Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 25
Lowering herself to the chair beside the vanity table, Philippa stared at Annabelle with an ashen face. Annabelle had waited until they were safely enclosed in the privacy of their room before she had told Philippa the disastrous news. It seemed to take her mother a full minute to assimilate the information that the man whom she detested and feared most was a guest at Stony Cross Park. Annabelle had half expected her mother to dissolve into tears, but Philippa surprised her by tilting her head to the side and staring into the shadowy corner of the room with an odd, weary smile. It was a smile that Annabelle had never seen on her face before, a whimsical bitterness that indicated there was never any use in trying to improve one’s situation, as fate would invariably have its way.
“Shall we leave Stony Cross Park?” Annabelle murmured. “We can go back to London immediately.”
The question hovered in the air for what seemed to be minutes. When Philippa responded, she sounded dazed and contemplative. “If we did that, there would be no hope at all of your marrying. No…our only choice is to see this through. We are going to walk with Lord Kendall tomorrow morning—I won’t allow Hodgeham to ruin your chances with him.”
“He will be a constant source of trouble,” Annabelle said quietly. “If we don’t go back to town, it will turn into a nightmare here.”
Philippa turned toward her then, still smiling in that discomforting way. “My dear, if you don’t find someone to marry, then when we return to London, the real nightmare will begin.”
CHAPTER 8
Bedeviled by worry, Annabelle slept for a total of two, perhaps three hours. When she awoke in the morning, her eyes were shadowed, and her face was pale and weary. “Hell’s bells,” she muttered, soaking a cloth in cold water and pressing it to her face. “This will not do. I look a hundred years old this morning.”
“What did you say, dear?” came her mother’s sleepy query. Philippa was standing behind her, dressed in a worn robe and threadbare slippers.
“Nothing, Mama. I was talking to myself.” Annabelle scrubbed her face roughly to bring some color to her cheeks. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Coming beside Annabelle, Philippa regarded her closely. “You do look a bit tired. I’ll send for some tea.”
“Send for a large pot,” Annabelle said. Peering closely at her red-veined eyes in the looking glass, she added, “Two pots.”
Philippa smiled sympathetically. “What shall we wear for our walk with Lord Kendall?”
Annabelle wrung out the cloth before draping it on the washstand. “Our older gowns, I think, as it may be rather muddy on some of the forest paths. But we can cover them with the new silk shawls from Lillian and Daisy.”
After downing a cup of steaming tea and taking a few hasty bites of cold toast that a maid had brought from downstairs, Annabelle finished dressing. She studied herself critically in the looking glass. The blue silk shawl knotted over her bodice did much to conceal the worn bodice of the biscuit-colored gown beneath. And her new bonnet, also from the Bowmans, was wonderfully flattering, its periwinkle-shaded lining bringing out the blue of her eyes.
Yawning widely, Annabelle went with Philippa to the back terrace of the manor. The hour was early enough that most of the guests at Stony Cross Park were still abed. Only a few gentlemen who were bent on trout fishing had troubled themselves to arise. A small group of men ate breakfast at the outside tables, while servants awaited nearby with rods and creel baskets. The peaceful scene was undercut with an annoying clamor that was most unexpected for this hour.
“Dear heaven,” she heard her mother exclaim. Following her appalled gaze, Annabelle looked toward the other end of the terrace, which had been overrun by a cacophony of frantically chattering, squealing, laughing, aggressively posturing girls. They were surrounding something that remained unseen in the middle of the tightly packed congregation. “What are they all here for?” Philippa asked in bewilderment.
Annabelle sighed and said resignedly, “An early-morning hunt, I suspect.”
Philippa’s jaw sagged as she stared at the clamorous group. “You don’t mean to say…do you think that poor Lord Kendall is caught up in the midst of that?”
Annabelle nodded. “And from the looks of things, there won’t be much left of him when they’re finished.”
“But…but he arranged to go walking with you,” Philippa protested. “Only you, with me as the chaperone.”
As a few of the girls noticed Annabelle standing on the other side of the terrace, they crowded more tightly around their prey, as if to shield him from their view. Annabelle shook her head slightly. Either Kendall had foolishly told someone of their plans, or else the marriage frenzy had reached such a pitch that he could not venture out of his room without attracting a mob of women, no matter what the hour.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Philippa urged. “Go and join the group, and try to attract his attention.”
Annabelle gave her a doubtful glance. “Some of those girls look feral. I should hate to get bitten.”
