Lady Anne 02 - Revenge of the Barbary Ghost, page 9
Darkefell, weary already of the crush, did his duty, chatting and listening, being introduced to more people than he would ever remember as he followed his host around the room. Colonel Withington was a Yorkshire man, and they were acquainted, though not closely so. He accompanied the colonel to meet his wife and daughter, then more of the officers. But all the while he had watched Anne dance, laugh, flirt, and then saw her go pensive as she watched St. James stroll away with a pretty young girl.
Was she jealous, then, of St. James’s regard?
Never one to delve into his own emotions or examine his feelings, he had wondered if he was just pursuing Anne because it was a novelty to be so roundly rejected. But no, in the moment when he saw her above, on the escarpment the night before, and with bullets flying, he had felt a visceral fear that she would be hurt. Like it or not, she had a protector and knight in tarnished armor. He cared for her deeply, and jealousy ripped into his gut at the thought that she was, perhaps, in unrequited love with St. James. If she rejected him forever, he would not easily forget her. He’d never met a lady like her, and didn’t expect to again.
When he finally was able to excuse himself from the colonel’s company, he made his way around the room, hoping to find Anne unaccompanied. The assembly room was built with a gallery above, from which the smoking, card and supper rooms could be reached. The gallery overhung the ballroom, a shadowed alcove along one side, and in the darkness many a young couple would retreat for a few moments of unrestrained courtship. But it puzzled him when he saw Miss Pamela St. James in those shadows, and with Mr. Puddicombe, the local excise officer he had seen in the taproom of the Barbary Ghost Inn.
She slipped away from the fellow in that moment, but the conversation had appeared intimate, secretive. And faintly threatening. Odd. He did not like to think any friend of Anne’s was in difficulty.
He found Anne and watched her from a distance. He remembered thinking her plain when first they met, and had criticized her protruding nose, her long face, and lips too full for fashion. But he couldn’t see it now. Why? Did not appearance remain the same, no matter what your relationship was? How was it that now, when he looked at her, he saw her sparkling gray eyes, and wanted only to press his lips to hers. Fear of losing her haunted him. The desire to carry her away as his own made him restless and fervently eager. Desire that she alone could satisfy had already invaded his nocturnal brain, leading to indecent dreams, and was beginning to infect his thoughts every time she was near.
He’d gone about everything all wrong, he feared. It seemed that it was his fate, when all around him young ladies were being offered to him for his delectation, that he wanted the one woman who seemed unimpressed by his eminence, and even less by his character. Perhaps that was part of her charm, for what thinking man could bear to be adored every minute of the day? Such empty adoration must eventually give way to dissatisfaction when his faults became apparent, but clear-sighted Anne had no illusions about him. If she could love him, it would be a steadfast, lasting love, that would carry them through their lives and into dotage.
Unable to bear watching Anne from afar, he was just about to go to her when a commotion broke out under the gallery. He looked back, fearing for Miss St. James, but it was her brother who was in trouble. A young fellow had him by the collar of his smart red coat, and was threatening him.
“Stay away from my Julia if you want to live, you oily bastard!”
“John!” a girl cried, pulling at the young man’s sleeve. Her tone was agonized, her pretty face twisted in anguish. “Leave the captain alone, please!”
The melee was stopped very quickly, as Colonel Withington pulled the young man away from St. James and hauled him off away by the scruff of his neck.
St. James, looking huffy, straightened his jacket as his fellow officers jeered at him.
Darkefell went on and finally, at long last, greeted Anne. She wore a blue-purpley colored gown of some fine fabric, and looked, in his estimation, head and shoulders above every other woman there. She greeted him kindly, but in his reflective frame of mind, he was perhaps quieter than usual. She gave him a puzzled look.
She was already promised for the supper dance, so, rather than be on the outskirts of her circle, only able to watch her while she was escorted by another man, he went to the smoking room, though it was a habit he had never acquired. One did not smoke because one wanted to, he knew, but because it was fashionable and social. Nonetheless, he did not smoke, but merely strolled, thinking.
