Annabelle (9 page)

Annabelle agreed and was ushered off the premises by an ecstatic Lady Emmeline.

“I know what I’ll do,” said Captain MacDonald when Annabelle was safely ensconsed beside him in the carriage. “I’ll take you to all those places they show the country cousins. You’ll like that.”

Annabelle turned her head away to hide a smile. The Captain could not be said to be a model of tact.

To her surprise she found herself thrilled and surprised by her outing. They drove first to the middle of Westminster Bridge and stopped to look at the great green and gray river with its barges and wherries and brown sails. Upstream lay the terraced trees and houses in front of Westminster Hall, the new Millbank Penitentiary and the low, willowed banks, and downstream, the crumbling old taverns and warehouses of Scotland Yard.

Then they drove over the high-balustraded bridge, with its bays and hooped lampposts, to the Surrey shore. After a short depressing ride through rows of mean, small dwellings and dingy factories, they returned once more
to the river and over the camelback of London Bridge where the river narrowed into cataracts and poured down through arches. And so into the City, the commercial hub.

Annabelle found it all bewilderingly unlike the quiet streets of the West End.

Postmen in scarlet coats with bells and bags mingled with porterhouse boys with pewter mugs. Bakers cried “Hot loaves,” chimney sweeps with brushes, hawkers with bandboxes on poles, milkmaids with pails, all were crying their wares over the din made by the bells of the dust carts and the horns of the news vendors.

And the shops!

Windows were piled high with silks and muslin and calicoes, china and glassware, jewels and silver. Businessmen in broadcloth edged past children bowling hoops and workmen in aprons and padded leather jackets and raree-show men carrying the magic of their trade on their backs.

Annabelle stared openmouthed as they bowled across the wide cobbled expanse of Finsbury Square. Then across Old Street and past the gloomy facade of St. Luke’s Hospital for the insane with its large figures of Melancholy and Raving Madness. And then a long way round by Islington and Pentonville, out to Hampstead and Highgate, back towards London past the Yorkshire Stingo Pleasure Gardens at Lisson Grove and Mr. Lord’s cricket ground—now scheduled for building—and along the Edgeware Road where Annabelle at last recognised the wooden Tyburn turnpike and the northern wall of Hyde Park.

All through the journey the Captain kept up a light easy flow of conversation. Annabelle found she had enjoyed her day and was no longer afraid that the Captain would subject her to an
excess of civility
. And nor did
he. Instead of trying to kiss her, he merely bent punctiliously over her hand and said he hoped to see her at the opera.

Annabelle found Lady Emmeline bubbling over with the latest on-dit. The Russian Czar, Alexander, as a member of the coalition who had defeated Napoleon, was visiting London. The latest was that the great Czar fancied himself in love with Lady Jersey and now Almack’s was most definitely more fashionable than Carlton House since the Prince Regent’s unpopularity with his subjects had become a byword.

And the bliss of it all, went on Lady Emmeline, was that no one, but no one, had.even
noticed
the cancellation of Annabelle’s engagement. They had now such a juicy piece of gossip to chew on.

Annabelle felt unaccountably depressed. She wondered if Lord Varleigh had read his morning paper or if he, too, had been too taken up with the latest on-dit to notice it.

T
HE
Haymarket Theatre was crammed to its flame-colored dome when Annabelle and Lady Emmeline took their places in their box that evening. All the other boxes were filled, row after row with women in white satin gowns and diamonds and men in orders and gold lace. Catalani, that famous singer, began to drown out the noise of both chorus and orchestra with her well-known piercing voice. It was some time, therefore, before Annabelle realised that the Captain had entered and was sitting quietly in the comer, his face shielded from the light by one of the red curtains. A very ripe aroma exuded from him which seemed to be made up of various liqueurs and vast quantities of snuff.

Annabelle eyed him warily, but he was leaning forward now with his head resting on his hand, apparently
absorbed in Catalani’s caterwauling.

Suddenly he said something. Annabelle could not quite make out what he had said but understood it to be some comment on the music.

The Captain’s voice rose and whatever he had said before, he said louder again, but Catalani’s voice had risen also at precisely the same time.

