"Who is she?
"
she asked under her breath.
"Mrs. Snow,
"
whispered Henrietta, and turned away to examine a counter displaying leather gloves and slippers.
Mrs. Snow turned her back on the Rosedale party. In a clear carrying voice, she addressed the sales clerk. "As usual, Mary, charge these to the account of Sir Charles Jocelyn of Rosedale
by Lewes.
"
At Annabelle
'
s back, Henrietta gasped. Bertie, wise in an instant to what was going on, went to her side and had her soon ushered from the shop. Annabelle stood rooted to the spot studying the brazen hussy who dared broadcast to all and sundry that she was her brother-in-law
'
s fancy piece. The lady turned full-face toward her, and Annabelle could scarcely believe what she saw. They might easily have been taken for sisters, though to be sure, Mrs. Snow
'
s garments were more showy, and she used a heavier hand with her rouge and blacking. Only the hair, or what could be seen of it from beneath the brim of a high poke bonnet garishly decorated with yards of ribbon, was of a different hue. Annabelle
'
s was the color of dark treacle. Mrs. Snow
'
s was bright henna.
Unabashed, Mrs. Snow returned stare for stare.
Finally coming to herself, Annabelle said, "I shouldn
'
t take the pelisse, if I were you. You
'
ll only have to return it.
"
"What makes you say so?
"
asked the lady, adopting Annabelle
'
s haughty air.
Annabelle was too angry to attend the interested stares of the several other "ladies
"
in the shop. In normal circumstances, she would have given the likes of Mrs. Snow a wide berth. But she took to herself not only the deliberate affront which had just been offered to Henrietta, but also the fact that Mrs. Snow
'
s resemblance to herself was uncanny. In that moment, Annabelle
'
s antipathy to red hair was converted into immutable loathing.
She advanced a step upon her look-alike and said heedlessly, and far from truthfully, "Sir Charles doesn
'
t have two pennies to rub together. It
'
s his wife
'
s father who controls the purse strings. And frankly, I can
'
t see him laying out his blunt for his son-in-law
'
s doxy. My advice to you is to start looking for another protector.
"
Hot color suffused Mrs. Snow
'
s cheeks. Her hands clenched in fury. Ignoring the titters, Annabelle spun on her heel and stormed out.
Nuncheon at the Old Ship scarcely improved the ladies
'
spirits after this unpleasant confrontation. The return trip to Rosedale was made in almost complete silence.
As Annabelle took her place at dinner that evening, her eyes searched Henrietta
'
s face. As if aware of Annabelle
'
s unspoken question, her sister-in-law returned a reassuring, albeit shaky smile. Annabelle thereupon turned her attention to Colonel Ransome and Bertie, on the opposite side of the table. They were engaged in their usual one-sided conversation. Surely the man must have deduced by now from his companion
'
s stilted responses that Bertie did not wish to pursue the acquaintance. Some gentlemen were too obtuse for their own good, decided Annabelle.
Some moments later, a feminine trill of laughter, an uninhibited sound, startled Annabelle from her reverie. It couldn
'
t be, she thought
…
but it was. Henrietta was laughing, and Dalmar was laughing with her. Annabelle could not remember when she had last heard her sister-in-law laugh so freely. Arrested, she stared at the two dark heads bent close together in an intimacy which excluded the rest of the company.
Her eyes flew to Sir Charles, and another shock awaited her. She observed that his sensibilities were ruffled by the spectacle of his wife flirting with another gentleman.
In other circumstances, Annabelle would have been happy to see her brother-in-law shaken out of his insufferable complacency. But all she could think was that in this long disastrous holiday in the country, Dalmar seemed eager to flirt with every other lady but herself. Was she so unattractive?
Unconsciously, Annabelle stretched her long neck as if to erase an invisible double chin. She turned to Lord Temple on her left and made some innocuous comment on the weather, always a safe subject, in her experience.
Before he could reply, the uncommonly strident tones of Sir Charles cut into every conversation.
"Henrietta, my dear, do share the joke.
"
His face was slashed in a false smile. "Lord Dalmar must be in fine form indeed to wrest such unbridled laughter from a lady
'
s lips.
"
Had Sir Charles always been such a stuffed shirt? wondered Annabelle. Wasn
'
t a lady considered a lady if she gave way to genuine mirth? Evidently not, for the rebuke in Sir Charles
'
s voice was unmistakable.
It was the Earl who took it upon himself to respond. Totally relaxed, smiling, he said, "Beg pardon, Sir Charles. You would only be bored by our conversation.
"
"I insist.
"
Like watching a tennis match at Hampton Court, thought Annabelle, suppressing a nervous giggle, all heads swiveled to view first one end of the table, then the other. The ball was in Dalmar
'
s court.
