Then finally Annabelle awoke, and he was gone. She felt langourously exhausted, placidly happy.
Until it hit her like a thunderclap. She had not said she loved him.
And he – he had not said he loved her either!
It should have been the happiest day of Annabelle’s life. It proved to be the most disastrous.
She sent word to Jensen that she would not be receiving callers. She planned to spend a leisurely afternoon, reading a little, writing to Minerva, and then devote the early part of the evening to preparing for the opera.
She was seated at a little escritoire in the gloomy drawing room, trying to find words to tell Minerva of all the newfound happiness in her marriage. Mrs Armitage had given her an address in Naples to which to write.
She looked up in surprise as Jensen entered to tell her that there was a . . . hem . . . person demanding audience.
‘A person, Jensen?’
‘An extremely fashionable lady, but, I would venture to assess, more demi than mondaine.’
‘Then send her about her business, Jensen.’
‘The person appears to be in extreme distress, my lady, and said you would be anxious to see her although her name might mean nothing to you.’
‘Where have you put her?’
‘She is seated in the hall, my lady. She came without a maid,’ answered Jensen with a sniff, as if this last piece of intelligence confirmed his opinion of the lady’s character.
‘Well, I will just look into the hall,’ sighed Annabelle, rising, ‘and if it is someone I have never seen before, you may send her away.’
‘Very good, my lady.’
The butler stood aside, holding open the door. Annabelle peeped around it, and then froze. ‘Went as white as the lace at her throat,’ as Jensen was to tell the servants’ hall later.
‘I will see her,’ said Annabelle in a low voice. ‘But answer immediately, should I ring the bell.’
She went and sat down, her hands clasped in her lap, her back very straight.
‘Miss Harriet Evans,’ announced Jensen lugubriously. Both women surveyed each other curiously.
Annabelle had recognized her husband’s fair partner from the Park.
Part of Annabelle’s mind registered again with some surprise the unerring sense of social position that certain upper servants had. She herself would have thought Harriet Evans was a highly respectable lady.
‘Please sit down, Miss Evans,’ said Annabelle, ‘and state your business.’
Harriet sat down demurely and raised her fine eyes to Annabelle’s face. ‘My lady,’ she said in a low, throbbing voice, ‘it breaks my heart to come here. But I am in sore distress and perhaps you should know the manner of man to whom you are married.’
‘That is enough,’ said Annabelle sharply. ‘We do not discuss our husband.’
‘Not even when I am carrying his child?’ said Harriet.
Annabelle’s hand fluttered up to her throat. ‘You had better explain,’ she said in a dazed way.
‘Before he was married, I was in his lordship’s keeping, you understand, my lady. I was deeply in love. I am not a courtesan by nature. He showed all signs of being equally in love with me. I found I was pregnant and went to him for help. You have no doubt seen advertisements in the newspapers, my lady, put there by people who offer to relieve us of this kind of embarrassment.’
Annabelle shook her head dumbly.
‘In short, I am speaking of an abortion. My lord begged me not to do it. He said he would look after me and the child. He said the child was a result of our love. He did not offer marriage, my lady, but somehow I assumed . . .’
Harriet fumbled in her reticule, drew out a wisp of handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes, while Annabelle sat rigidly watching her. ‘The next thing I knew,’ said Harriet in a stifled voice, ‘was that he was married. I . . . I thought of killing myself. But I do love him so, and . . . and there is my unborn child to think of. It would be murder!’
Annabelle tried to think clearly. It could not be true! And yet the woman seemed to be in genuine distress. Peter had been seen driving her in the Park on the day after his wedding. All men of the Marquess’s age had had some sort of liaison before their marriage. So her mind raced on and on, looking for an escape.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Annabelle desperately. ‘I am very sorry for you Miss Evans. If it is money you wish . . . ?’
‘No!’ cried Harriet, ‘as God is my judge.’ And she turned her fine eyes up to the ceiling.