He lingered along the periphery of the smoky oak-paneled room, watching, listening, wondering how long he should stay in Cornwall. It struck him that his best avenue to success with Anne might be to get to know those around her, and to that end, he strolled toward St. James’s group. As little as he liked the captain, he ought to learn all he could about his rival.
Captain Marcus St. James, his fair hair brushed back from his high forehead and heavily powdered, was regaling the other officers with a humorous story about the young man who had attacked him, a certain John Netherton, who was besotted with Miss Julia Lovell, but who could not court her as long as her family hoped St. James might come up to snuff. He ridiculed the pretensions of the young man, who was a simple barrister’s apprentice, with no hope of a proper income for a few years to come. Miss Lovell, on the other hand, was the daughter of a well-to-do brewer and had a sizable dowry, which St. James was eyeing with some musing as to whether it was worth the leg-lock to be able to sell his commission and live in leisure.
Then Darkefell heard Anne’s name raised, by one of the other officers. He drifted closer.
“She’s a very wealthy lady,” St. James said, casually, downing a brandy.
“Long beaked, though, eh, St. James? Plain as ditchwater, compared to the lovely little heiress, Miss Lovell.”
“That she is, lad,” St. James said, expansively, easing back in his chair and puffing on a cigar. “But I think I can get Anne to marry me. Her money’s many times the Lovell dowry, and will spend quite prettily. She’s a fine woman behind the beakiness and big mouth, though she’s awfully opinionated. Plain and plain-spoken!” That garnered a laugh from the drunkest of the officers. “Y’know,” St. James continued, “as plain as she is, still, I don’t have to see her to give her a poke in the dark and get her with child.”
More uproarious laughter greeted his cruel, crude wit.
A red tide of fury surged in Darkefell’s brain, and he shoved fellows aside. In one fluid motion he pulled St. James up by the collar and punched him, hard, sending the slimmer man flying across the room onto the floor.
“Hey there!” one of the captain’s friends said. “Not right, old man, to catch him unawares!”
“He’s aware now,” Darkefell said, waiting for St. James to right himself. “Let him come at me.” He cracked his bloodstained knuckles and waited, crouched.
“You poncy bastard,” St. James roared. He wiped the blood from his nose, removed his jacket, handing it to a friend, then put up his fists. “Now, I dare you!”
Deep in his gut Darkefell was gratified. He’d been wanting to do violence to St. James since the moment he met him, and now he had the invitation and ample reason. He launched himself at the other man with no hesitation, feeling flesh beneath his fists.
Anne, in the supper room, frowned at the noise coming from the men’s smoking room, next door. “What on earth is that?” she asked, about the roaring voices. Lolly, enjoying a splendid cream tea, with scones, clotted cream, honey, jam and all manners of lovely provender, merely shrugged her shoulders. Captain Carleton was off getting another plate of cakes for Lolly, but Anne couldn’t wait to find out, her curiosity piqued at the shouts, the sound of tumbling and the yelling.
She followed the surge of others out the door and along the gallery, pushed and shoved and doing her own share of pushing and shoving, and heard some young girls excitedly chattering about a fight. To her horror, she heard Darkefell’s name, and then St. James’s! She shouldered her way through and saw the two men wrestling on the floor, but it was soon clear that Darkefell was destined to be the victor. He pummeled St. James ferociously, and blood streamed from the slimmer man’s ears and nose, and a cut along his eye was dripping. His powdered hair was limp and hanging in his eyes, the powder soaking up blood and turning his blond hair red.
“Stop it! Stop it, Darkefell, this minute!” she shouted, scrambling forward and jerking the collar of his coat; miracle of miracles, the marquess stopped.
He got up off St. James. “Lady Anne,” he said, his tone formal, as he settled his shirt down on his brawny shoulders, and pulled his soiled cravat off. “I’m sorry you had to witness this, but—”
“Shut up!” Anne shouted, pushing past him. She knelt by St. James. “Marcus, are you all right?” she cried, then looked up at his military friends, who stood gawking. “Help him, some of you! Help him to the cloak room. And send for a doctor.”
She accompanied Marcus as he was carried down the stairs to a cloakroom. Behind her, she could hear some commotion break out, but didn’t spare even a look backward. In the cloakroom, as the physician bandaged his wounds and Anne bathed his cuts with a cold cloth, St. James looked up, chagrined.
