8. Chapter 8 #3
Annabelle had to do something. But what? What did she know of comforting someone hurting when she herself had known only contempt or banishment should she express sadness?
She nibbled her thumb tip and grasped Babette’s hand, which did seem to calm the girl somewhat.
And then she recalled…Miss Jenkins, the governess she had once adored. She had been sweet, kind, and unlike any who followed.
She pinched her eyes closed and thought back to the time before…when she had been ugly, barely out of her patch. The family was on holiday, on the boat, and she’d been crying, blubbering really. And then, Miss Jenkins found her, hugged her, and sang to her.
Annabelle opened her eyes, heaved a regretful sigh, and began to sing.
***
After driving Lady Annabelle from the parlor, Sterling spent a frustrating quarter of an hour with Vane trying to mask his impatience with the man’s unexpected and ill-timed call while also gauging his reaction to Annabelle.
Naturally, Vane had used his visit as an excuse to press his aim in purchasing Stoneford Castle and availing himself of the defunct kilns yet again, regardless of the fact Sterling had made his stance abundantly clear: Neither Stoneford Castle nor the surrounding lands which Sterling owned were for sale.
Not now, and not in Sterling’s lifetime.
He didn’t bother to explain that the lands on Holy Island bequeathed to him by his grandfather made the property one of incalculable worth to him.
His grandfather, who had died nearly a year before, had brought Sterling here many times, starting when he was a mere toddler, instilling in him a love for the desolate land, just as he’d imparted a fascination with the stars.
These last ten months were the first time he’d been here without the old man, yet he saw his grandfather everywhere.
Behind his desk, bent over his charts tracking the constellations.
He could practically hear his rich baritone extolling the mystery and grandeur of the Milky Way and the phenomena of the Aurora Borealis, could feel his reassuring presence at his side when he combed the plains and pebbled beaches.
No, the castle was not for sale.
As for Vane’s desire to reopen the kilns—something his grandfather had vehemently opposed—Sterling could only conclude the man, for all his apparent wealth, was short-sighted as far as economics went.
Across the country, limestone production was at a decline.
Add to that the added cost of transportation of the final product necessitated by the island’s unique topography, and reopening the castle kilns seemed a fool’s errand.
Of greater import to the man, seemingly, was the matter of his dwelling place.
In short, he felt nowhere else on Holy Island, where he was a frequent visitor, thanks to his commitment to seeing the abbey restored, nor on his Beadnell estate, measured up to his lofty standards.
He coveted the stately castle and lamented his frequent stays at the rustic wharf inn.
Sterling hoped he didn’t expect an invitation to be his guest here. If so, he was destined to remain sorely disappointed.
“I suppose I must return to the inn,” he finally said when the conversation waned, mostly thanks to Sterling’s refusal to be drawn into a meaningful discussion. “Just my bad luck, there’ll be no chance of leaving today, not via the Pilgrims’ Way, nor by sea.”
“I fear you’re right,” Sterling agreed. “Come, I’ll escort you out and have Chip bring your horse ‘round the front.”
On a positive note, apparently Vane’s near obsession with acquiring the castle had wiped Annabelle from his mind.
Or not.
En route to the front door, Vane, walking slightly ahead of Sterling, threw a commiserating grin over his shoulder. “I say,” he began in a low voice, “your late cousin’s widow, Lady Woodville…”
Something in the man’s tone aroused his hackles in an instant. “What of her?”
“Has she…er…been a guest here long?”
“No,” Sterling said, his clipped reply meant to ward off any further inquiry.
The man went on, evidently blissfully ignorant of the implied menace. “Pretty bit of muslin, there, eh? You never mentioned how long she intends to reside here at the castle.”
Anger, swift and fierce, rose up in him and had him halting in his tracks. “I beg your pardon?” he articulated in a lethally soft voice.
This time, Vane seemed to comprehend he’d blundered. He eyed Sterling, his normally ruddy complexion paling. “I…meant no disrespect to the lady.”
“Of course not. For your information, my late cousin’s widow and her traveling companion arrived last night to pay me a courtesy visit. They are merely passing through en route to Manchester.”
