by Lisa Kleypas
Opening her eyes, Annabelle saw that the other wallflowers were staring into the well with great solemnity. “I made the wrong wish,” she said fretfully. “Can I have another?”
“No,” Lillian said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Once you’ve thrown in your pin, it’s done.”
“But I didn’t mean to make that particular wish,” Annabelle protested. “Something just popped into my head, and it wasn’t at all what I had planned.”
“Don’t argue, Annabelle,” Evie advised. “You ddon’t want to annoy the well spirit.”
“The what?”
Evie smiled at her perplexed expression. “The resident spirit of the well. He’s the one to whom y-you make a petition. But if you annoy him, he may decide to demand a terrible price for granting your wish. Or he may drag you into the well with him, to live there forever as his c-consort.”
Annabelle stared into the brown water. She cupped her hands around the sides of her mouth to help direct her voice. “You don’t have to grant my rotten wish,” she told the unseen spirit loudly. “I take it back!”
“Don’t taunt him, Annabelle,” Daisy exclaimed. “And for heaven’s sake, step back from the edge of that well!”
“Are you superstitious?” Annabelle asked with a grin.
Daisy glowered at her. “There’s a reason for superstitions, you know. At some point in time, something bad happened to someone who was standing right next to a well, just as you are.” Closing her eyes, she concentrated intently, then tossed her own pin into the water. “There. I’ve made a wish for your benefit—so there’s no need for you to complain about having wasted one.”
“But how do you know what I wanted?”
“The wish I made is for your own good,” Daisy informed her.
Annabelle groaned theatrically. “I hate things that are for my own good.”
A good-natured squabble followed, in which each girl made suggestions as to what would be best for the other, until finally Lillian commanded them to stop, as they were interfering with her concentration. They fell silent just long enough to allow Lillian and Evie to make their wishes, then they made their way across the meadow and through the forest. Soon they reached a lovely dry meadow, grassy and sun-drenched, with shade extending from a grove of oak at one side. The air was balmy and rarefied, and so fresh that Annabelle sighed blissfully. “This air has no substance to it,” she said in mock-complaint. “No coal smoke or street dust whatsoever. Much too thin for a Londoner. I can’t even feel it in my lungs.”
“It’s not that thin,” Lillian replied. “Every now and then the breeze carries a distinct hint of eau de sheep.”
“Really?” Annabelle sniffed experimentally. “I can’t smell a thing.”
“That’s because you don’t have a nose,” Lillian replied.
“I beg your pardon?” Annabelle asked with a quizzical grin.
“Oh, you have a regular sort of nose,” Lillian explained, “but I have a nose. I’m unusually sensitive to smell. Give me any perfume, and I can separate it into all its parts. Rather like listening to a musical chord and divining all its notes. Before we left New York, I even helped to develop a formula for scented soap, for my father’s factory.”
“Could you create a perfume, do you think?” Annabelle asked in fascination.
“I daresay I could create an excellent perfume,” Lillian said confidently. “However, anyone in the industry would disdain it, as the phrase ‘American perfume’ is considered to be an oxymoron—and I’m a woman, besides, which throws the caliber of my nose very much into question.”
“You mean, men have better noses than women?”
“They certainly think so,” Lillian said darkly, and whipped a picnic blanket out of her basket with a flourish. “Enough about men and their protuberances. Shall we sit in the sun for a little while?”
“We’ll get brown,” Daisy predicted, flopping onto a corner of the blanket with a pleasured sigh. “And then Mama will have conniptions.”
“What are conniptions?” Annabelle asked, entertained by the American word. She dropped to the space beside Daisy. “Do send for me if she has them— I’m curious to see what they look like.”
“Mama has them all the time,” Daisy assured her. “Never fear, you’ll be well acquainted with conniptions before we all leave Hampshire.”
“We shouldn’t eat before we play,” Lillian said, watching as Annabelle lifted the lid of a picnic basket.
“I’m hungry,” Annabelle said wistfully, peering inside the basket, which was filled with fruit, cheese, pâté, thick cuts of bread, and several varieties of salad.