"Very well,
"
he said easily. "Your dear lady was under the impression, false, I assure you, that we veterans who served with Wellington in the peninsular campaign amused ourselves very much as we do at present.
"
To the curious looks which were directed toward him, he said by way of explanation, "Lady Jocelyn puts too much stock in the tales she has heard of the balls and other amusements we enjoyed in Spain.
"
Stiffening up, Sir Charles pinned his wife with a piercing glare. "I lost a brother on the peninsula,
"
he said, "and Annabelle lost a husband.
"
Henrietta colored. Annabelle stared. She could not believe that a husband whose infidelity was common knowledge could address his wife in such callous terms.
"A fine officer,
"
interposed Colonel Ransome, "and a bruising rider to hounds, as I remember.
"
"You had hounds in Spain when you were fighting the French?
"
asked Annabelle incredulously.
"The hounds belonged to the Duke,
"
replied Ransome. "He had them sent out from England. It was a welcome diversion when time hung heavily on our hands.
"
"I
'
m sure,
"
murmured Annabelle ironically. She was remembering the other diversion which had occupied her husband in Spain when time hung heavily on his hands.
The soup was served, and Annabelle tooled her silver spoon through the thick, creamy liquid, hearing little of the banter which went on around her. She was thinking that more than half the gentlemen at the table had served with the British Army abroad. They were the lucky ones. For the most part they
'
d come back in one piece. She had been widowed. Poor Edgar, she thought, and was suddenly very glad that he
'
d had a son to leave behind after he was gone.
When she came to herself, she found that the tone of the conversation had changed. The military men had taken over, much to the delight of the ladies, and were outdoing themselves in relating outrageous tales of their exploits, none of them believable.
"He was a regular tear-away!
"
she heard Ransome explain to the company in general.
"Who was?
"
asked Annabelle in an aside to Lord Temple. There was no answer. She glanced at him curiously, noting the stiff back and the rigid way he held his soup spoon. "Can I get you something?
"
she asked softly. She
'
d often seen him like this before, and surmised that he was in pain.
He sent her a quelling frown, and Annabelle was instantly contrite. Lord Temple hated fuss of any description, and would not thank her for drawing attention to his war wound.
Lady Diana
'
s girlish voice broke into her thoughts. "The man ought to have been court-martialed,
"
she exclaimed. "Either that or locked up in Bedlam.
"
"Who are we talking about?
"
This time, Annabelle directed her question to the gentleman on her right, John Falconer.
"Major Hamish Crawford,
"
he answered.
The name had a familiar ring to it, though Annabelle could not immediately place the gentleman.
"Oh, he was too successful to be court-martialed,
"
answered Dalmar. "The Duke might deplore the risks he ran, but Crawford knew his job. He led the best reconnaissance unit in the army. The French put a price on his head, so that says something for the man
'
s ability. It
'
s true that his outfit was decimated every other time they moved out, but Crawford never asked his men to do anything he wasn
'
t prepared to do himself.
"
"I think the Duke should have recommended him for a medal,
"
interjected Miss Adam, one of Lady Diana
'
s younger friends.
"What ever happened to him?
"
The question was met with deadening silence. Several of the gentlemen were seen to exchange uneasy glances. It was Lord Temple who brought speculation to an end.
"An assassin
'
s knife found him. In Brussels, wasn
'
t it?
"
He
looked a question across the table at Colonel Ransome. "On the eve of Waterloo? His throat was slit.
"
Several ladies gasped. Then a babble of questions were hurled at Lord Temple and Colonel Ransome. But the gentlemen, becoming aware of the unseemliness of this turn in the conversation, refused to be drawn further.
It was only later, as she undressed for bed, that Annabelle remembered where she had come across the name before. Major Hamish Crawford was a minor character in Monique Dupres
'
s diaries. More than that, Annabelle could not recall. It gave her the spur to continue with the task she had already embarked upon. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that she would continue with the diaries early the next morning.
Chapter Fifteen
I
n the year of our Lord, 1815, Guy Fawkes
'
Day happened to fall on the Sabbath. The failure in 1605 of what was known as "The Gunpowder Plot
"
to blow up the Houses of Parliament in the reign of James I was observed throughout Great Britain with varying degrees of enthusiasm. In Lewes, the population marked the anniversary of this celebrated non-event with almost frenetic revelry.
The day started, predictably, with morning services in the old parish church of St. Michael
'
s. The rector delivered the sermon, ostensibly an attack on those revolutionary agents of the devil who were the perpetrators of every malaise, imaginary or otherwise, which had affected the country since the failure of their plot to blow up the
crème
de la
crème
of the English aristocracy.
