Annabelle (6 page)

“I want to get out of this wind, Sylvester,” she pouted prettily, “and you stand gawking at our country maiden.”

Lord Varleigh felt himself becoming irritated by Lady Jane for the first time. Her possessive manner smacked more of the wife than the mistress.

Nevertheless he led Jane towards the marquee. It was arranged with flower-decorated tables, a long buffet with
hundreds of delectable dishes, and in the center of them, in pride of place, the Standishes’ enormous silver punch bowl. Most of the guests were already sampling the hot punch as the tent, like the day outside, was unseasonably cold.

Annabelle could only be glad that her fiancé had become engrossed in a conversation with his friends and had, for the moment, forgotten his heavy flirtatious manner.

The Captain and his friends seemed capable of betting on the most ludicrous things. The latest was a proposed cricket match to be held by the Greenwich pensioners, the eleven on one side to have but one arm each and both their legs; and the other to have both their arms and only one leg each. This strange match was to be run by a nobleman and a
would-be
member of the Jockey Club. The gentlemen were loudly debating whether to back the “legs” or the “wings” and roaring with noisy laughter at their own wit.

The talk of legs and the pressure against her own under the table made Annabelle wish Captain Mac-Donald would keep his own limbs to himself. No matter where she sat, he seemed to manage to press his legs against hers in the most embarrassing way. She suddenly felt his large hand on her knee and slapped it with the ivory sticks of her fan only to receive a reproachful look for her pains.

Annabelle was unaccustomed to liquor, and the two glasses of punch she had consumed had immediately gone to her head. She even began to find some of the Captain’s jokes, which consisted of quite terrible puns, extremely funny and began to laugh very hard, wiping her streaming eyes with her lace handkerchief.

“Why, I believe they are well suited,” said Lord Varleigh thoughtfully.

“Who?” said Jane impatiently. She did not like to be
interrupted when she was eating.

“Annabelle Quennell and her Captain.”

“Oh, I am glad your mind is at rest,” said Jane acidly and then murmured, “but I must find out the name of her dressmaker.”

But Lord Varleigh had caught the undertone. He raised his quizzing glass. “Yes, Miss Quennell has a very individual style and a good sense of color,” he remarked.

“Never mind her—have you heard the latest on-dit,” said Jane. “’Tis said, on Sunday two pairs of
turtle doves
took flight from Ingleton to Gretna Green; but by the nimble exertions of some
pouncing hawks
, the
cooing pair
were overtaken near Shap and very impolitely conducted back to their respective homes!”

“If you mean young Honeywood and the Clermont girl, then why not say so?” said Lord Varleigh in a bored voice. “I detest the sleazy innuendo of the scandal sheet.”

Lady Jane hunched a ruched, tucked, and embroidered velvet shoulder on him and began to talk loudly to a young man at the next table.

Lord Sylvester Varleigh found his gaze straying back to Annabelle. The girl was getting quite bosky and should not have been allowed on the Town with only Captain MacDonald as escort, affianced or not. But she had style, unusual in a girl unaccustomed to the intricate world of high fashion. Now Jane appeared most attractive in the bedchamber, after she had divested herself of her too elaborate toilette. He had a sudden vivid picture of Captain MacDonald and Annabelle in the bedchamber and shook his head to dispel the image.

Annabelle caught his glance in her direction, and the sudden look of distaste on his face, and sobered almost completely. She became aware that her face was flushed and that her hair was coming down at the back. The
Captain was interspersing his now very racy conversation with frequent demands for more punch. Annabelle remembered her godmother’s warning and tugged at the Captain’s braided sleeve. “Do you not think,” she queried timidly, “that you have had enough to drink?”

The Captain gave her an outraged look, and his friends stared at her with their mouths open. “Had enough to drink?” echoed Mr. Louch in a high penetrating voice which carried round the marquee.
“Had enough to drink
. Jimmy could drink that whole punch bowl and walk from here a sober man.”

Annabelle looked at the punch bowl in amazement. It was the size of a young bath, made of solid silver and embellished with various embarrassing scenes from the Greek myths such as the Rape of Iphigenia.

“Hey, Captain,” yelled an officer from the next table. “Lay you a monkey you couldn’t do it.”