“I had so hoped to be your hero, my dearest Anne,” he said, with a crooked grin. “Oh, that hurts even to smile!” He touched his chin, gingerly.
“What happened?”
He shook his head, his pale eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight, but then said, “Well, you will hear of it eventually, and it might as well be from me. I hate to say it but that bloody marquess insulted you, my dear, and I could not bear it.”
“What? Darkefell insulted me?” Anne felt a sickness deep in the pit of her stomach.
Marcus looked grim, his face shadowed in pain. “It’s true. I shouldn’t tell, but I won’t have you spoken of that way, not by anyone. He spoke lightly of your … your virtue, my dear. He was bragging about having kissed you repeatedly, and insinuated that you had gone, perhaps, further than was strictly to your credit. All that in front of the others!” He reached up and touched her cheek, gently.
Anne choked back a sob. She had been prepared for a misunderstanding, some kind of joke gone wrong, but this? Darkefell, telling what they had done, revealing their most private moments? She had told no one about the kisses they had shared, the intimate moments—no one but Pamela and Mary.
How could Darkefell have done something so dastardly? If it had not been that circumstance, if it had not been about those kisses, she would not have believed Darkefell would say anything. But she saw how it was. In his jealousy over St. James, he had probably wished to stake his claim to her, for kisses, in their world, were as good as promises. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that, and from him!”
“I wouldn’t have him speak of you that way, Anne, darling,” he said, catching her hand to his chest. “I’d rather die. I punched him, but he’s a madman. I’m sorry!”
“No, you did what you could. You defended my honor. I thank you for that. You are a true gentleman.”
Seven
Marcus’s military friends assured Anne that they would take care of the wounded captain, so Anne left the ball directly, unwilling to give the gossips fuel for their speculation. The evening had turned chilly, and Anne wound her Kashmir shawl around her, reflecting bitterly on the events of the evening. As Sanderson took her arm to hand her up into her carriage, where Lolly and Pamela already waited, Anne heard a voice call her name. Turning, she saw that it was Osei Boatin. She took one step away from the carriage.
He bowed, formally, but his expression, in the flickering lamplight outside of the regimental assembly hall, was one of troubled inquisitiveness. “And so you are leaving, and without a single word for Lord Darkefell, my lady?”
The lamplight flickered on his glasses, and she couldn’t see the expression in his dark eyes, but it didn’t matter. “I have nothing to say to him.”
“My lady, I feel you must have misunderstood the altercation between Captain St. James and Lord Darkefell.”
“I hardly think that is likely, Mr. Boatin, as I heard the truth of the quarrel from Captain St. James himself,” Anne said, her tone flinty. She liked the secretary, but understood that he had been sent by Darkefell to make up to Anne. There was nothing that could make up for exposing her so, and in such a place!
“What did the captain say? It is possible you misunderstood, or—”
“No, Mr. Boatin, I did not misunderstand. You’re loyal to your employer; that is admirable and understandable. But I will not stand by silently and accept that he has seen fit to expose our most … our intimate …” She broke off, shook her head, but then continued: “ … exposed some of our conversations to the world at large. It will not do!”
A breeze heightened the flames from the flambeaux that flanked the assembly hall entrance, and with the light from her carriage lamps, Anne could see Osei’s expression, conflicted and somewhat puzzled, but she dismissed it as his uncertainty over what to do to improve his employer’s position with her. She stepped up into the carriage and took a seat, but then let down the window and leaned out, saying, “Good evening, Mr. Boatin. I hope you enjoy your stay in Cornwall. But tell the marquess that he may as well go back to Yorkshire, for I don’t intend to see him again.” She rapped on the side of the carriage, and called, “Go, Sanderson!”
***
A sleepless night and a pounding headache left Anne feeling shaky the next morning. She had no appetite—unusual for her—but Lolly cajoled her into consuming a coddled egg and toast. Pamela, Mrs. Quintrell told them, had departed first thing on her way to St. Ives to visit her brother in the infirmary, leaving a message for Anne not to wait for her before deciding her schedule for the day.
Having eaten her egg and toast and drunk a cup of tea, Anne sat, gazing absently out at the cloudy day.