Annabelle turned in some irritation and raised her eyes in a manner which would have pleased Lady Emmeline’s butler.

“I SAID, ‘I LOVE YOU!’” roared the Captain.

The music from both orchestra and singers had unfortunately reached a lull, and the Captain’s words rang round the theater. Everyone giggled and stared and several of his cronies, recognising the Captain, sent up a cheer.

“Please, keep your voice down,” whispered poor Annabelle.

“I LOVE YOU!” shouted the Captain like a war cry, and his great voice echoed round the theater. How the audience roared and hooted and cheered and how the drunken Captain loved it. He had completely forgotten about Annabelle and was now performing his own interpretation of a Highland fling on the parapet of the box.

Annabelle tried to appeal to Lady Emmeline for help, but that infuriating old eccentric was laughing until the tears streamed down her rouged cheeks. Annabelle began to think they were all mad. If a lady made the slightest indiscretion, it was all over London the next day, and the doors of Almack’s were firmly barred to her. But a gentleman, it seemed, could behave like a drunken lout and still be considered “the finished man.”

The performers on stage were continuing as if nothing had happened.

Suddenly there was a stir in one of the boxes along
the row from Annabelle. Through the cavorting of the Captain’s long limbs on the edge of the box, she could see a small gentleman with a beaky profile being welcomed by his friends.

The Captain saw the gentleman as well and the effect on him was electric. He bolted into the box like a rabbit into its burrow. Then the door at the back of the box slammed and he was gone.

“Who is that man?” said Annabelle, pointing with her fan.

“Oh, ’tis the Duke of Wellington,” said Lady Emmeline. “I hope he did not see Captain MacDonald, or poor Jimmy will be receiving a dressing down from his colonel in the morning.”

Annabelle was thankful to learn that there appeared to be some law and order in the higher ranks of the British army. The aristocrats who made up most of the ranks of officers seemed to treat their military service as if it was some sport akin to fox hunting and, during peacetime, hardly ever appeared in uniform except during the long ceremonial parades for the Czar’s visit.

How she wished she did not have to bear the antics of the embarrassing Captain! Her cheeks were hot with shame, and it was with some relief that she finally realised no one at all was bothering to look in her direction.

Annabelle had not, however, noticed that Lady Emmeline had been watching her closely. I have thrust her at the Captain too much, thought that wily old lady. Perhaps if I tell her she’s free and can do as she pleases and make sure little Annabelle and her Captain are thrown together … why then … who knows what may happen?

From the darkness of his box Lord Varleigh studied Annabelle through his quizzing glass, finding the appearance she made more appealing than the sights on
stage. Lady Jane Cherle followed his gaze and her heart sank. Whenever Lord Varleigh saw the Quennell female, his attention seemed to be immediately rivetted on her. Annabelle was everything that Lady Jane feared and despised—a beautiful and missish idiot who had never suffered from the cold breath of scandal. Well, perhaps that could be arranged. She had no intention of losing Sylvester Varleigh—even if she had to intrigue, or kill, to keep him.

As Annabelle and Lady Emmeline alighted from their carriage in Berkeley Square later that evening, Lady Emmeline paused on the pavement, her whole face looking very serious and intent in the flickering light of the flambeaux blazing outside her house. She dismissed the carriage and then clasped Annabelle’s arm. “I am
enjoying
myself,” said the old lady, the wind from the square blowing her flimsy dress against the bones of her corset, “and it’s all thanks to you. Youth keeps you young,” she went on, her eyes fastening almost greedily on Annabelle’s fresh features. “You can marry who you like and when you like, my dear. You’ll be a daughter to me. Yes, a daughter!”

Leaning heavily on the young girl, she moved into the house.

Unseen by either, a dark shadow detached itself from the railings a little way off down the street and slipped silently away to merge with the blacker shadows of the night.

Lady Emmeline’s newfound delight in her goddaughter had not abated on the following morning, and she started to plan a ball to be held in Annabelle’s honor.

The long ballroom which was at the back of the four-story house had not been used in years, and an army of servants was sent to dust and polish and scrub and take the Holland covers from the crystal chandeliers.

Madame Croke was sent for in order that a stupendous ball gown could be planned for Annabelle, who awaited the arrival of the dressmaker with some trepidation.