“Done!” roared the Captain. He raced from the table and mounted to the buffet table by way of an empty chair, and before the cheering guests’ eyes, he plunged headfirst into the punch bowl so that only his glossy Hessians could be seen waving in the air. A small tidal wave of punch slopped over the side and straight onto Lady Jane’s lap. She began screaming and screaming while the guests roared and cheered. Lord Standish pushed his way through the crowd of the Captain’s admirers to try to pull that gentleman from the punch bowl while Lady Standish led the now weeping Lady Jane towards the house to find her a change of clothes.

“By Jove, Miss Quennell!” howled George Louch exuberantly. “You’re a lucky girl to have a man like that. What a capital gun!”

Am I too prim, thought Annabelle desperately? Why should I always feel so shocked and embarrassed? Everyone else seems to admire Captain MacDonald. Perhaps
I have not tried hard enough to understand him.

“It is time to go home, Miss Quennell.” At the sound of the familiar voice Annabelle looked up and saw Lord Varleigh beside her chair. His normally hard gray eyes were warm with sympathy. Without a word she put her hand on his arm and they walked towards the entrance to the marquee. Annabelle turned back briefly. The Captain was sitting in the middle of the table with pieces of cinnamon and lemon in his hair like some exotic headdress. He had started to roar out a bawdy song and was being frantically hushed by Lord Standish. Then the Captain looked to where Annabelle was standing with Lord Varleigh, and his eyes suddenly looked very sober and alert. “Heh!” he cried. “Heh!” But Lord Varleigh had firmly led Annabelle from the marquee.

“I am afraid it is an open carnage,” he said as they waited for the curricle to be brought round. “But I shall wrap you up in plenty of rugs.”

Annabelle did not relax until they had left the Standish mansion well behind. She dreaded the Captain coming in pursuit of her. Perhaps Lord Varleigh dreaded being pursued by Lady Jane. To her horror she realised she had voiced this thought aloud, and Lord Varleigh glanced away from the management of his team to look at his companion with a certain tinge of amusement. “No, my dear Miss Quennell,
I am
the pursuer, I assure you. I shall be meeting Lady Jane again this evening so she will be quite content to exist without my company until then.”

“Oh,” said Annabelle, wondering why she felt a pang of disappointment. After all, it was not as if she wanted Lord Varleigh for herself. Or was it?

With a start she noticed they were turning into the courtyard of a smart posting inn and, for a moment, wild thoughts of abduction and seduction flew through her brain.

“Do not be afraid,” said her companion, reading her mind with irritating ease. “I have just heard the noisy sounds of pursuit and feel sure you do not wish to meet your beloved in his present condition.”

She eyed him doubtfully as he swung her down from his curricle. But then she heard unmistakable roars and tantivies coming closer on the road outside.

She peeped round the shelter of the curricle in time to see a smart phaeton, driven by the Captain, streaming past at a tremendous rate. Mr. Louch and Major Wilks were crammed on either side of him and hanging onto their tall hats for dear life. A slice of lemon rolled into the courtyard of the inn. The gallant Captain had obviously not waited to change.

Annabelle felt strangely embarrassed when she found herself seated alone with Lord Varleigh over the tea tray. But he settled comfortably back in his chair, entertaining her with an easy flow of conversation until she relaxed.

At last he said, “You must forgive the impertinence of the question, Miss Quennell, but is your proposed marriage with Captain MacDonald an
arranged
one? There does not seem to be much regard on either side.”

“More tea?” queried Annabelle sweetly.

Lord Varleigh’s thin brows snapped together, and then he laughed. Of course the very correct Miss Quennell would not discuss her engagement. He also longed to ask her why she had worn such an outrageously indecent gown to the opera but felt sure she would simply give him another setdown.

But Annabelle had thought of a safe topic of conversation. Had Lord Varleigh received her note of thanks for the book he had sent her? Indeed he had. He was amused to learn it was the first novel she had read.

“Mama would
never
allow me to read a novel,” said Annabelle, “although she always insisted I was reading romances on the sly. Miss Austen’s book seems all that
is proper. Now the tales of the ancient Greeks are sometimes
very
scandalous, but Mama never objected to those.”

“Which translations did you read?” asked Lord Varleigh, noticing that Annabelle had an intriguing dimple in her cheek when she smiled.