With the exception of a few blue-blooded zealots, no one put any stock in the rector
'
s words. As everyone knew, he was following a time-honored tradition, and similar sermons were being preached at that very moment from every pulpit in the land. After a lapse of over two hundred years, however, the religious quarrel between Catholics and Protestants seemed very far distant. The old guard knew it. But the Jacobite Rebellions of the last century and the revolutions which had overthrown their counterparts first in America and then in France were too recent to be viewed with anything resembling equanimity. Times were hard, at least among the general population. It seemed politic to use every means at their
disposal to persuade the hoi polloi that revolution in Britain would not only increase their misery but would also contravene divine law. Hence this annual diatribe against Catholicism on a national holiday which had been prescribed by king and parliament in 1605, had degenerated into nothing more than political rhetoric supporting the status quo.
Of everyone in the congregation that morning, some few were conscious of the unintentional irony in the rector
'
s message. Dalmar was one of them. As the vituperation continued unabated, he was seen to exchange a meaningful glance with his friend Colonel Ransome. Both were military men and avid students of history.
As they well knew, Lewes
'
s main claim to distinction lay in the celebrated battle which bore the town
'
s name. In the thirteenth century, rebels under the leadership of Simon de Montfort had roundly defeated the armies of their king. Of more recent vintage, skirmishes between loyal royalists and rebellious roundheads had been fought in the very streets of Lewes. And irony of ironies, Thomas Paine, whose writings had fanned the flames of the American Revolution, had himself resided for a number of years in Bell House on the High Street. Dalmar
'
s glance traveled the crush of worshipers and he wondered idly what thoughts they entertained behind their stoic demeanors.
Behind those sober faces, truth to tell, their thoughts were lively and for the most part dwelled on the pleasures which awaited with the advent of darkness. Guy Fawkes
'
Night in Lewes had become an excuse for general merriment, if not for a license verging on debauchery. That it had become the practice to turn the occasion into something more resembling a masquerade was held by some to be responsible for this shameful turn of events. For who would be able to point the finger when his neighbor donned a disguise and hid his identity behind a mask?
The rector
'
s voice droned on. Young maids dreamed of stolen kisses from well-breeched lordlings. Untutored farm lads contemplated the delights of a tumble in the hay with some obliging tavern wench. Sober husbands entertained thoughts of carousing all night long with boon companions. Respectable
wives plotted to clip the wings of their straying menfolk. And Annabelle wondered where she would find a pistol to complete the costume she had devised for herself.
She had decided to dress up as a highwayman. Inspiration played little part in her decision. Annabelle was a practical lady. Once before, she had made the mistake of costuming herself as the Empress Josephine. She had discovered that muslin and bare shoulders were not suitable for alfresco parties in November, even supposing the whole was covered by a warm woolen pellisse which was removed only when a torch was set to the great bonfire. As she remembered, though her front had been toasty warm from the fierce blaze, her backside had damn near petrified.
She was to congratulate herself on her
foresight later that evening. W
ith the setting of the sun, the breeze which buffeted the small country town of Lewes, wafting in from the Downs, had developed a distinct bite. She pulled her voluminous green mantle more securely about her. Only the children and young people seemed immune to the vagaries of the English climate. And Lady Diana, thought Annabelle with a stab of annoyance
…
well, she had done her duty. She had warned Lady Diana and her coterie of what they could expect. Her reward had been an incredulously murmured dismissal.
"Beauty has its price,
"
one of the ladies had responded.
Hah! So did comfort! And she, Annabelle Jocelyn, was very glad that under her highwayman
'
s disguise she was wearing two pairs of everything. Not for her the diaphanous costumes of the Greek deities the younger women had selected for themselves. She wondered how they were faring, and with only
silk
dominoes, too, to protect them from the elements!
Her eyes shifted to take in the figure of her companion. Bertie, very sensibly in Annabelle
'
s opinion, was dressed from head to toe in velvet. It seemed reasonable to suppose that the Empress Catherine of Russia, which lady Bertie professed to be for the masquerade, would know a thing or two about circumventing the harsh Russian winters.
Vanity be damned,
thought Annabelle, and stamped her booted feet to stave off the cold.
It seemed that she and Bertie had been standing about for
hours in the crowded courtyard of the Bull, keeping an eye on the children. Earlier they had followed the torchlit procession of mummers and Morris dancers through the town
'
s narrow streets. The place was packed with visitors who had arrived by the coachload to help the natives celebrate Lewes
'
s gala event.
But the children had become overexcited and quarrelsome, and they had returned to the inn, where rooms had been reserved for the evening for just such an eventuality. They had been in the inn
'
s courtyard ever since, attracted by the mummers
'
play, which was in progress under the glow of a score of lanterns and pitch torches.