“Of course. Passing through. She and her companion,” he stammered. “Of course. Pity. I’d like to have shown her the priory.”
“Pity, indeed.” Sterling lifted his hand, gesturing the man forward.
Vane wasted no time obeying the directive, leading Sterling to wonder just how ferocious his expression had been.
Bloody hell. What was wrong with him, stirring up trouble where there wasn’t any?
Vane had almost certainly accepted Annabelle's story concerning her supposed identity. Sterling should be glad for that, and the unlikelihood the impropriety of her presence here might become common knowledge. The man’s none-too-subtle declaration that he found Annabelle physically appealing was nothing for him to concern himself with.
Besides, he thought, minutes later, face freezing, stomping his booted feet on the front stoop against the chill as he watched Vane ride away, if she didn’t want Vane’s sort of attention, she shouldn’t flirt so outrageously.
Indeed, the lady herself had initiated this whole irritating business, showing up uninvited and then brazenly waltzing into his parlor during Vane’s unanticipated visit as he’d expressly ordered her not to do. Lady Annabelle was a thorn in his side.
And yet…she was also a lady and owed all due respect.
Remember that the next time you get a notion to barge into her bedchamber before she’s had a chance to dress, came an irritating inner voice that sounded remarkably like his grandfather’s.
Vexed and worse, guilt-ridden, he yanked open the front door and entered the foyer. There he peeled out of his greatcoat and gloves and considered what to do next.
Seek out Annabelle, he supposed, to finish their conversation—if she was speaking to him. His guts already tightening with anticipation, he started for the stairwell.
Halfway down the corridor on the main floor, he noted the sound of…what was that? A bird? A cat that’d snuck in from the stable yard?
Whatever it was, it was coming from his office. He moved forward with care, listening intently, and was forced to conclude he was hearing singing, of a sort. Pausing near the open doorway, he concluded the singer was Annabelle—and she was bloody awful at the business.
Slowly, he ducked his head into the doorway to peer into the office, then stared in amazement at the unlikely vision of Annabelle and Babette, seated side by side on the striped velvet sofa near the hearth while the noblewoman sang.
“In the dark blue skies you keep, and often through my curtains peep, for you never shut your eye, till the sun is in the sky…”
“’Tis your bright and tiny spark, lights the traveler in the dark: Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle little star…”
Annabelle held Babette in a one-arm embrace and rocked her while the young maid drew the occasional choppy breath, evidently recovering from one of her crying jags.
As Annabelle began the song anew, Sterling straightened in the hall and leaned back against the stone wall, stunned by what he had just witnessed. Annabelle, serenading Babette. Astounding.
Risking one more glimpse, he peered in the doorway again because in spite of the downright caterwauling, Annabelle’s face…
glowed. There was no other word for it. Watching her caused his chest to ache, though he couldn’t say precisely why.
He only knew that in place of her usual air of haughty disdain, kindness and gentleness radiated from her as she comforted the servant.
The same servant who, hours ago, she’d lambasted for touching her things.
He would not have believed the scene possible but for witnessing it with his own eyes—and hearing it with his own poor ears.
Earlier, when she proclaimed her intention to apologize to Babette, he’d assumed she had an ulterior motive—such as availing herself of Babette’s assistance, making of her a pseudo lady’s maid.
But seeing this, he was forced to concede, Annabelle, cosseted, contemptuous, conceited Annabelle had another side to her.
And why did the realization disturb him so? Rather in the manner of staring over a cliff’s edge while contemplating jumping.
As the song neared its completion, he crept back to hover in the hallway, unseen.
“Ah, yes, Cogsworth,” he all but yelled, “she’s in the library, you say?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Cogsworth called in return. His thick head of gray hair appeared at the base of the servant’s stairs as if he’d come at a jog from the butler’s office.
Sterling slashed his hand through the air in silent, urgent dismissal.
“Very good, milord,” Cogsworth muttered, eyeing Sterling askance.
The singing, Sterling noted, had ceased.