And all in that moment, Annabelle was forcibly reminded of Lady Godolphin confronting Colonel Brian. She took a deep breath.
‘Look here, Miss Evans,’ she said quietly. ‘I do not know why you came here. I feel, somehow, that you are not telling the truth. My husband would never have behaved in such a way.’
Harriet kept her handkerchief to her eyes while she thought busily.
Then she dropped the handkerchief, and got to her feet and looked down at Annabelle, her eyes alight with laughter.
‘The trick has not worked, I see,’ she smiled.
‘Trick?’
‘Oh, it was an idea of Peter’s to see how much you loved him. He thought it would test your fidelity. I used to be an actress, my lady, but obviously I am not as good as I thought I was.’
Annabelle walked over to the fireplace and tugged the bell rope so ferociously that it came away in her hand.
‘Jensen,’ she said as the butler’s curious face appeared at the door. ‘Show this person out, and she is not to be admitted again.’
She turned her back on Harriet and stood looking into the fireplace.
Harriet made her way thoughtfully back to Islington. As she paid off the hack, she was not surprised to find Sir Guy Wayne lounging on the doorstep.
‘Come in,’ she said curtly, drawing off her gloves. He followed her into the cluttered parlour.
‘I did as you requested,’ said Harriet in a flat voice. ‘She did not believe me. But when I told her it had been set up by her husband in order to test her fidelity, oh, she believed that.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure, and I tell you, Sir Guy, that caused her more hurt than had she believed the other.’
‘Good,’ he commented, drawing out a bag of guineas. ‘You have earned your fee. I trust you are prepared to leave for Brighton today.’
Harriet took the money and then looked at him doubtfully. ‘I fear you will find you have wasted your money, sir. She will simply confront Brabington with the matter when he arrives home, he will deny it, and that will be the end of it.’
‘I am gambling that she will not,’ smiled Sir Guy. ‘I have never found my observation of human nature to be at fault. I have picked up rumours that the fair Marchioness was much smitten with Lord Sylvester Comfrey and merely married Brabington so as to outdo her sister. That, I feel sure, is why he flaunted you in the Park. Had the wedding night been one of bliss, then he would not have done such a thing.
‘He did it to revenge himself on her. They are now in love and lately. That too I have observed. But this new love is a painfully fragile thing. She will remember his behaviour on the first few days after the marriage, and, as for him, he will remember hers. So she will be prepared to believe the worst. An I am not mistaken, she will simply turn cold and indifferent and will look around for a means to revenge herself on him. And I, my dear Harriet, will be at hand to supply her with the means. Then how can his lordship call me out when the young wife comes to my arms so willingly?’
Harriet shuddered. She wanted to fling the money in his face. But she needed it so badly. And she was sure he was mistaken. The Brabingtons were probably now in each other’s arms and the whole thing would have been already forgotten.
Annabelle went automatically through the rest of the day, numb and stiff and hurt.
Perhaps if she had not seen Cosi Fan Tutte she would not have believed her husband would go to such lengths. But she had not seen Harriet
with Sir Guy. She had only seen her with the Marquess. She thought of his cruel and erratic behaviour after her wedding night. She had put it down to a result of her use of Lord Sylvester’s name. Now she began to see his actions as those of a heartless aristocrat, hell-bent on making fun at the expense of others.
By the time the Marquess arrived to take his wife to the opera, she felt completely indifferent to him. Never in her whole life had anyone treated Annabelle so cruelly. She answered all his compliments with a shrug and sat in rigid silence during the opera.
On the road home, he at last burst out with, ‘What on earth is up with you, Annabelle?’
‘You forget,’ she said icily, ‘I am to be trained in the conventions. You are to call me my lady at all times and I shall call you Brabington.’
‘Did last night mean nothing to you?’ he demanded furiously.
‘I would rather forget about last night, sirrah!’
‘And why, I wonder? Did you realize too late the wrong man held you in his arms?’
