Taming of Annabelle (7 page)

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 direction 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.

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.

The Marquess was sitting in a winged chair by the fireplace, reading a book. The white glare from the snow outside made his pale face seem even whiter. He did not look up as Annabelle quietly
entered, and she studied him for a few seconds before going forwards.

He had none of his friend Lord Sylvester’s studied elegance. He exuded a powerful aura of virility and his hands holding the book were strong and square, unlike Lord Sylvester’s very
white, long-fingered ones.

Neither had he any of his lordship’s cool, mocking mannerisms which made Annabelle’s heart beat so fast. Although Annabelle had seen her sister clasped in Lord Sylvester’s
passionate embrace, she had shut that scene from her mind as much as possible. It was the perfection of Lord Sylvester’s dress and his seeming absence of sexuality which attracted her so
forcibly. But Annabelle did not know this. She considered herself the hot-blooded passionate one and Minerva the cool, aloof spinster, not knowing that deep in her maidenly soul she, Annabelle,
was, in fact, very prudish. Although she had responded to Guy Wentwater’s embraces, she did not realize her ardour was the result of triumph at having caught a beau so young. Also, she liked
to think of herself as being superior to Minerva in every way, and so did not suspect that if Lord Sylvester had treated her to one iota of the passion which he bestowed on Minerva, then she would
immediately have recoiled in horror. It would be as if a very beautiful and much admired statue had suddenly sprung to life and started sweating and panting.

She gave a little cough and the Marquess immediately lowered his book.

‘Why, Miss Annabelle!’ he exclaimed, struggling to his feet and clutching the chair-back for support.

‘Please be seated, my lord,’ said Annabelle. ‘You are not well.’

He sank back down into the chair and gave her a rueful grin. ‘I confess I am as weak as a kitten. What brings you here?’

‘I came to see you, my lord,’ said Annabelle softly. ‘I thought I might read to you.’

‘I have not lost the faculty of sight,’ he said, looking amused. ‘Which is just as well or I could not appreciate the beautiful vision you present.’