“You’re always hungry,” Daisy observed with a laugh. “For such a small person, you have a remarkable appetite.”
“I, small?” Annabelle countered. “If you are one fraction of an inch above five feet tall, I’ll eat that picnic basket.”
“You’d better start chewing, then,” Daisy said. “I’m five feet and one inch, thank you.”
“Annabelle, I wouldn’t gnaw on that wicker handle quite yet, if I were you,” Lillian interceded with a slow smile. “Daisy stands on her toes whenever she’s measured. The poor dressmaker has had to recut the hems of nearly a dozen dresses, thanks to my sister’s unreasonable denial of the fact that she is short.”
“I’m not short,” Daisy muttered. “Short women are never mysterious, or elegant, or pursued by handsome men. And they’re always treated like children. I refuse to be short.”
“You’re not mysterious or elegant,” Evie conceded. “But you’re very pr-pretty.”
“And you’re a dear,” Daisy replied, levering upward to reach into the picnic basket. “Come, let’s feed poor Annabelle—I can hear her stomach growling.”
They delved into the repast enthusiastically. Afterward, they reclined lazily on the blanket and cloud-watched, and talked about everything and nothing. When their chatter died to a contented lull, a small red squirrel ventured out of the oak grove and turned to the side, watching them with one bright black eye.
“An intruder,” Annabelle observed, with a delicate yawn.
Evie rolled to her stomach and tossed a bread crust in the squirrel’s direction. He froze and stared at the tantalizing offering, but was too timid to advance. Evie tilted her head, her hair glittering in the sun as if it had been overlaid with a net of rubies. “Poor little thing,” she said softly, casting another crust at the timid squirrel. This one landed a few inches closer, and his tail twitched eagerly. “Be brave,” Evie coaxed. “Go on and take it.” Smiling tolerantly, she tossed another crust, which landed a scant few inches from him. “Oh, Mr. Squirrel,” Evie reproved. “You’re a dreadful coward. Can’t you see that no one’s going to harm you?”
In a sudden burst of initiative, the squirrel seized the tidbit and scampered off with his tail quivering. Looking up with a triumphant smile, Evie saw the other wallflowers staring at her in drop-jawed silence. “Wh-what is it?” she asked, puzzled.
Annabelle was the first to speak. “Just now, when you were talking to that squirrel, you didn’t stammer.”
“Oh.” Suddenly abashed, Evie lowered her gaze and grimaced. “I never stammer when I’m talking to children or animals. I don’t know why.”
They pondered the puzzling information for a moment. “I’ve noticed that you never seem to stammer quite as much when you’re talking to me,” Daisy observed.
Lillian could not seem to resist the comment. “Which category do you fall into, dear? Children, or animals?”
Daisy responded with a hand gesture that was completely unfamiliar to Annabelle.
Annabelle was about to ask Evie if she had ever consulted a doctor about her stammering, but the redhaired girl abruptly changed the subject. “Where is the R-rounders ball, Daisy? If we don’t play soon, I’ll fall asleep.”
Realizing that Evie didn’t want to discuss her stammering any longer, Annabelle seconded the request. “I suppose if we’re really going to do it, now is as good a time as an
y.”
While Daisy dug in the basket for the ball, Lillian unearthed an item from her own basket. “Look what I’ve brought,” she said smugly.
Daisy looked up with a delighted laugh. “A real bat!” she exclaimed, regarding the flat-sided object admiringly. “And I thought we’d have to use a plain old stick. Where did you get it, Lillian?”
“I borrowed it from one of the stableboys. It seems they sneak away for Rounders whenever possible— they’re quite passionate about the game.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Daisy asked rhetorically, beginning on the buttons of her bodice. “Gracious, the day is warm—it will be lovely to shed all these layers.”
As the Bowman sisters unfastened their gowns with the casual manner of girls not unaccustomed to disrobing out in the open, Annabelle and Evie regarded each other in a moment of uncertainty.
“I dare you,” Evie murmured.
