“Lord Hodgeham,” Annabelle said stiffly, swallowing against the shame and fury that had lumped in her throat. Hodgeham was one of the few people in the world whom she genuinely hated. A so-called friend of her late father’s, Hodgeham paid infrequent calls to the household, but never at regular visiting hours. He came late at night, and against all dictates of decorum, he spent time alone in a private room with Annabelle’s mother, Philippa. And in the days after his visits, Annabelle could hardly fail to notice that some of their most pressing bills had been mysteriously paid, and some irate creditor or another had been appeased. And Philippa was uncustomarily brittle and irritable, and disinclined to talk.
It was nearly impossible for Annabelle to believe that her mother, who had always shrunk from impropriety, would allow anyone the use of her body in return for money. Yet it was the only reasonable conclusion to draw, and it filled Annabelle with helpless shame and rage. Her anger was not directed solely at her mother— she was also furious at their situation, and herself for not yet having been able to land a husband. It had taken a long time for Annabelle to realize that, no matter how pretty and charming she was, and no matter how much interest a gentleman displayed, she was not going to get an offer. At least not a respectable one.
Since her come-out, Annabelle had gradually been forced to accept that her dreams of some handsome, cultivated suitor who would fall in love with her and make all her problems go away was a naive fantasy. That disillusionment had sunk in deeply during the prolonged disappointment that was her third season. And now in her fourth season, the unappealing image of Annabelle-the-farmer’s-wife was alarmingly close to reality.
Stone-faced, Annabelle attempted to walk past Hodgeham in silence. He stopped her with a meaty hand on her arm. Annabelle jerked back with such antipathy that the force of the movement nearly caused her to lose her balance. “Don’t touch me,” she said, glaring into his florid face.
Hodgeham’s eyes appeared very blue against the ruddiness of his complexion. Grinning, he rested his hand on the top of the banister, preventing Annabelle from ascending to the landing. “So inhospitable,” he murmured, in the incongruous tenor voice that so many tall men seemed to be afflicted with. “After the favors I have done for your family—”
“You’ve done no favors for us,” Annabelle said tersely.
“You would have been cast into the streets long ago if not for my generosity.”
“Are you suggesting that I should be grateful?” Annabelle asked, her tone saturated with loathing. “You’re a filthy scavenger.”
“I’ve taken nothing that wasn’t willingly offered to me.” Hodgeham reached out and touched her chin, the damp brush of his fingers making her recoil in disgust. “In truth, it’s been tame sport. Your mother is too docile for my taste.” He leaned closer, until the odor of his body—stale sweat liberally overlaid with cologne—filled Annabelle’s nostrils with a pungent stench. “Perhaps the next time I’ll try you out,” he murmured.
No doubt he expected Annabelle to cry, or blush, or plead. Instead, she leveled a cold stare at him. “You vain old fool,” she said evenly, “if I were to become someone’s mistress, don’t you think I could get someone better than you?”
Hodgeham eventually twisted his lips into a smile though Annabelle was pleased to see that it had taken some effort. “It’s unwise to make an enemy of me. With a few well-placed words, I could ruin your family beyond all hope of redemption.” He stared at the frayed fabric of her bodice and smiled contemptuously. “If I were you, I shouldn’t be quite so disdainful, standing there in rags and paste jewels.”
Annabelle flushed and knocked his hand away angrily as he reached out in an attempt to grope her bodice. Chuckling to himself, Hodgeham descended the stairs, while Annabelle waited in frozen silence. After she had heard the sound of the front door open and close, she hastened downstairs and turned the key in the lock. Breathing hard from anxiety and lingering outrage, she flattened her palms on the heavy oak door and leaned her forehead against one of the panels.
“That does it,” she mumbled aloud, trembling with fury. No more Hodgeham, no more unpaid bills…they had all suffered enough. She would have to find someone to marry immediately—she would find the best prospect she could at the Hampshire hunting party and finally be done with it. And failing that…
She slid her hands slowly along the door panel, her palms leaving streaking imprints on the grainy wood. If she couldn’t get someone to marry her, she could become some man’s mistress. Athough no one seemed to want her as a wife, there seemed to be an infinite number of gentlemen willing to keep her in sin. If she was clever, she could earn a fortune. But she flinched at the thought of never again being able to go out in good society…being scorned and ostracized and valued only for her skills in bed. The alternative, living in virtuous poverty and taking in sewing or washing, or becoming a governess, was infinitely more perilous—a young woman in that position would be at everyone’s mercy. And the pay wouldn’t be enough to sustain her mother, or Jeremy, who would also have to go in service. It didn’t seem that the three of them could afford Annabelle’s morality. They lived in a house of cards…and the merest agitation would cause it to collapse.