‘If that is how you care to see it.’
He seemed to loom over her in the coach as he half rose from his seat, his bulk large and threatening.
She shrank back and he muttered an exclamation of disgust and rapped on the roof with his stick. As the coach rumbled to a halt he leapt out without waiting for the footmen to let down the steps.
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Annabelle. ‘To Lady Coombes?’
‘Why not?’ he shouted back, striding off into the night.
A footman sprang down and shut the door. The carriage rumbled forwards and Annabelle sat fighting back tears.
There would have been one great flaw in Sir Guy Wayne’s assessment of human nature if the couple had said they loved each other. But that was what rankled in each bosom, and that was what made each so ready to believe the worst of each other. Both Annabelle and her husband felt they had wasted all their tenderest love and passion on a frivolous, unworthy object.
Now all Annabelle wanted to do was to get away, away from this man who did not love her, to escape before he could torment her further.
All at once she decided to go home to Hopeworth. She would immerse herself in parish duties. But a saner side of her mind told her to have a good night’s sleep and perhaps things would seem not so bad in the morning.
But in the morning, two things happened. A letter arrived telling her curtly that she was refused vouchers to Almack’s.
Annabelle was young and inexperienced enough to feel the social slight more than most. What cut most deep was that her husband had taken no steps to ensure her acceptance.
And then her cousins, Josephine and Emily Armitage, arrived. They had received their invitations and were in alt. They were carefully courteous to Annabelle, for, after all, she was now a marchioness, but they could not refrain from several silly and jealous remarks and the sisters finally seemed to Annabelle to epitomize all that was worst in London society, vain and silly and cruel.
After they had left she called Jensen and told him the travelling carriage was to be prepared to take her to Hopeworth. She then called him back and told him that she was ordering him not to tell the Marquess of Miss Evans’ visit. Annabelle was determined that her husband should not realize how much he had hurt her.
She ordered Holden to pack her trunks and warned the maid she would be expected to put up at a country vicarage in more uncomfortable surroundings than she had been used to.
But Holden had worked for society for a long time and was used to the vagaries of the quality. She judged, rightly, that her master and mistress had had a quarrel, but she was sure it would soon be put to rights, and so resigned herself to rusticating in the country for a little.
She looked startled when Annabelle said that she would not be taking any of the Brabington jewels. They were to be left in her husband’s room.
Then she sat down to write the Marquess a letter. She told him that she could not bear to live under the same roof any more and wished for a separation.
Coldly and efficiently she went about the preparations for the journey, her face hard and set.
The day was sunny and warm. The streets of London seemed to be thronged with happy carefree people as she slumped in the corner of the travelling carriage, looking out at them with dull eyes.
Before, God had been in his Heaven and everything had been very much all right with the world. Now Annabelle began to be haunted by the Old Testament God of vengeance, and, by the time her weary journey home was over, she was convinced that divine punishment had been visited on her for her jealousy of Minerva and for her wicked plans to seduce her brother-in-law.
A schoolgirl had left Hopeworth vicarage such a short time ago. It was a cold and rigid woman who arrived home.
Mrs Armitage attributed the change to Annabelle’s high marriage and was duly impressed. Even the sharp-eyed Deirdre simply thought that Annabelle had become very high in the instep and failed to see the suffering which lurked under the cold and fashionable exterior.
Holden good-naturedly resigned herself to accepting quarters in a small attic room and cheerfully began to advise the Armitage sisters on dress and manners. A governess had not yet been found for them and so Mrs Armitage was delighted to have this unexpected mentor for the girls.
The vicar did not arrive back till late evening. Mrs Armitage had said he was about his duties, but it turned out he had spent an unsuccessful day’s fishing.
He listened carefully to Annabelle’s explanation for her homecoming. She said the Marquess was too taken up with military duties to escort her throughout the Season, and that since she missed her home she had thought it would be a good opportunity to pay them a visit.
