Annabelle by MC Beaton

south. There was a library, a long gallery, two studies, and a suite of entertaining rooms. It was the most charming house Annabelle had ever seen. The doors were panelled with mirrors, the sofas and chairs were covered with apple-green damask, the drawing room was crimson and gold, and the long gallery and the library were green. Peacocks strutted on the terrace during the day, and nightingales sang their serenades in the garden after dark.
    Annabelle felt sure that her frivolous godmother would be delighted with her bedroom when she recovered from her illness and could see it. It was in blue and gold with blue damask hangings and a large Mal-maison bed.
    The library was Annabelle’s favorite, a great sunlit room filled with the scent of woodsmoke, potpourri and calf bindings, brimming with buhl and ormolu, pier glass and statues as well as delightful sofa tables from Gillow’s fashionable warehouse, Sévres china, and singing clocks.
    The house belonged to a shady relative of the Count-ess’s who had fled to France after some scandal. Whatever the relative’s wrongdoing, Annabelle had to admit that he had excellent taste.
    Society did not journey out to Kensington to visit the old lady or her beautiful goddaughter, and even the Captain only left his floral tributes at the lodge house at the gate. It was feared Lady Emmeline’s fever was contagious.
    Annabelle found that she did not mind the long hours of nursing. Horley, the maid, was surprisingly helpful, burying her animosity towards the girl so long as her mistress needed help.
    Day after day the Dowager Marchioness tossed and turned and rambled in her delirium, and each day the doctor came and prophesied the worst.
    Annabelle had never been so alone in her life. The servants were so well trained they were almost invisible.
    When Horley relieved her at the sickbed, she would escape to the calm of the library to sit dreaming over a book or to simply stare out at the peace and quiet of the garden. Although they were very near London, they could have been miles away. Annabelle prayed that some of the peace of their surroundings would penetrate to poor Lady Emmeline’s fevered brain. She had stopped the physician from bleeding the old lady any further, fearing that Lady Emmeline would become too weak to battle the fever.
    One evening she returned to the sickroom and found Horley kneeling beside the bed, the tears streaming down her sallow cheeks. “She’s gone, miss,” sobbed Horley. “Just like that!”
    Annabelle crossed slowly to the great bed and stood looking down at the waxen figure. She had never seen death before but despite Lady Emmeline’s graveyard pallor, felt sure she was not seeing it now. She seized a looking glass from the dressing table and held it before the Dowager Marchioness’s mouth. Nothing.
    And then the glass began to mist. Annabelle felt the old lady’s brow. It was cool and damp.
    She took a deep breath. “God be praised, Horley,” she said. “My lady is not dead. The fever has abated and she sleeps.”
    Horley got briskly to her feet. Drying her tears withthe hem of her apron, she looked at Annabelle with all the old dislike. “Then I shall watch by her bedside until she wakes,” she said briskly. “There will be no need for your services this night, Miss Annabelle.” Then she bobbed a curtsy and added reluctantly, “Not that I’m not grateful for all your help.”
    Annabelle hesitated a minute beside the bedside. But Lady Emmeline did indeed seem to be in the depths of a refreshing sleep. She left Horley to her charge and returned to the library.
    The tall figure of a man was standing over by the long windows looking out across the garden. He turned as she entered the room and made a magnificent leg.
    Annabelle responded with a deep curtsy. “So you are returned from Paris, my Lord Varleigh,” she said in a carefully calm social tone. “You have no doubt not yet heard that Lady Emmeline has been sick of the fever.”
    “I