Annabelle, The American Page 7

  Annie tapped a finger on the sill. “It sounds a little odd, but that actually makes me believe it. Who would ever make up such a story?”

  “That was what I thought, why I wanted you to hear Lucille’s story,” Annabelle spoke out. “What she didn’t tell you is that some man saw her sketching in the park and offered to pay her for the drawing. She didn’t need the money, of course, but thought that if the cartoon was published, it might bring us together—which it did.”

  “And I am glad it did.” Annie walked over from the window and sat beside Annabelle on the settee, taking her hand. “I certainly do not regret our friendship.”

  “That still doesn’t answer about Elizabeth,” Linnette said, shaking her skirts out.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Annie answered. “But, tell me, why do we really suspect Elizabeth? I know that she had some motivation for the cartoon of you and James. But why would she draw the other ones? Does she even draw?”

  There was silence. The women looked back and forth, nobody having any answers.

  “Have any of you just asked her if she is responsible? And I do mean asked, not accused,” Lucille asked, her voice very quiet.

  More silence.

  “I’ll do it.” It was Annie who spoke. “There hasn’t been a cartoon about me and that gives me less stake in the matter. I can be impartial.”

  “I can be impartial,” Linnette said. The other ladies just looked at her and finally she shrugged. “Well, perhaps not. But if she isn’t responsible, then I owe her a rather large apology.”

  Lucille turned and faced her. “For jumping in the lake and letting everyone think she pushed you?”

  “I was afraid you had seen,” Linnette answered. “Yes,” she turned to address the other women. “I jumped. Elizabeth did not push me. And I have felt guilty about it ever since. Even if it was a clever way to show that I was not hiding an expectant belly under my dress.”

  For a moment the ladies chatted on about Elizabeth and Linnette and the older cartoons and Annabelle allowed herself to lean her head back and close her eyes for just a moment. Sleep had not been granted much time last night and she was paying for it now—and given her confrontation with Thomas, it seemed unlikely there would be much more sleep this evening.

  “—what does Thomas say?”

  Annabelle’s head jerked forward as the question penetrated. She opened her eyes to answer at Kathryn. It felt like she’d spent the last days trying to find words that would make the world make sense.

  This time she was saved. Before she could even answer, the porter tapped on the door.

  “Excuse me, my lady. You have a visitor.” There was something in her porter’s tone she had never heard before.

  “A visitor?”

  “Yes, my lady. The Duke of Stonebridge requests a chance to speak. He requested the marquess, but will speak to you instead.”

  Requests? Her father-in-law never requested anything. Perhaps she had not been saved after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Everyone stood as Stonebridge entered the room. The duke was dressed simply, if impeccably, in a morning coat and gray trousers. Despite the simplicity of his dress, he gave the impression of being in the full-powdered wig and knee breeches with heels of a couple decades before. Annabelle had never been able to understand how he did it. Was it something in the pulled-back shoulders? Or perhaps something in his unforgiving gaze? Whatever it was she always had to resist the urge to curtsy again and again throughout their meetings. On the solitary occasion that she’d met the king, she had not felt so intimidated as she did when in the presence of the duke—and he was family.

  “It is so gracious of you to call,” Annabelle said, stepping toward him.

  “Of course,” he answered. “I can think of no more lovely way to spend an afternoon than with my son’s dear wife.”

  So he’d seen the cartoon as well and was now determined to put a good face on the whole situation. What other reason would he have for calling on her now, after all these months, and pretending that things were normal between them?

  “May I send for some refreshments?” she asked politely.

  “Tea—with lemon, no milk or sugar—and chocolate biscuits, the crisp ones, nothing chewy. And no raisins. I detest raisins. I can smell them if they are even in the room.” That was certainly specific. The only thing surprising was that he hadn’t just assumed she would know what he liked.

  “Ladies?” She turned to her friends.

  “No, I am afraid we must be going.” Linnette rose and made a brief nod to the duke. “Do give my best to your wife.”

  “Certainly.” He did not even bother to look at her as he spoke.

  Annabelle wanted to cry for them not to abandon her to Stonebridge. The last thing she wanted was to be forced to entertain the duke alone.

  “We will see you tomorrow, Annabelle,” Annie assured her as they left. “We will arrange to get together with Elizabeth.”

  Kathryn stood, looked at her as if trying to send comforting thoughts, and then followed Annie and Linnette to the door.

  And then only Lucille was left—and that only for a moment. It took one stern glare from the duke and she was gone as well.

  “Won’t you be seated?” Annabelle had never understood proper precedence with the duke and at this moment she did not care. “I assume you have something to tell me or you would not have allowed the ladies to leave, much less encouraged them to do so.”

  “I am not their keeper. I have no right to allow them to do anything.” His words said one thing. His voice another. “I had hoped to see my son, your husband, but you will do.”