The vicar was sharp-set and did not want to think about anything but food. But as he pushed his plate away at the end of the meal, he thoughtfully picked his teeth and studied Annabelle’s calm face.
He seemed to finally come to some conclusion, for, as Annabelle was explaining that she thought she would pay some calls on the morrow, he said, ‘Don’t make any plans, Bella. I will talk to you in the morning.’
Annabelle looked at him sharply, but his ruddy face seemed quite bland as he poured his sixth glass of port with steady concentration.
She spent a restless, sleepless night, waking up at dawn in a sweat after a particularly vile dream in which she was standing at the altar at St George’s, Hanover Square, holding the train of Lady Coombes’ wedding gown, and Lady Coombes was marrying the Marquess of Brabington.
The morning dragged on. She tried to keep away from her sisters who were too full of questions about the glories of fashionable London.
Her father appeared before her like a stout jack-inthe-box. He looked at her carefully, at her white face and sad eyes.
‘Get your bonnet, Bella,’ he said roughly. ‘We’re going to pay a call.’
TEN
Annabelle sat beside her father in his open carriage, only vaguely aware of the warmth of the sun and the glory of the golden day.
The vicar swung round in front of Squire Radford’s cottage ornée and helped Annabelle to alight.
The Squire’s soft-footed Indian servant said his master was in the garden and led them there.
The Squire was amazed to see Annabelle, his eyes darting from her face to the vicar’s.
He waited until they were all seated at a round table under the gently moving leaves of a sycamore tree. The Indian servant brought madeira for the vicar and lemonade for Annabelle and departed, leaving the silent company studying each other.
A little brook at the foot of the garden chattered over the pebbles on its way to join the River Blyne. Far away a dog barked and the hedges and trees were full of birdsong.
But winter was present in Annabelle’s face.
‘This is very pleasant,’ said Squire Radford when his servant had left. ‘I am surprised to find you in the country, my lady, with the Season only just begun. But you are welcome, very welcome. And Charles, too. Is the
re any special reason for your call, my dear Charles?’
‘Yes,’ said the vicar curtly. ‘Her.’ He jerked his head in Annabelle’s direction.
‘Dear me!’ He turned to Annabelle sympathetically. ‘You are in trouble, my dear?’
‘No,’ said Annabelle.
‘Yes,’ said the vicar of St Charles and St Jude.
‘I am here because my husband is engaged in military duties,’ said Annabelle in a high voice, unlike her own.
‘They’ve quarrelled,’ interrupted the vicar, ‘and Bella’s breaking her heart.’
Annabelle looked at her father haughtily and then her face seemed to break apart until she bent her head and burst into noisy tears.
The Squire made helpless little sounds of distress, but the vicar said callously, ‘Leave her be, Jimmy, or we’ll never get to the bottom of this.’
They waited until Annabelle had cried herself out and had blown her nose.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Very well,’ said her father bracingly. ‘Out with it. The whole story. Start from the beginning about how you was in love with Sylvester.’
‘Oh, father,’ wailed Annabelle, ‘if you knew that, how could you let me make such a fool of myself?’
‘I’m still waiting to hear how much of a fool you’ve been,’ said the vicar drily. ‘See here, Jimmy, this madeira’s prime stuff.’
‘Really Charles,’ protested the Squire, and turning to Annabelle, ‘Go on, my dear, we are only here to help you.’
Annabelle opened her mouth and began to talk.
She talked and talked while the sun climbed higher in the sky and the birds fell silent. She told them everything,of her jealousy of Minerva, of her falling in love with her husband, of the trick he had played on her.
‘By Gad!’ cried the vicar angrily. The Squire saw his friend was about to burst out and tell Annabelle that they had told her husband to behave wickedly, so he rose quickly and helped Annabelle to her feet. ‘You must leave us to discuss this,’ he said gently. ‘Go to my library and have a little rest. You will find it has all been a dreadful mistake. Go now.’
Taming of Annabelle Page 17