“Oh, I read them in the original,” said Annabelle blithely, unaware of Lord Varleigh’s start of surprise. “Papa is a great scholar. I have been fortunate in my education. Oh, I had forgot. Godmother told me not to mention books in the presence of any member of the
haut ton
in case I was labelled a blue stocking.”

“There is no fear of that. You are too beautiful,” said Lord Varleigh simply and then cursed himself. His compliment had the effect of causing a closed, tight look on Annabelle’s face, and she began to look at the clock with obvious impatience.

“Come,” he teased. “I will take you home. But you must get in the way of receiving compliments, Miss Quennell. With your face and figure…” He allowed his eyes to roam insolently over her. To his surprise she did not blush or simper but stood looking at him with thinly veiled impatience.

“If you have finished taking your inventory, may I suggest we leave,” snapped Annabelle. “And may I also suggest, my lord, that you save your intimate glances for Lady Jane Cherle!”

T
HE
Dowager Marchioness was in a tearing fury, and the reason for her bad temper had not yet arrived home. She had sustained a visit from Captain MacDonald who had complained bitterly that Annabelle was causing no end of talk by leaving the breakfast with Lord Varleigh. The Captain was obviously “well to go” as he himself would have put it, and Lady Emmeline unfairly thought Annabelle had been encouraging him to drink, or at the
very least keeping insufficient control of him.

She promised the Captain she would deal with her goddaughter when Annabelle arrived home and sent him packing. She was fully recovered from her fright of the night before and felt the need to take some action. Calling for Horley, she informed that long-suffering lady’s maid that they were going out for a promenade and told her to take that look off her face and fetch the umbrella immediately.

For the hundredth time Lady Emmeline vowed to buy herself a new umbrella. Her old one was heavy and cumbersome but, for all that, seemed nigh indestructable. Heavy scarlet silk covered tough iron spokes and the umbrella felt as if it weighed a ton.

As she stood on her doorstep, several heavy spots of rain began to fall, driven by the rapidly increasing force of the wind, a fact that Horley pointed out with a sort of gloomy relish. But Lady Emmeline was determined to exercise. Exercise cleaned the liver and purged the bowels, she told Horley. She also remarked that Horley’s perpetual long face was due to the disorder of her spleen.

Feeling slightly refreshed after this lecture, Lady Emmeline unfurled her enormous umbrella and stepped briskly out onto the pavement … and straight into— What appeared to the terrified Horley—to be an absolute rain of bricks. Bricks fell from the heavens like the thunderbolts of Jove and smashed down on her ladyship’s doughty umbrella. The Dowager Marchioness was knocked to the ground by the weight of the bricks and fell screaming onto the pavement—unhurt, thanks to her umbrella—but terrified out of her wits.

It was at that moment that Annabelle arrived home, just in time to see the extraordinary sight of her godmother lying flat out on the pavement in a pile of bricks with her dress indecently hitched up, displaying her fat little calves bulging over a tight pair of glacé kid half
boots. Lord Varleigh helped the shaken lady to her feet, and Lady Emmeline’s wrath erupted.

“How dare you, sirrah,” she roared in Lord Varleigh’s surprised face. “My goddaughter is
affianced—affianced
d’ye hear?—to Captain MacDonald, and I will not have her traipsing around the countryside with a man who is little better than a
rake
.”

“Control yourself,” said Lord Varleigh coldly.

“And
you
” went on Lady Emmeline, rounding on Annabelle, “you ungrateful
baggage
. I bring you to London. I arrange a marriage for you with the finest young man…”

“That money can buy,” said Annabelle, nearly as furious as her godmother.

“Don’t be impertinent,” roared the Dowager Marchioness, oblivious of the gathering crowd of spectators. “If I have any more of your nonsense, you will be packed back to Yorkshire in disgrace and not one penny of my money will you see.”

“Your money cannot buy everything,” shouted Annabelle, pink with mortification.

“Quite right,” roared Lady Emmeline. “It can’t buy poverty.”

The avidly listening crowd cheered this sally, and Lady Emmeline’s wrath fled like the black clouds above.

“Well, well,” she said mildly. “Come into the house—you too, Varleigh. We should not be bandying words in public.”

Begrimed with brick dust and with her bonnet and red wig askew, Lady Emmeline led the way into the house.