“Anne, dear,” Lolly said, tentatively, rearranging the flower vase on the table in the gloomy dining room.
Anne turned from the window at her quavering voice. “Yes?”
“May I ask you something?” She nervously smoothed her stomacher, the tatty satin embroidery and drooping ribbon bows the worse for age.
“Of course; what is it?” Anne replied.
“Could we go to St. Wyllow this afternoon and perhaps buy a leg of lamb? Ever since Mrs. Quintrell’s awful …” She broke off and glanced toward the door that let directly on to the kitchen, then continued in a whisper, sitting down by Anne and leaning toward her, “I shouldn’t really say it so bluntly, but that lamb, it was rather tough, and lamb should never be tough, my dear.” She shook her head sadly, making a sound between her teeth. “I have wanted for some time now to try my hand at a good roast lamb, with a sauce I have been working on.”
“You don’t need my permission,” Anne said, examining Lolly’s pale face, lines where she hadn’t noticed them before, her cheeks sagging and pouchy. “It’s Pamela’s home, and she’s already given permission to use the kitchen, and you may do whatever you want with your time, you know that. Mother is your employer, not I.”
Lolly’s cheeks turned pink at Anne’s forthright speech. She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap, both thumbs rubbing a piece of limp ribbon. “But … well, I do not like to ask, but lamb … a whole leg, my dear, would be costly, and …” She drifted off, and then shook her head. “No matter, my dear. I’m sure whatever Mrs. Quintrell wishes to make for dinner will be adequate.”
Finally Anne caught what Lolly was asking, in her roundabout way. She leaped to her feet and bent over, kissing her companion’s forehead. How had she been so blind, so intolerably self-involved? Her companion was tired, Anne could see that, and worried. It was the cost of the meat that concerned her, for Lolly had no money of her own for such a thing as a whole leg of lamb, and disliked asking for what she insisted on viewing as charity. Her pride was too tender an accessory for one so poor.
“I need something to do or I shall go mad,” Anne said. “I shall take Mary and Robbie into the village, order a good lamb quarter, and some other things. Have Mrs. Quintrell prepare a list, and I’ll take care of it. If I do it while Pamela is occupied, she cannot worry about my purchases. Though I’ve already ordered wine and coal, I’ve been trying to find a way to contribute more to the household budget without anyone squirming, and this is the perfect opportunity.”
Lolly sniffed, tears standing in her eyes. “You’re so good to me, my dear!”
“Nonsense!” Anne said, bracingly, with the uneasy feeling she was exactly the opposite. How long had poor Lolly been trying to work up the courage to ask for a joint of meat? “If you make us a good lamb supper then you are the one doing us a favor. What Mrs. Quintrell does to perfectly good food is a grave offense.”
It was a relief to walk to the village with Mary and Robbie, for they both kept up a swift pace, unlike Lolly, who could not, it seemed, walk and talk at the same time. And since she liked to talk a great deal, she walked excruciatingly slowly. Robbie was interested in everything, bright-eyed, inquisitive and fractious, like a puppy. Oddly, Irusan had decided to join them; he did that back home in Kent, when Anne went for a walk, but only seldom in other places. He kept pace alongside his mistress.
Her tasks in town were quickly accomplished. The butcher promised to send the lamb immediately, and Anne summoned Sanderson and informed him of the other items she had purchased. He would deliver them himself to Cliff House, carry them inside and consult with Lolly about their dispersal, as well as speaking to a coal merchant for her. Anne was free, then, to stroll around the village with her thoughts, as Mary went to a local barber for help with a toothache and Robbie stayed with Sanderson to help fetch and carry.
St. Wyllow was quiet, but the dreary emptiness suited Anne, as did the low ceiling of clouds overhead and distant rumbling of thunder, for she was in a meditative mood. Solitude was a rare treat away from Harecross Hall, for a young lady was expected to be accompanied everywhere, as if the world was a dangerous place. At that moment the only danger she was in, she thought, strolling the sloped high street with Irusan by her side, feeling the scudding wind tug at her bonnet, was from the wound to her heart. Darkefell must have wormed his way in deeper than she had expected, because his betrayal ached.