  Annabelle raised an eyebrow in the best imitation of Thomas she could manage. “Well, what do you wish? I thought at first that you merely wished to show the world that we are a united family, but I can see that there is more to your visit.”

  The duke glanced about the room and chose an armchair that put his back to the sun, leaving Annabelle to face directly into it.

  She looked at him, looked at the chair facing him and then, with a mighty heave, moved her chair so that it was angled to the side. She could not avoid the sun altogether, but she would not play his game.

  The duke nodded with what almost looked like approval. “I may have underestimated you, child.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?” If anyone had described this situation to Annabelle, she would have assumed that she’d squirm before the duke and feel her lack of power. Instead the opposite was true. She didn’t know if it was her anger with Thomas and the whole situation, but she was in no mood to let anyone push her about.

  “You can take it however you wish. You are correct. I did come about more than demonstrating my support for my heir—although that is an added benefit.”

  Her back remained a perfect four inches from the back of the chair, her head balanced straight atop her neck, an invisible string pulling her up. She would not give the duke any reason to fault her. “And why then did you come?”

  The duke’s lips pursed. He did not like being questioned. “I came because it is time to put an end to all this nonsense. I am tired of my son avoiding me. I should perhaps have come earlier. I was not pleased with the initial drawing of you and the other ladies, and I have grown less pleased with each one. I have come to tell you that it will stop now.”

  Looking at him with some confusion, she asked, “And you think I have the power to stop them? That I had anything to do with their printing?” She held back the guilt she felt at Lucille’s part in it all.

  “No, of course not. I know you do not have that type of power.” He glanced at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “But I do.”

  Perhaps she had taken leave of her senses. It would not be surprising given the events of the last couple days. “I am not sure I understand. I would imagine that both the Duke of Doveshire and the Duke of Harrington have tried. I cannot imagine that either one is pleased by the publicity.”

  “Harrington
could probably manage something if he chose to—but he has been so mindlessly besotted with his duchess these last weeks that it seems to have slipped his mind. And Doveshire is too new at the game. I doubt he would even know where to begin to unravel this mess.”

  Annabelle was not so sure. Both men seemed more than capable of taking care of their own. She would not have wanted to cross either one. “And you believe you are different?”

  The duke’s shoulders went back and his eyes narrowed. “I do not believe I am different. I know I am different. My word is as close to law as makes no difference. By nightfall there will not be a window in the city that will risk displaying this filth.” He pulled the cartoon of Thomas and his other family from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

  Wishing something did not make it so and Annabelle was by no means convinced that the duke was right. He could probably keep the cartoon from windows in most of the respectable areas of the city, but trying to suppress something only made it more interesting. Maids and footmen from all the best addresses would probably be sneaking off to dark corners to see if there were any new cartoons. Gossip always seemed to grow on its own.

  “If you say so,” was all she said.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, girl. You have not lived here long enough to understand how it all works. I often do not even need to speak the words to have them obeyed—look at your reception here, in Town.”

  Why the arrogant old fool . . . And then the second part of what he’d said hit. “What do you mean, ‘my reception’?”

  “Do you think it chance that you have received so few important invitations?”

  “I imagined Thomas was merely not interested in attending.” She kept her voice calm.

  “Is that really what you thought? I promise it is a little more complicated than that.”

  Annabelle swallowed, some of her worst fears coming true. “You asked people not to invite me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then?”

  He sighed, as if explaining something to a small child. “I only let it be known that I was not pleased with Thomas’s choice of a wife. There were several promising choices that I was ready to present to him. You were fine when he was not my heir—I even understood his desire for your father’s fortune, and the freedom it would grant him. But once his brother died . . .” The duke paused and for a moment she almost thought she saw pain. “Once his brother died, he should have returned here and found a more suitable bride.”

  “We were engaged.”

  “And would you not have cried off if he had asked?”

  What woman wouldn’t? What woman would have so little pride as to pursue a man who did not want her? “I offered—without being asked.”

  “And my noble son refused. The boy is loyal to a fault. He never has been able to see sense.”

  Annabelle could never have imagined calling Thomas a boy, but she held her tongue. It would be pointless to take insult when the duke clearly felt he was merely recounting fact.

  They stared at each other for a moment, taking each other’s measure.

  The duke spoke again. “I am ready for us to move forward. You may not be the wife I would have chosen, but that does not matter now. The deed is done and it is time that we reconcile.”

  “I was not aware that there was a problem—despite your blackballing me.”

  “I would hardly call it that.”

  Staring across at him she did not reply.

  “It does not matter anymore anyway. It is time for us to be family. The duchess and I will be giving a small dinner with dancing tomorrow. You and my son will attend. I will also have the other ladies from the cartoon, your friends, there. It will show those who count that you are under my care and not to be trifled with.”

  “You think you can just say that I will attend and I will?”

  The duke stood and walked toward the door. “Yes.”

  Damn. He was probably right. If Thomas was willing, they’d certainly attend. There wasn’t really a way not to.