Distracted by a muffled laugh from nearby, she turned toward the sound. As she might have expected, Simon Hunt was lounging at the terrace balcony, a china cup nearly engulfed in his broad hand as he leisurely drank coffee. He was dressed in rugged garments similar to those of the other fishermen, made of tweed and rough twill, with a worn linen shirt left open at the throat. The mocking gleam in his eyes made no secret of his interest in the situation.
“Shall we leave Stony Cross Park?” Annabelle murmured. “We can go back to London immediately.”
The question hovered in the air for what seemed to be minutes. When Philippa responded, she sounded dazed and contemplative. “If we did that, there would be no hope at all of your marrying. No…our only choice is to see this through. We are going to walk with Lord Kendall tomorrow morning—I won’t allow Hodgeham to ruin your chances with him.”
“He will be a constant source of trouble,” Annabelle said quietly. “If we don’t go back to town, it will turn into a nightmare here.”
Philippa turned toward her then, still smiling in that discomforting way. “My dear, if you don’t find someone to marry, then when we return to London, the real nightmare will begin.”
CHAPTER 8
Bedeviled by worry, Annabelle slept for a total of two, perhaps three hours. When she awoke in the morning, her eyes were shadowed, and her face was pale and weary. “Hell’s bells,” she muttered, soaking a cloth in cold water and pressing it to her face. “This will not do. I look a hundred years old this morning.”
“What did you say, dear?” came her mother’s sleepy query. Philippa was standing behind her, dressed in a worn robe and threadbare slippers.
“Nothing, Mama. I was talking to myself.” Annabelle scrubbed her face roughly to bring some color to her cheeks. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Coming beside Annabelle, Philippa regarded her closely. “You do look a bit tired. I’ll send for some tea.”
“Send for a large pot,” Annabelle said. Peering closely at her red-veined eyes in the looking glass, she added, “Two pots.”
Philippa smiled sympathetically. “What shall we wear for our walk with Lord Kendall?”
Annabelle wrung out the cloth before draping it on the washstand. “Our older gowns, I think, as it may be rather muddy on some of the forest paths. But we can cover them with the new silk shawls from Lillian and Daisy.”
After downing a cup of steaming tea and taking a few hasty bites of cold toast that a maid had brought from downstairs, Annabelle finished dressing. She studied herself critically in the looking glass. The blue silk shawl knotted over her bodice did much to conceal the worn bodice of the biscuit-colored gown beneath. And her new bonnet, also from the Bowmans, was wonderfully flattering, its periwinkle-shaded lining bringing out the blue of her eyes.
Yawning widely, Annabelle went with Philippa to the back terrace of the manor. The hour was early enough that most of the guests at Stony Cross Park were still abed. Only a few gentlemen who were bent on trout fishing had troubled themselves to arise. A small group of men ate breakfast at the outside tables, while servants awaited nearby with rods and creel baskets. The peaceful scene was undercut with an annoying clamor that was most unexpected for this hour.
“Dear heaven,” she heard her mother exclaim. Following her appalled gaze, Annabelle looked toward the other end of the terrace, which had been overrun by a cacophony of frantically chattering, squealing, laughing, aggressively posturing girls. They were surrounding something that remained unseen in the middle of the tightly packed congregation. “What are they all here for?” Philippa asked in bewilderment.
Annabelle sighed and said resignedly, “An early-morning hunt, I suspect.”
Philippa’s jaw sagged as she stared at the clamorous group. “You don’t mean to say…do you think that poor Lord Kendall is caught up in the midst of that?”
Annabelle nodded. “And from the looks of things, there won’t be much left of him when they’re finished.”
“But…but he arranged to go walking with you,” Philippa protested. “Only you, with me as the chaperone.”
As a few of the girls noticed Annabelle standing on the other side of the terrace, they crowded more tightly around their prey, as if to shield him from their view. Annabelle shook her head slightly. Either Kendall had foolishly told someone of their plans, or else the marriage frenzy had reached such a pitch that he could not venture out of his room without attracting a mob of women, no matter what the hour.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Philippa urged. “Go and join the group, and try to attract his attention.”
Annabelle gave her a doubtful glance. “Some of those girls look feral. I should hate to get bitten.”
Distracted by a muffled laugh from nearby, she turned toward the sound. As she might have expected, Simon Hunt was lounging at the terrace balcony, a china cup nearly engulfed in his broad hand as he leisurely drank coffee. He was dressed in rugged garments similar to those of the other fishermen, made of tweed and rough twill, with a worn linen shirt left open at the throat. The mocking gleam in his eyes made no secret of his interest in the situation.