Annabelle conjured up a picture of Madame Croke as a hard-faced woman with snapping black eyes and the mannerisms of a demimondaine.

To her amazement Madame Croke was a small, faded, spinsterish woman with a small, faded voice. She was soberly dressed in a gray tweed pelisse worn over a gray Kerseymere wool dress. The severity of her bonnet would have graced the head of the sternest governess. It was hard to believe that this quiet mouse of a woman was capable of dreaming up some of the most outrageous toilettes in London. She had brought with her a folio of sketches for Annabelle to shudder over. Each gown looked more daring and scanty than the next.

When Annabelle at last arrived at a drawing of a simpering lady wearing little else other than jewel-bedecked gauze, she closed the folder firmly and said:
“These will not do, Madame Croke. They are more suitable for a member of the demimonde than for a debutante.”

Lady Emmeline was busy entertaining the Countess Honeyford, and after giving the Dowager Marchioness a quick look, Madame Croke dropped her voice to a whisper. “Then perhaps, Miss Quennell,” she murmured, handing Annabelle a pencil, “you might care to make a few alterations yourself? You see, so many ladies have come to me, asking me to design a gown exactly like the one Miss Quennell was wearing on such and such an occasion. I did not know what they were talking about, so I made the effort of watching you when you went out. I have built my reputation by creating, let us say, a rather
fast
line of creations. But perhaps, with your help, I could supply clothes to young ladies of quality like yourself. I should not, of course, be financially ungrateful if you were to give me some assistance.”

Annabelle stared at the dressmaker in surprise and delight. The thought of earning her living in this bewildering world where a lady was not supposed even to stoop to retrieve her own handkerchief was a heady novelty. She was also thrilled at the thought of being able to send some money home.

“I shall begin right away,” said Annabelle cheerfully. “I shall first sketch a suitable design for my ball gown and then, if you wish, I will suggest some more designs for gowns for other ladies. But please do not tell my godmother!”

Madame Croke shook her head and both bent over the designs, Annabelle’s clever pencil flicking over the alterations.

When Annabelle at last raised her head, she felt she had finally achieved the ball gown of her dreams. It was
to be made of white Indian muslin embroidered from neckline to hem with roses of gold silk thread. Tiny artificial gold roses were to decorate the line above the deep flounce at the hem, the neckline and the edges of the little puffed sleeves. A headdress of roses would be wound through her red-gold curls to complete the effect.

She could imagine the beautiful dress floating and swirling round her legs as she danced the steps of the waltz with … For a moment Lord Varleigh’s thin white aristocratic face floated in her mind’s eye. She resolutely banished it and replaced it with the square tanned face and merry eyes of her dream lover.

A
NNABELLE’S
ball was voted “a sad crush” which meant that it was one of the successes of the Season. Royalty did not attend but practically everyone else did, from the haughty Lady Jersey to the impeccable Mr. Brummell.

Many gentlemen seemed only too ready to overlook the fact that Miss Quennell had no fortune, although, as the evening wore on and the champagne flowed, some of them became too enthusiastic, and Annabelle found it necessary to cool their ardor by behaving like a very haughty young lady indeed—or by “getting stiffly on her stiffs” as the current slang had it.

The ballroom was as hot as Clarence House despite the fact that the long windows were open onto the dusty garden at the back.

Annabelle found herself sympathising with Mr. Hullock, the merchant. The aristocracy seemed to be using her ball as an extension of the marriage mart. They gave Annabelle vague kind smiles, and a few of the older members patted her cheek, but the female half of the guests discounted her as a whole—the gentlemen were much too interested in her and no one without a fortune should be as beautiful as that! Her glorious, healthy,
voluptuous good looks were gradually damned as vulgar as the evening went on and all the best of the marriageable men showed an irritating tendency to be more attentive than they should be.

Lady Jersey deigned to hold Annabelle in conversation all through the first waltz, rattling on at a great rate, and Annabelle, whose feet itched to dance, although the waltz was still considered rather
fast
, wished heartily that this queen of London Society would go away. She felt inclined to agree with the irrepressible Princess of Wales—“Mein Gott, dat is de dullest person Gott Almighty ever did born!”