  Blast. This meant she’d have to talk to Thomas and she wasn’t quite sure that she was ready.

  “And . . .” the duke paused at the door, clearly not needing to acknowledge that he was taking his farewell, “you can tell my son he can bring the girl. I still am not pleased, but I recognize when it is time to bend.”

  The girl?

  What girl?

  The one from the cartoon?

  Surely not.

  His father was out. Thomas studied the carefully appointed parlor and considered. His father never went out. He always expected the world to come to him. Only the king had the power to demand his presence. Perhaps that was where he was. With the coronation less than a month away the whole city seemed to be filled with planning and fittings. His father must be consulting on some detail of the coming spectacle. It was unbelievable what was being planned—a raised platform for the whole length of the procession. The king would have his wish and put even Napoleon’s coronation to shame.

  Damnation, he did not need this now. Margaret’s revelations of the afternoon had thrown him quite enough, although at least he had reconciled her to his telling Annabelle the truth—or most of it.

  Thomas looked about the room again, considering whether he should wait. If his father was with the king, it could take hours. But Thomas also needed the duke’s help. Sitting beside the empty hearth, he looked up at the picture of his older brother that still hung there. How he missed John. It had been many years since he’d last seen his brother and now he would never see him again. Even the time that had passed since John’s death had not dulled the pain—or the guilt. He should have come home more often, despite the difficulties travel presented.

  “I heard you were here,” the soft voice came from the doorway.

  “Mother, I was not aware you had risen or I would have paid my respects.” Thomas rose from his chair and went to kiss his mother on each cheek.

  “If you’d bother to visit more, you’d know my habits have changed. My old bones don’t like to lie abed too long.” There was no mistaking the gentle chide in her tone.

  He stepped back and led her to a chair. “I am sorry. You know I meant you no disrespect.”

  “Perhaps not, but you failed to show the proper affection.”

  His mother was always direct. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed the same quality in Annabelle. “Do you really wish to discuss this now?”

  “I think perhaps we should. You are here. I would imagine that your father is having the same conversation with your wife about now.”

  He could only hope he was not as pale as he suddenly felt. “Father—is with Annabelle? But . . .” He didn’t even know what else to say.

  “Yes. Perhaps you should take a seat as well. I do believe your father has gone to apologize—or at least as close to an apology as he is able.”

  Thomas sank into the chair across from her. “I am not sure I understand.”

  “Your father blames himself for this mess with the cartoons. He does not believe anybody would have dared if he had made it clear that you both—that she was under his protection and held his deep affection.”

  “Instead of making it clear that she was not.” It was his turn to be blunt.

  The duchess did not correct him. “That does not matter now. He has gone to tell your wife that we will be hosting a small affair tomorrow evening and that the two of you shall attend.”

  He did not even bother to argue. “My wife’s name is Annabelle.”

  “I know.” The duchess folded her hands upon her lap. “And it is time I became more familiar with her. I am sorry not to have been warmer. I did not wish to cross your father.”

  “There was no reason for him to act as he has. We are married. Annabelle will be the mother of my heir. He needs to accept that.”

  “And I think he has—finally. The moment he felt she was attacked he jumped to her defense. He just needed a little push.”

  Thomas stared down a
t his own hands.

  “Oh, don’t look like that. You know that he has still not gotten over your first marriage. How did you expect him to handle you being disobedient for a second time?”

  “By accepting that I am an adult—and his heir—and that he should treat me as such.”

  “Your father is used to being obeyed.”

  “That is no excuse. Annabelle deserves better. Mary deserved better.”

  “And perhaps he would have come around if she had lived.”

  Thomas shut his eyes against the fury that still filled him when he thought of Mary’s death. “And perhaps she would have lived if she’d had proper care. He sent me on some foolish errand and I returned to find her being prepared for the grave.”

  “He never intended that. You do know that. And we did not know that you had already wed. He did arrange for care of both the girls.”

  “His grandchildren. You make it sound like he deserves praise that he did not let his grandchildren starve. And you know the price he demanded.”

  The duchess stood and walked over to him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “But you still didn’t do what he wished. You did not marry Lady Judith.”

  “No, I left home promising never to return until I was ready to be sensible—and in return he kept my children fed and cared for. If I had been half a man, I’d have taken them with me and never returned—ever.”

  “Now you are sounding like a child, a spiteful one. Your father acted to the best of his abilities. He not only fed them, but had them schooled and trained. He even found Margaret a position as a governess, not an easy thing at her young age. It is not his fault that Margaret fell in love. And it is not his fault that the young man died before they could be wed.”

  “But it is his fault that I was not here to care for her. If I had been here, it would not have happened.”

  Laughter filled the room, laughter with only a touch of irony. “Being close to your children does not mean that they will do what you wish—or that you can protect them. You only have to look at yourself to know that. You were a child when you met Mary and little more than that when Margaret was born. Your father and I could certainly not control your behavior.”