“Oh, God,” Annabelle said in an aggrieved tone, and began to unbutton her own dress. She had discovered an unexpected streak of modesty that brought a rush of color to her face. However, she was not going to turn coward when even timid Evie Jenner was willing to join in the rebellion against propriety. Pulling her arms from the sleeves of her dress, she stood and let the heavy overlay fall in a crumpled mound at her feet. Left in her chemise, drawers, and corset, her feet covered only by stockings and thin slippers, she felt a breeze waft over the perspiration-dampened places beneath her arms, and she shivered pleasantly.
The other girls stood and shed their own gowns, which lay heaped on the ground like gigantic exotic flowers.
“Catch!” Daisy said, and tossed the ball to Annabelle, who caught it reflexively. They all walked to the center of the meadow, pitching the ball back and forth. Evie was the worst at throwing and catching, though it was clear that her ineptitude was caused by inexperience rather than clumsiness. Annabelle, on the other hand, had a younger brother who had frequently turned to her as a playmate, and so the mechanics of lobbing a ball were familiar to her.
It was the oddest, lightest feeling, walking outside with her legs unimpeded by the weight of skirts. “I suppose this is what men feel like,” Annabelle mused aloud, “being able to stroll here and there in trousers. One could almost envy them such freedom.”
“Almost?” Lillian questioned with a grin. “Without question, I do envy them. Wouldn’t it be lovely if women could wear trousers?”
“I w-wouldn’t like it at all,” Evie said. “I would die of embarrassment if a man were able to see the shape of my legs and my…” She hesitated, clearly searching for a word to describe unmentionable parts of the female anatomy. “…other things,” she finished lamely.
“Your chemise is in a sad state, Annabelle,” came Lillian’s sudden blunt observation. “I hadn’t thought to give you new underwear, though I should have realized…”
Annabelle shrugged offhandedly. “It doesn’t matter, since this is the only occasion on which anyone will see it.”
Daisy glanced at her older sister. “Lillian, we’re abominably shortsighted. I think poor Annabelle drew the short straw when it came to fairy godmothers.”
“I haven’t complained,” Annabelle said, laughing. “And as far as I can tell, the four of us are all riding in the same pumpkin.”
After a few more minutes of practice, and a brief discussion of the rules of Rounders, they set out empty picnic baskets in lieu of sanctuary posts, and the game began. Annabelle planted her feet squarely on a spot that had been designated as “Castle Rock.”
“I’ll feed the ball to her,” Daisy said to her older sister, “and you catch.”
“But I have a better arm than you,” Lillian grumbled, taking a position behind Annabelle nevertheless.
Holding the bat over her shoulder, Annabelle swung at the ball that Daisy threw. The bat failed to connect, and whistled through the air in a neat arc. Behind her, Lillian expertly caught the ball. “That was a good swing,” Daisy encouraged. “Keep watching the ball as it comes toward you.”
“I’m not accustomed to standing still while objects are being hurled at me,” Annabelle said, brandishing the bat once again. “How many tries do I get?”
“In Rounders, the striker has an infinite number of swings,” came Lillian’s voice behind her. “Have another go, Annabelle…and this time, try to imagine that the ball is Mr. Hunt’s nose.”
Annabelle received the suggestion with relish. “I’d prefer to aim for a protuberance somewhat lower than that,” she said, and swung as Daisy fed her the ball again. This time, the flat side of the bat met the ball with a solid thwack. Letting out a whoop of delight, Daisy went scampering after the ball, while Lillian, who had been screeching with laughter, cried out, “Run, Annabelle!”
She did so with a triumphant chortle, skirting the baskets as she rounded toward Castle Rock.
Daisy scooped up the ball and threw it to Lillian, who snatched it from the air.
“Stay at the third post, Annabelle,” Lillian called. “We’ll see if Evie can bring you back to Castle Rock.”
Looking nervous but determined, Evie took the bat and assumed a stance at the striker’s place.
“Pretend the ball is your aunt Florence,” Annabelle advised, and a grin erupted on Evie’s face.
Daisy pitched a slow, easy ball, while Evie flailed with the bat. She missed, and the ball landed with a neat smack in Lillian’s palms. Throwing the ball back to Daisy, Lillian repositioned Evie. “Widen your stance and bend your knees a bit,” she murmured. “That’s a girl. Now watch the ball as it comes, and you won’t miss.”
