light voice. “I gather from the gossips that your engagement to Captain MacDonald is shortly to be renewed.”
What a noisy bind that is, thought Annabelle, glaring at the unseen nightingale. “Perhaps I shall marry Captain MacDonald,” she said defiantly. “He is good company.”
“And is that all you feel for him?” persisted the now-mocking voice beside her. They had nearly reached the gates, and she turned and faced him. Her face seemed to swim below his in the evening light.
“My private life is my own affair, my lord,” she said coldly.
He took her hands in his and drew her towards him, his eyes glinting strangely in the dim twilight. A twig snapped near them and both turned and stared towards the gates. A dark figure slid off into the night.
“Who’s there?” called Lord Varleigh. He released Annabelle’s hands and ran to the gates. No one.
“Strange,” he murmured, returning to Annabelle. “Have any more strange things happened to Lady Emme-line while I have been away?”
Annabelle shook her head. “Not one. Godmother is convinced that she was the subject of some mad wager.”
“Possibly,” he said thoughtfully. “What do you think?”
Annabelle suddenly remembered Mad Meg’s strange warning and shivered. “I think it must be as she says,” she replied. “No one has tried to harm her since that party on Mr. Hullock’s boat.”
“And no one has tried to harm you either?” he teased. “No gentlemen kissing you over the champagne glasses?”
Annabelle glared at him like an angry kitten. “
No one
has had the
effrontery
, my lord.”
“Strange,” he said, “and you so kissable.”
“As is Lady Jane,” replied Annabelle, walking before him into the house.
“You are impertinent.”
“One impertinence deserves another,” said Annabelle tartly. “We are not chaperoned, my lord, so please leave the library door open.”
“On the contrary,” he said coldly, “I shall close it now—behind me when I leave. Servant, Miss Quennell.”
He made a magnificent leg, turned on his heel, and departed.
Annabelle ran to the window to watch him leave and then stayed for a long time on the terrace, listening to the sound of his horse’s hooves galloping off in the distance until she could hear them no more.
Chapter Eight
After several days Horley pronounced her ladyship fully recovered, and the Dowager Marchioness was moved to a daybed in the drawing room.
But Annabelle found her more eccentric than ever. She lay around in toilettes that would have shocked a demimondaine and sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, flirted and ogled with the shadows in the corners of the long room, vividly conjuring up, with every ancient coquettish gesture, the ghosts of the eighteenth century: the bright brocade dresses of the ladies, the embroidered coats of the gentlemen; the men with their faces polished and the ladies with theirs painted. The ladies wore their hair piled up over their heads, augmented with pads and the whole greased with pomatum and dusted with powder. The elaborate play of the gilded figures, scented handkerchiefs, simpering and giggling; gross brutality mixed with refinement.
The scent of musk and unwashed flesh floated round Lady Emmeline in a large yellow cloud. Annabelle’s tactful suggestion that Lady Emmeline would feel better after a bath was met with horror and upraised hands. All windows were tightly shut, and the early autumn evening blazed with color on the other side of the glass like some exquisite, unattainable picture.
Captain MacDonald had erupted onto the scene again, walking with Annabelle in the gardens or even sitting reading to Lady Emmeline. The latter was a heavy taskfor both reader and listener as every sentence of the story seemed to remind the Captain of something old so-and-so had said the other day, and off he would go into a long digression.
When the Captain was nervous or slightly bosky, there was a reckless strung-up quality to him
What a noisy bind that is, thought Annabelle, glaring at the unseen nightingale. “Perhaps I shall marry Captain MacDonald,” she said defiantly. “He is good company.”
“And is that all you feel for him?” persisted the now-mocking voice beside her. They had nearly reached the gates, and she turned and faced him. Her face seemed to swim below his in the evening light.
“My private life is my own affair, my lord,” she said coldly.
He took her hands in his and drew her towards him, his eyes glinting strangely in the dim twilight. A twig snapped near them and both turned and stared towards the gates. A dark figure slid off into the night.
“Who’s there?” called Lord Varleigh. He released Annabelle’s hands and ran to the gates. No one.
“Strange,” he murmured, returning to Annabelle. “Have any more strange things happened to Lady Emme-line while I have been away?”
Annabelle shook her head. “Not one. Godmother is convinced that she was the subject of some mad wager.”
“Possibly,” he said thoughtfully. “What do you think?”
Annabelle suddenly remembered Mad Meg’s strange warning and shivered. “I think it must be as she says,” she replied. “No one has tried to harm her since that party on Mr. Hullock’s boat.”
“And no one has tried to harm you either?” he teased. “No gentlemen kissing you over the champagne glasses?”
Annabelle glared at him like an angry kitten. “
No one
has had the
effrontery
, my lord.”
“Strange,” he said, “and you so kissable.”
“As is Lady Jane,” replied Annabelle, walking before him into the house.
“You are impertinent.”
“One impertinence deserves another,” said Annabelle tartly. “We are not chaperoned, my lord, so please leave the library door open.”
“On the contrary,” he said coldly, “I shall close it now—behind me when I leave. Servant, Miss Quennell.”
He made a magnificent leg, turned on his heel, and departed.
Annabelle ran to the window to watch him leave and then stayed for a long time on the terrace, listening to the sound of his horse’s hooves galloping off in the distance until she could hear them no more.
Chapter Eight
After several days Horley pronounced her ladyship fully recovered, and the Dowager Marchioness was moved to a daybed in the drawing room.
But Annabelle found her more eccentric than ever. She lay around in toilettes that would have shocked a demimondaine and sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, flirted and ogled with the shadows in the corners of the long room, vividly conjuring up, with every ancient coquettish gesture, the ghosts of the eighteenth century: the bright brocade dresses of the ladies, the embroidered coats of the gentlemen; the men with their faces polished and the ladies with theirs painted. The ladies wore their hair piled up over their heads, augmented with pads and the whole greased with pomatum and dusted with powder. The elaborate play of the gilded figures, scented handkerchiefs, simpering and giggling; gross brutality mixed with refinement.
The scent of musk and unwashed flesh floated round Lady Emmeline in a large yellow cloud. Annabelle’s tactful suggestion that Lady Emmeline would feel better after a bath was met with horror and upraised hands. All windows were tightly shut, and the early autumn evening blazed with color on the other side of the glass like some exquisite, unattainable picture.
Captain MacDonald had erupted onto the scene again, walking with Annabelle in the gardens or even sitting reading to Lady Emmeline. The latter was a heavy taskfor both reader and listener as every sentence of the story seemed to remind the Captain of something old so-and-so had said the other day, and off he would go into a long digression.
When the Captain was nervous or slightly bosky, there was a reckless strung-up quality to him
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