Chapter 7
It was with a sorry heart that Anne returned home that day, feeling both idiotic and humiliated.
Seeing her daughter’s head hung in decline and her brimming eyes, Mrs. Lincombe could not help feeling a twinge of guilt, despite her unswayable principles.
“Anne?” she said, the concern evident in every wrinkle on the flushed, broad face, so different to her daughter’s white angular countenance.
Her daughter remained unresponsive, hanging her coat and scarf up on the peg with robotic movements, and limply sitting on her armchair, fixing her attention on the leather-backed novel that Henry had given her.
“Whatever be the matter, silly child?” Mrs. Lincombe asked, the words spilling out of her mouth more harshly than she had expected, unable to show the worry etched into her face.
“Nothing,” Anne replied, in more of a whisper than her normal tone – quiet, but steady.
“Come now, girl,” said Mrs. Lincombe, her voice wavering slightly. “I’ve known yer since ye were a mere bairn...yes, a mere bairn. And I know all is not right with yer.”
“You cannot help me, mother,” Anne responded disconsolately, shutting her mother out and escaping into her book in a way that made Mrs Lincombe cringe, because she could not understand this different world her daughter left to, would never understand it.
She shrugged helplessly, spreading her vein-patterned palms upwards. “’Are ye not happy, child? Any other wench would be ‘a dancin’ with joy to ‘ave a rich gentleman courtin’ her, givin’ her family money. By Jove, gel, I canny understand yer. He ‘as his own carriage with ‘is very own seal on it – what richness, Anne! And e’s a spirited gentlemen, for who else would ‘a brave the elements, drivin’ their own carriage ‘round town.”
Anne ignored her mother’s exaggerated ravings and continued fixating her eyes on the book, though she did not turn the pages and the tears in her eyes blurred the small black print.
“And ‘e’s taken a likin’ to ye, Anne. ‘E’s goin’ to make ye into a lady, Anne, imagine: me own daughter, me own flesh and blood, a fine lady!” Mrs Murdoch rocked back and forth on her heels, speaking herself into a state of glee, though Anne remained unimpressed.
“I don’t know why you are telling me these things, Mother,” she said, “for they are not going to change my mind about the matter. You...you have forced me into this, and knowing how I feel, you still do not give me leave to get out of it.” Her young face hardened and her mouth set into a thin, determined line. “Well, that’s as may be. But don’t you go trying to change my mind- or my feelings – for your sly ploys will not work on me, Mother.”
Anne drew her hand-sprung armchair further to the hearth with a high-pitched scraping that did nothing to relax the ambience. They sat in silence, the cherry-coloured fire crackling slowly as it burnt up the cedar wood, dispersing earthly aromas across the tense ridges of the atmosphere.
*
London’s capricious weather had taken a turn for the worse when Anne set out again the previous day. Clouds had covered the evening sun and no amount of crepuscular carmine could mitigate the gathering gloom. She hugged herself with long fingers numbed in the icy cold, thankful that she now at least had the money for a cab. Anne hailed a hansom cab, ruing the inclemency of the weather once more as a side wheel slurried her boots and the edge of her gown.
“The King’s Theatre, please,” she said, settling into the seat and leaping clear of the mud splashes as the driver cracked his whip.
“A rare place to be leaving for at this time, on your own, ‘ain’t it, miss?” he asked in an eloquent grunt, as much for the peculiarity of her destination as the elegant cut of her clothes.
“Rare enough,” Anne allowed, pursing her mouth shut to indicate the end of the conversation.
*
“Good evening, Miss Lincombe,” greeted Mr Murdoch upon seeing Anne shivering at the entrance of the theatre. “Heavens, you look quite chilled.”
“Yes...” said Anne through chattering teeth, “I am, a little.”
“Allow me,” he said, and despite his companion’s protests, took off his great overcoat and draped it about her thinly clad shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, permitting a small, shaky smile to widen her cheeks.
“There now, Anne,” Mr Murdoch said, surveying her approvingly. “Better?”
Anne nodded.
“You are very quiet again, Anne,” Mr Murdoch remarked as he led her through the doors. “I haven’t offended you by love-making?”
“Maybe,” Anne replied quietly, wincing at the reminder.
“So you still do not love me then, Anne?” Mr Murdoch asked, walking towards the audience. His young companion remained silent.
“There is still time,” he muttered. “Excuse me, my dear.” And with that, Mr Murdoch vanished back out of the theatre, before Anne could point out that his overcoat was still buttoned around her shoulders.
She advanced towards the audience, and, upon seeing Henry seated in the front row, shyly sat next to him. He turned to her, and Anne discerned the lineaments of a smile on his face before he averted his drowsy gaze. “It is good to see you, Miss Lincombe,” he said quietly, looking her up and down. “Though in slightly unusual attire.”
Anne quickly grew aware again of the overcoat, and unbuttoned it, chuckling softly. “Oh yes,” she said, “your father was kind enough to oblige.”
“Yes,” Henry said curtly, the dark golden eyes reverting to their previous view of the stage.
Discomfited by the awkward silence that had just broken out, Anne fidgeted in her seat, pulling her white, arm-length gloves on and off her fingers. Henry smiled faintly.
“You’re not quite accustomed to all this finery yet, are you, Miss Lincombe?” he asked.
Anne grinned. “No, indeed not. It seems like only yesterday I was in ragged frocks and the like. I fear society will be disappointed in me.”
They exchanged amused, if not slightly sheepish glances, the stage lights casting a lemon glow to their faces.
“Miss Lincombe?” he said finally. “I was wondering whether you would like to borrow any more books.”
“Oh, oh, yes!” Anne said, her face flushing with eagerness, and then remembering to compose herself. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir. I...I am not yet acquainted with the etiquette of...”
“Oh, etiquette,” Henry dismissed with a wave of his hand. “And Mrs Lincombe, have I not asked you to address me as Henry?”
“Indeed,” replied Anne with a quivering voice, “But...but I find it so difficult. Especially since I address your father formally and since...and since you call me by my surname.”
“We can soon amend that,” Henry responded. “If it is your wish.”
“It is,” said Anne. “Thank you, sir...I...I mean, Henry. Henry.”
He cast her a final glance, and then they lapsed into companionable silence as the great scarlet curtains began to raise and a hush fell over the audience as the show began.
* It wasn't bad, definitely not. How dare you say so!:lol: Anyway, seeing as I'm almost dead and haven't slept for about twenty eight hours I shall begin *waves magic wand*
*nods*
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