Unfortunately Evie did miss, time and again, until her face was pink with frustration. “It’s t-too hard,” she said, her forehead puckered with worry. “Perhaps I should stop now and give someone else a turn.”
“Just a few more tries,” Annabelle said anxiously, determined that Evie should hit the ball at least once. “We’re in no hurry.”
“Don’t give up!” Daisy chimed in. “It’s just that you’re trying too hard, Evie. Relax—and stop closing your eyes when you swing.”
“You can do it,” Lillian said, pushing a lock of silky dark hair away from her forehead and flexing her slim, well-toned arms. “You almost connected with the last one. Just keep… watching …the ball.”
Sighing in resignation, Evie dragged the bat back to Castle Rock and lifted it once more. Her blue eyes narrowed as she stared at Daisy, and she tensed in preparation for the next feed. “I’m ready.”
Daisy tossed the ball gamely, and Evie swung with grim determination. A thrill of satisfaction shot through Annabelle as she saw the bat strike the ball solidly. It soared into the air, far into the oak grove. They all whooped in jubilation at the splendid strike. Shocked at what she had done, Evie began to jump in the air, squealing, “I did it! I did it!”
“Run around the baskets!” Annabelle cried, and scampered back to Castle Rock. Gleefully Evie circled the makeshift Rounders field, her garments a blur of white. When she reached Castle Rock, the girls continued to jump and scream for no reason at all, other than the fact that they were young and healthy and quite pleased with themselves.
Suddenly, Annabelle became aware of a dark figure rapidly ascending the hill. She fell abruptly silent as she ascertained that there was one—no, two—riders advancing to the dry meadow. “Someone’s coming!” she said. “A pair of riders. Hurry, fetch your clothes!” Her low-voiced alarm cut through the girls’ jubilation. They stared at each other with wide eyes and burst into panicked action. Shrieking, Daisy and Evie broke into a dead run toward the remains of the picnic, where they had left their dresses.
Annabelle began to follow, then stopped and turned abruptly as the riders thundered to a halt just behind her. She faced them warily, trying to assess what danger they might present. Looking up at their faces, she felt a bolt of chilling dismay as she recognized them.
Lord Westcliff …and even worse… Simon Hunt.
Chapter 10
Once Annab
elle met Hunt’s stunned gaze, she could not seem to look away. It was like one of those nightmares that one always awoke from with a sense of relief, knowing that something so dreadful could never really happen. Were the situation not so completely to her disadvantage, she might have enjoyed the prospect of Simon Hunt rendered absolutely speechless. At first his face was blank, as if he was having tremendous difficulty absorbing the fact that she was standing before him dressed only in a chemise, corset, and drawers. His gaze slid over her, slowly coming to rest on her flushed face.
Another moment or two of suffocated silence, and Hunt swallowed hard before speaking in a rusty-sounding voice. “I probably shouldn’t ask. But what the hell are you doing?”
The words unlocked Annabelle from her paralysis. She certainly could not stand there and converse with him while she was clad in her undergarments. But her dignity—or the threads that remained of it—demanded that she not screech idiotically and dash for her clothes the way Evie and Daisy were doing. Settling for a compromise, she strode briskly to her discarded gown and clasped it to her front as she turned to face Simon Hunt once more. “We’re playing Rounders,” she said, her voice far higher-pitched than usual.
Hunt glanced around the scene before settling on her again. “Why did you—”
“One can’t run properly in skirts,” Annabelle interrupted. “I should think that would be obvious.”
Absorbing that, Hunt averted his face swiftly, but not before she saw the sudden flash of his grin. “Never having tried it, I’ll have to take your word on that.”
Behind her, Annabelle heard Daisy say to Lillian accusingly, “I thought you said that no one ever comes to this meadow!”
“That’s what I was told,” Lillian replied, her voice muffled as she stepped into the circle of her gown and bent to jerk it upward.
The earl, who had been mute until that point, spoke with his gaze trained studiously on the distant scenery. “Your information was correct, Miss Bowman,” he said in a controlled manner. “This field is usually unfrequented.”