Annabelle debated whether her presence would be missed if she slipped away to the private parlor Sir Charles had earlier bespoken. Every inn and tavern was bursting at the seams. It was fortunate that Sir Charles was known to the landlord. In addition to the parlor, the party from Rosedale had managed to secure four rooms for their use. She thought of the coal fire in the parlor grate and sighed audibly. Lady Diana and her court would put her down as a veritable Methuselah if she gave in to the temptation. Besides, she adjured herself, she had promised Henrietta that she would personally supervise the eldest two of her brood of five who had been permitted to make the trip for the occasion.
A burst of laughter and applause signaled the end of the mummers
'
performance. Before the audience had properly come to themselves, the actors whipped off their hats and were making the rounds. Patrons laughingly delved into their pockets for change.
"Mama, wasn
'
t that splendid?
"
Richard, his face aglow, came racing over the cobblestones. At his heels, pursuing him as fast as her short legs could carry her, was young Amy.
"Yes dear,
"
replied Annabelle, smiling to see her son
'
s patent delight. "Quite splendid.
"
Spectators and patrons shouldered their way to different exits. Annabelle
'
s eyes traveled over the crush. She thought that Lewes on Guy Fawkes
'
Night fell somewhere between Vauxhall Gardens on a national holiday and the Palais Royal under Allied occupation. Pickpockets abounded, as did ladies of ill-repute plying their wares. Her eyes lighted on a party of
young bucks who were swaggering about, sending respectable matrons scurrying for cover with their low language and lewd suggestions. The undesirable element was only too evident this evening, thought Annabelle, frowning quellingly at two of the fops who had been ogling her intermittently.
"Shall we retire to the parlor for some refreshments?
"
suggested Annabelle. In another hour the bonfire would be lit, and soon after they could all go home to Rosedale. Then the children would be put to bed and the grown-ups would have their last party before leaving in the morning to return to London. The return to town could not come too soon for Annabelle.
Her suggestion was met with outraged protests from two young, shrill voices.
"You promised I could see the tumblers and fire-eaters, Aunt Bertie,
"
cried Amy plaintively.
Bertie smiled an apology at Annabelle. "It
'
s all she
'
s been able to speak about for weeks.
"
Resigning herself to the inevitable, Annabelle said, "I
'
m game if you are. Though no doubt the gentlemen will ring a peal over us if we disobey their instructions.
"
They
'
d been warned earlier to stick close to the inn. Annabelle was more than happy to oblige. But the tumblers and fire-eaters were to be found on the hill on the outskirts of town where the bonfire was set. In the circumstances in which they found themselves, ladies did not go abroad without an escort, preferably a well-armed one.
"It was too bad of the gentlemen to abandon us to our own devices,
"
said Bertie, voicing the selfsame thought that had occurred to Annabelle. "They should have returned by now. I wonder what is keeping them?
"
"Mmm,
"
answered Annabelle noncommittally.
She and Bertie had been left to their own devices because they had elected to look after the children while the rest of the Rosedale party took a turn around the town. Even Henrietta had deserted them. Annabelle could not remember a time when her sister-in-law had put her own pleasure before the needs of her family. She
'
d looked rather shamefaced as she
'
d asked Annabelle if she would mind looking after the two
Jocelyn boys.
"Where are your cousins?
"
asked Annabelle belatedly. "And where
'
s Mary?
"
Mary was a young domestic attached to the Jocelyn household. When Annabelle had last seen her, she had been sitting with her charges, as engrossed in the play as they were.
"Don
'
t know,
"
answered Richard. "Can we go and see the fire-eaters, Mama? Oh, do say we may! Do! Do! Do!
"
Amy took up Richard
'
s chant.
"Silence,
"
shrilled Annabelle, now genuinely alarmed.
She breathed a sigh of relief as Mary suddenly appeared at her elbow. It took a moment before it registered that Mary looked as alarmed as she herself felt.
"Where are the boys?
"
demanded Annabelle.
Between gasps, the frightened maid finally got out, "Oh m
'
um, I couldn
'
t stop
'
em. They took off down the
'
igh Street.
"
"Show me,
"
said Annabelle. Over her shoulder she yelled, "Stay here, Bertie, and look after those two.
"
She did not wait for an answer as she elbowed a clear path through the throng to the entrance to the courtyard.
"This way, m
'
um,
"
said Mary, and turned right onto High Street.
Annabelle could not control a shudder of dread. The River Ouse was at the bottom of the hill. And James and Peter were two fearless hellions, for all their paucity of years. "If they haven
'
t drowned, I
'
ll kill them,
"
she told Mary. "That
'
s if Henrietta doesn
'
t kill me first.
"
The poor girl burst into tears.
It was impossible to move rapidly. At every turn there were obstacles in their path; street-corner puppet shows, acrobats, jugglers, and everywhere bands of local urchins with hollowed out turnip lanterns begging for "a penny for the guy.
"