The following morning, Annabelle sat at the breakfast table with a porcelain cup clasped in her icy fingers. Although she had just finished her tea, the ceramic was still warm from the sturdy brew. There was a tiny chip in the glaze, and she rubbed the pad of her thumb over it repeatedly, not looking up as she heard her mother, Philippa, enter the room.
“Tea?” she asked in a careful monotone, and heard Philippa’s murmured assent. Pouring another cup from the pot before her, Annabelle sweetened it with a small lump of sugar and lightened it with a liberal splash of milk.
“I don’t take it with sugar any longer,” Philippa said. “I’ve come to prefer it without.”
The day when her mother stopped liking sweets was the day they began serving ice water in hell. “We can still afford sugar for your tea,” Annabelle replied, stirring the cup with a few brisk swirls of her spoon. Glancing upward, she slid the cup and saucer to Philippa’s place at the table. As she had expected, her mother looked sullen and haggard, with shame writhing behind her bitter facade. Once she would have found it inconceivable that her dashing, high-spirited mother—always so much prettier than anyone else’s mother—could have worn such an expression. And as she stared at Philippa’s taut face, Annabelle realized that her own facade was very nearly as world-weary, her mouth holding the same edge of disenchantment.
“How was the ball?” Philippa asked, holding her face close to her own tea so that the steam wafted over her face.
“The usual disaster,” Annabelle said, softening the honesty of her reply with a deliberately light laugh. “The only man who asked me to dance was Mr. Hunt.”
“Dear heaven,” Philippa murmured, and drank a scalding mouthful of tea. “Did you accept him?”
“Of course not. There would be no purpose to it. When he looks at me, it is clear that he has anything but marriage in mind.”
“Even men such as Mr. Hunt do eventually marry,” Philippa countered, glancing up from her porcelain cup. “And you would be an ideal wife for him…you could perhaps be a softening influence, and help to ease his way into decent society—”
“Good Lord, Mama—it sounds as if you are encouraging me to accept his attentions.”
“No…” Philippa picked up her spoon and needlessly stirred her tea. “Not if you truly find Mr. Hunt objectionable. However, if you could manage to bring him to scratch, we would all certainly be well provided for…”
“He is not the marrying kind, Mama. Everyone knows it. No matter what I did, I could never get a respectable offer from him.” Annabelle dug through the sugar bowl with a tiny pair of tarnished silver tongs, searching for the smallest lump she could find. Extracting a morsel of raw brown sugar, she dropped it into her cup and drowned it with fresh tea.
Philippa drank her tea, her gaze carefully averted as she jumped to a new thread of conversation that Annabelle perceived had a disagreeable connection to the last. “We haven’t the means to keep Jeremy in school for his next term. I haven’t paid the servants in two months. There are bills—”
“Yes, I know all of that,” Annabelle said, flushing slightly with a swift burn of annoyance. “I’ll find a husband, Mama. Very soon.” Somehow she forced a shallow smile to her face. “How do you feel about a jaunt to Hampshire? Now that the season is coming to a close, many people will be leaving London in search of new amusements—in particular, a hunt given by Lord Westcliff at his country estate.”
Philippa glanced at her with new alertness. “I wasn’t aware that we had received an invitation from the earl.”
“We haven’t,” Annabelle replied. “Yet. But we will…and I have a feeling that good things await us in Hampshire, Mama.”
CHAPTER 4
Two days before Annabelle and her mother left for Hampshire, a towering stack of boxes and parcels arrived. It took the footman three trips to convey them from the entrance hall to Annabelle’s room upstairs, where he piled them in a mountain beside the bed. Unwrapping them carefully, Annabelle discovered at least a half dozen gowns that had never been worn…taffeta silks and muslins in rich colors, and matching jackets lined in butter-soft chamois, and a ball gown made of heavy ivory silk with spills of delicate Belgium lace at the bodice and sleeves. There were also gloves, shawls, scarves, and hats, of such quality and beauty that they nearly made Annabelle want to weep. The gowns and accessories must have cost a fortune— undoubtedly nothing to the Bowman girls, but to Annabelle, the gift was overwhelming.
