Alex shuddered. “Once is enough, thank you!” He squeezed Christa’s shoulder in token of the thanks she wouldn’t accept, then watched as she helped his sister into the bedchamber. Through his fatigue, he felt a passionate gratitude that the French girl had entered their lives.
Chapter 14
Annabelle slept most of the day through, awakening in late afternoon. She was confused when her eyes first opened, and it took some moments to recall the events of the previous night. Then it came back to her—Edward’s lies, her own stupidity—and she started sobbing. At the first sounds, Christa entered and came to the side of her bed.
“How are you feeling, Miss Annabelle?”
“I wish I were dead.” Her voice was flat and despairing.
Christa patted her hand. “Very likely, but you will feel less like that after you have eaten.” She left the room in spite of Annabelle’s protest that the mere thought of food sickened her, returning a few minutes later with a tray that Monsieur Sabine had prepared especially to tempt an invalid’s appetite.
Annabelle’s unromantic stomach responded to the delectable scent of the clear soup, hot bread, and crème caramel, and she managed to eat a few bites before fretfully pushing the food away. Christa said when she came to remove the tray, “Everyone thinks you have a streaming cold. If you wish to rest for a while, no one will comment.”
“Thank you.” Annabelle laid back again and pulled the covers over her head. The idea of not seeing anyone was very appealing.
Over the next week, Kingsley House was flooded with flowers and messages expressing the hope that Annabelle would soon be restored to health. Christa arranged the flowers and read aloud some of the shorter messages. Others made her purse her lips and decide they were best left until her mistress was stronger.
Annabelle lay unmoving most of each day, eating a little but saying almost nothing. At night Christa could hear the wretched sobs from her mistress’s room and feared that soon the girl would be truly ill.
The turning point came a week after the foiled elopement. Christa came into the darkened room to find that Annabelle had read all of the notes, and she was crying hysterically.
“People know! Two women wrote notes making sly comments about how Sir Edward has left town, and how odd it is not to see me in the park with him, and . . . and . . .” She disintegrated into tears.
Deciding that enough was, in this case, far too much, Christa marched over to the windows and pulled the draperies open. Late afternoon sunshine flooded into the room.
“Close them! I can’t bear the light,” Annabelle sobbed.
“It is more than time we had some light in here.” Christa’s voice was biting.
Annabelle raised her head in confusion, her eyes red and swollen, her hair lank. Her abigail was standing in the sunshine, her chin up and her eyes a chilly gray.
“Yes, I know your heart is broken. Yes, you were a fool. But there are worse things than being a fool for love, and it is time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself.
“After all, you have escaped the consequences of your folly. Can you imagine how much worse things would be if your brother had not rescued you, if you had actuallymarriedthat cod’s head? You would have been miserable as long as you both lived. There may be a few sly innuendos from the cats of your acquaintance, but there would have been such comments in any case. No one knows that there was an elopement, and when you start to go out again the whole matter will be forgotten.”
Annabelle was shaking. “I can never face anyone again!”
“Five days from now is your ball, and you are going to walk down there and dance and flirt as if you have never had a care in your life.” Christa’s voice was implacable.
“I can’t!” Annabelle wailed.
Christa exploded, her eyes flashing gray fire. “Sacrebleu!If you have no pride in yourself, have some for your name! If you disappear from society, the aimless gossip around your name will catch fire in earnest. In spite of what he told that fribble, your brother will fight for your honor. Do you want to be responsible for the consequences?”
She paused to let that idea sink in before continuing, “Have you thought, even once, about what you have done to Lord Kingsley? He has done everything he could to make you happy. He trusted you, and you rewarded him for his trust by running away with a scoundrel. He rescued you from your own folly, laid no word of blame, and now you won’t even talk to him! Have you considered how that must make him feel?
“Have you even noticed that your brother has an injury in his side that seems to pain him constantly, and which is worse this last week? Have you thought aboutanythingbut your own selfishness and hurt pride? Even that fool of a baronet is in worse case than you! He is facing ruin while you have no worse injury than your wounded amour propre.”
The words continued to pour out in an angry torrent. “Almost everyone in London has worse problems than yours! Women are selling their bodies, gin-soaked parents beat their children, men are hanged for stealing loaves of bread, yet the Honorable Annabelle Kingsley can afford to lie here in pampered comfort, whimpering like a kicked puppy!”
As Annabelle stared white-faced, Christa threw her hands up. “Go ahead, discharge me! I have no desire to continue in the employ of such a poor-spirited excuse for a woman.”
Christa stalked across the chamber to her own small room and slammed the door. Picking up her portmanteau, she started throwing things into it. If she stopped being angry, she would want to cry, and on the whole, she preferred to be angry.
There was no way that Annabelle was going to forgive that kind of outburst from a servant. Yes, the girl was suffering, but she had certainly brought it on herself. What really devastated Christa was seeing the hurt in Alex’s eyes every day when he asked about his sister, and she refused to see him. Christa sensed that Lord Kingsley blamed himself for everything—his sister’s unhappy childhood, her elopement, her present misery. He moved more slowly now, the exuberant energy that was so characteristic of him dimmed.
Christa angrily dashed the tears from her eyes and started folding her linen into the case. The sooner she got away from this house, the better. She loved both Alex and Annabelle, but she had neither the position nor the power to comfort either of them, and watching their misery was tearing her apart.
After Christa had stormed out of the room, Annabelle lifted herself from the bed and crossed shakily to the window, pulling a wrapper around her. As she stared out, blind to the splendor of St. James’s Square, her maid’s words pounded in her head.Have you thought about what you have done to Lord Kingsley? Almost everyone in London has problems worse than yours. A poor-spirited excuse for a woman. A poor-spirited excuse for a woman.
