It was made in the Renaissance style with a design of blue and white scrolls and crimson annular motifs, set with rubies, diamonds and baroque pearl drops.
‘Come over to the looking glass and see how it looks,’ he urged.
Annabelle arose reluctantly. She handed him the box and stood like an obedient child while he fastened the jewels about her neck.
She stood very still, feeling the heavy weight of the necklace against her bosom. With the weight of the jewels came the terrible weight of the reality of marriage. In all her dreams of Lord Sylvester she had ignored, until now, the fact that Peter, Marquess of Brabington, was in love with her. And he was convinced she was in love with him.
Annabelle’s better self, long dormant, rose to the surface. The wedding must be called off. Father would horsewhip her. There would never be any Season for her after the storm of shame had subsided. With luck, she might eventually marry some unassuming county gentleman.
‘Well?’ he said teasingly. ‘You are very quiet.’
She swung around to face him.
‘Peter,’ she said, ‘there is something I must tell you . . .’
‘Annabelle!’ came a joyful cry from the hall. The drawing-room door burst open and Minerva sailed in. ‘Look who I found on the doorstep!’
Following her came Lord Sylvester Comfrey.
‘Peter, my boy,’ he said. ‘You look fit. Well, here we all are. All ready to meet at the altar.’ He caught Minerva to him with an arm around her waist and she turned a laughing face up to him.
Jealousy, horrible, green-eyed, scaled and clawed, raged through Annabelle and she put a possessive hand on the Marquess’s arm.
‘See what Peter has given me? Aren’t they superb?’
She laughed and pirouetted in front of them, while Minerva laughed as well to see her sister so happy and the Marquess looked on with an indulgent smile.
‘I shall be the most pampered bride in London,’ said Annabelle breathlessly. She stretched up and kissed the Marquess on the cheek. As she turned back, she caught a look of worry and pain in Lord Sylvester’s green eyes and then it was gone.
A heady feeling of triumph rose up in her. He cared. He was jealous. She would go through with this marriage, since both she and Sylvester were honour bound to keep their promises.
But after. Ah, then! That would be a different story.
‘Here’s all my love birds,’ cried Lady Godolphin, waddling into the room and dispensing an aroma of bonhomie and musk. ‘Oh, what a pretty necklace, Annabelle,’ said her ladyship, coming closer to examine the jewels. ‘Antique, I see. Is it Middle Evil?’
‘No, my lady,’ said the Marquess, ‘I think it is a copy of a Renaissance design. It is only about a hundred years old.’
‘I have some Running Essence earrings which will go very well with that,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘You may have them as a wedding gift. Has Colonel Brian called?’
‘Not as far as I know, my lady,’ said Annabelle, flashing Minerva a mocking look.
Minerva frowned back in a warning kind of way. Lord Sylvester thought, ‘Minerva has told that little minx of a sister of hers about Colonel Brian’s marriage. Oh, dear vicar, where are you with that horsewhip of yours? And why do you always only threaten to use it? My friend’s heart is shortly to be smashed and there is nothing I can do but watch.’ Lord Sylvester stood lost in thought while the others chatted around him. The Reverend Charles Armitage was an amazingly perceptive man, he reflected. He was often self-centred to a fault. His religion was more fox-hunting than Church of England. But he did seem to have an uncanny knack of handling his daughters.
Annabelle chattered brightly, fighting her awakened conscience. She calmed it by vowing to try to make the Marquess a good wife.
She would steal what moments she could in Lord Sylvester’s company, surely not too much to ask of the fickle gods, and that way her days to come would not be plagued by overmuch guilt.
She schooled herself to watch Lord Sylvester only when she was sure she herself was not being observed. Often his green eyes met hers with that strange unwinking catlike stare of his.
The wedding was still two whole weeks away. No need to worry about it now.
But somehow after that night the days streamed past, multi-coloured days full of pinnings and fittings and bustle. Mr and Mrs Armitage and the rest of the girls arrived, creating more turmoil. Again, Annabelle found herself always surrounded by people when she was with her fiancé, and she only caught a few rare glimpses of Lord Sylvester, but they were enough to fuel her passion, his very absences making her heart quite crazy.
She thought about him and dreamed about him constantly.
Even the wedding rehearsals in St George’s, Hanover Square, had a strange dreamlike feeling.
The church is massive, square and ugly with a steeple placed above a Greek portico. But the aristocracy considered it the only church to be married in – that is if one insisted on being married in church. It was here in 1791 that the elderly Sir William Hamilton married the beautiful Emma Hart, the daughter of a blacksmith, entirely illiterate, who passed from one lover to another and was finally sold to Sir William by his nephew Charles Greville. But Sir William did marry her, and, to Emma at twenty-six, the marriage to her elderly diplomat must have appeared the culmination of her life. But she was to go on to scandalize the nation by her affair with Lord Nelson to whom she became ‘my dearest beloved Emma and the true friend of my bosom’.
Hanover Square itself, although nearly a hundred years old – it was built in 1718 – was considered a fashionable and modern address.
Fashionable London was already beginning to move westward when George I arrived from Germany. The district west of Regent Street was still bei
ng spoken of as ‘suburban territories’ when the Square was built and named after the first Hanoverian monarch.
Not so far beyond the confines of the square sprawled another world of poverty and violence and disease, but the Armitage family were protected from this by virtue of their elegant place of residence.
Madame Verné’s establishment was up two flights of stairs in Piccadilly, not far from Watier’s, that famous Dandy club where Brummell and his cronies were to be found.
It was perhaps fitting that the well-known dressmaker should have her business in a street named after a fashion.
In the reign of Charles I, wrist bands made of pointed lace known as peccadilles were very fashionable. And Piccadilly gets its name from a shop in that famous thoroughfare where peccadilles were sold.
Unlike some other famous society dressmakers, Madame Verné did not believe in wasting money on expensive surroundings and her little showroom was stark in its simplicity.
Annabelle would have liked Madame Verné to attend her at Hanover Square, but Madame Verné, since she was to furnish the bridesmaids’ dresses as well as the bride’s gown at top speed, preferred the Armitage sisters to come to her. Annabelle was impressed by the various other grand ladies who came to call, and would have liked to appear dignified, but it was very hard with Deirdre and Daphne romping around, giggling and sticking each other with pins, and Frederica perpetually wailing that she wanted to go home.
To Annabelle, the day of the wedding meant all the world to her. It was to be her debut, her performance of a lifetime. And although she would not be one of the unfortunates who were married off to old men for their title and wealth against their will, she was marrying for the reason that most young girls of her age married; apart from the overriding one of jealousy it was the only career open to a woman.
To marry well was to succeed in life. And like most girls of her age and upbringing, she never paused to consider what marriage really entailed.
Taming of Annabelle Page 8