Picking up the note that had been delivered along with the parcels, she broke the wax seal and read the decisively scrawled lines.
From your fairy godmothers, otherwise known as Lillian and Daisy. Here’s to a successful hunt in Hampshire.
P.S. You’re not going to lose your nerve, are you?
She wrote back:
Dear Fairy Godmothers,
Nerve is the only thing I’ve got left. Thank you endlessly for the gowns. I am in ecstasy at finally being able to wear pretty clothes again. It is one of my many failings, to love beautiful things so dearly.
Your devoted Annabelle
P.S. Am returning the shoes, however, as they are far too small. And I’d always heard that American girls had large feet!
Dear Annabelle,
Is it a failing to love beautiful things? That must be an English notion, as we are certain that it has never occurred to anyone in Manhattanville. Just for that remark about feet, we’re going to make you play Rounders with us in Hampshire. You will love whacking balls with sticks. There is nothing quite so satisfying.
Dear Lillian and Daisy,
I will consent to Rounders only if you can persuade Evie to join in, which I highly doubt. And though I won’t know until I’ve tried it, I can think of lots of things more satisfying than whacking balls with sticks. Finding a husband comes to mind…
By the way, what does one wear to play Rounders? A walking costume?
Dear Annabelle,
We play in our knickers, of course. One can’t run properly in skirts.
Dear Lillian and Daisy,
The word “knickers” is unfamiliar to me. Can you possibly be referring to undergarments? Surely you are not suggesting that we shall romp about outdoors in our drawers like savage children…?
Dear Annabelle,
The word is derived from “Knickerbockers”—a level of New York society from which we are ritually excluded. In America, “drawers” belong inside a piece of furniture. And Evie says yes.
Dear Evie,
I did not trust my eyes when the Bowman sisters wrote to inform me that you have agreed to play Rounders in knickers. Have you really said so? I am hoping that you will deny it, as I had made my acceptance contingent upon yours.
Dear Annabelle,
It is my belief that this association with the Bowmans will help to cure me of my shyness. Rounders-in-knickers seems just the way to begin. Have I shocked you? I’ve never shocked anyone before, not even myself! I do hope that you are impressed by my willingness to jump into the spirit of things.
Dear Evie,
Impressed, amused, and somewhat apprehensive about what scrapes these Bowmans will land us in. Where, pray tell, are we to find a place where we may play Rounders-in-knickers unobserved? Yes, I am thoroughly shocked, you shameless hussy.
Dear Annabelle,
I am coming to believe that there are two kinds of people…those who choose to be masters of their own fate and those who wait in chairs while others dance. I would rather be one of the former than the latter. As to how and when Rounders game shall take place, I am satisfied to leave such details to the Bowmans.
With all fondness,Evie the hussy
During the flurry of these and other playful notes that were sent back and forth, Annabelle began to experience something she had forgotten long ago…the delight of having friends. As her past friends had moved into the hallowed existence of married couples, she had been left behind. Her wallflower status, not to mention her lack of money, had created a chasm that friendship could not seem to bridge. In the past few years she had come to be increasingly self-reliant, and had even made efforts to avoid the company of the girls with whom she had once talked and giggled and shared secrets.
However, in one fell swoop she had acquired three friends with whom she had something in common, despite their radically different backgrounds. They were all young women with hopes and dreams and fears…each of them entirely familiar with the sight of a gentleman’s polished black shoes walking by their row of chairs in search of more promising quarry. The wallflowers had nothing to lose by helping each other, and everything to gain.
“Annabelle,” came her mother’s voice from the doorway, as she carefully packed the boxes of new gloves into a valise, “I have a question, and you must answer it honestly.”
“I am always honest with you, Mama,” Annabelle replied, looking up from her task. Guilt swept over her as she beheld Philippa’s lovely, careworn face. Dear God, she was tired of Philippa’s guilt, and her own. She felt pity and despair for the sacrifice that her mother had made in sleeping with Lord Hodgeham. And yet, in the back of Annabelle’s mind, the unseemly thought occurred to her that if Philippa had chosen to do such a thing, why couldn’t she have at least set herself up properly as a real mistress instead of settling for the petty little wads of cash that Lord Hodgeham gave her?