“I’m not!” Annabelle said defiantly. “I don’t miss herat all, in spite of what Aunt Agatha said.” Then, defiance crumbling, she started to cry. Christa guided her to a brocade chair and produced an embroidered handkerchief. Luckily it was one of the first things she had located earlier.
Annabelle sobbed for several minutes before coming up for air. “I have wanted to say that for so long, but there has been no one to talk to. It would not have been fair to Jonathan to discuss it with him, and my Aunt Agatha would have been appalled at my lack of filial respect, even though she and my mother couldn’t abide each other.” She twisted her handkerchief and looked up pleadingly. “Do you think I am appalling?”
Christa considered a moment before answering. Her love for her own mother was as natural and unquestioned as the spring rain, but such was not always the case. “I do not think a childowesa parent love. It must be earned, like any other love. Not all parents are worthy.” She looked at Annabelle’s soft blue eyes and gentle face, then went on, “You look to me like a girl who wants to give love. It is a great tragedy if you have had no one willing to receive it.”
“Youdounderstand!” Annabelle smiled with relief. “But I don’t wish to make a Cheltenham tragedy of it. I have been lucky in my brothers. Jonathan and I are closer than if we had had kinder parents. I always miss him dreadfully when he’s at school. And Alex has been so good. We didn’t get many letters, of course, because he was so much at sea, but it was exciting when they arrived—like a window on a different world.
“Sometimes he would send presents. Always the most wonderful things—Spanish lace, Arabian jewelry, porcelain all the way from China.... Once he even sent a monkey— it was the drollest creature! The lieutenant who delivered it said that the next time he saw Alex he was going to launch him from a cannon for extracting the promise to deliver the beast to Jon and me.”
“He sounds a very thoughtful brother,” Christa said encouragingly. “Do you still have the monkey?”
Annabelle’s amusement vanished as quickly as it had come. “It got into my mother’s wardrobe and ruined a dress. She had one of the footmen wring its neck.”
Christa was appalled. What could one say in response to such a story? Instead she asked quietly, “How did your mother die?”
“In a carriage accident. She was with one of her lovers.” Annabelle tried to appear blasé, but her eyes would not meet those of her maid.
Christa considered retreating to a servant-like discretion but decided it was far too late for that. Besides, she had the feeling that this extraordinary conversation was a much-needed release for her new mistress, a release that would enable Annabelle to start looking forward rather than back.
“You need not live your life as your mother did.”
“I could not if I tried,” Annabelle replied with brittle nonchalance. “She was beautiful. Men would forgive her anything.”
“And women?”
“She did not care what women thought.”
“A woman who could not care for other women—she sounds much to be pitied,” Christa said seriously.
Annabelle looked startled at that. “In what way?” she asked curiously.
“To be unable to care for other women is to be unable to love oneself. Did she seem a happy woman?”
“I never really thought about it,” Annabelle said in surprise. “No, I don’t think she was happy. In fact, I know she was not. She was always complaining. Nothing was ever right. She would be a little happy when she had a new lover, but that would quickly pass.”
“You see? You are not like her. You may suffer because you care, but that means you have also the capacity for happiness. Have you not known joy?”
“Why, yes . . . yes, I have. There have been times when I thought no one on earth could be so fortunate or happy as I.” Annabelle smiled at Christa shyly. “You have given me a great deal to think on.”
“That is quite enough seriousness for one day,” Christa proclaimed. “One does not hire a French maid because one wishes gravity. It is my job to make you as delectable as one of Monsieur Sabine’s pastries. We have four months before your come out to do the job.” Cocking her head to one side, she inspected her mistress. “Four weeks would be enough, and only that long to give themodistetime to create your wardrobe.”
Annabelle almost bounced in her chair. “Do you really think it is possible? I rather like the idea of having men fight for my favors.”
Christa waved her hand grandly. “After you are presented in the autumn, St. James’s Square will be carpeted with men begging you to walk on them. I, Christine . . . Bohnet, promise it!” She was so carried away with her rhetoric that she had almost used her own rolling name and title. She must be more careful. With this trusting girl treating her more like a friend than a servant, it would be all too easy to forget her role.
No, not her role. Her station in life. She must always remember that.
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Christa opened it to find Alex. A most delightful man to find on the threshold, she decided. Those amber eyes were a very unusual shade, warm but mischievous at the same time. Or was it the lurking twinkle that was so appealing?
“Good morning, Christa. Is my sister receiving visitors?”
Annabelle jumped up and ran to give him a hug. Christa found herself envious; she would enjoy having unlimited license to hug such a man. Her body shivered deliciously as it recalled the strength of his grasp the previous day. She firmly repressed the memory; many a maid had been lost after thinking such thoughts.
“Of course! Please come in. Christa has been telling me how she is going to make me beautiful.” Annabelle smiled teasingly. “I think that it may beveryexpensive.”
Alex entered and straddled one of the chairs, his arms crossed casually on top of the delicate back. It was a totally un-navy-like posture, and it felt good. He studied the two young women for a moment before speaking. His sister was clearly the beauty of the two, with a lovely dreaming face and great sweetness of expression, yet it was Christa who drew the eye. The French girl had a vividness about her that made every other woman he had ever known seem only half-alive by contrast.
“I’ve been thinking, Annabelle. Shall we go to the Orchard soon? The town will be thin of company by the time we’re out of mourning, and I have a desire to see the family seat.”
