The White Gloves by Leonie Williams
The White Gloves
Leonie Williams
Copyright 2012 Leonie Williams
The White Gloves
Annabelle Harrison-Blythe examined herself in the mirror and determined that the diamond chandelier earrings were not over-the-top and therefore worthy of a night out.
‘What is taking so long? How is it possible for a woman to make an evening out of getting ready for an evening out?’ Lord Crawley pulled his incredible front mass inwards and upwards to enable his trousers a little higher. They were made out of the finest quality fabrics, and of a black hue that only came from a new suit. Lord Crawley thought he cut an impeccable figure despite the tailor never being able to make the pants sit quite right.
‘A lady is worth waiting for!’ came a silvery voice floating down the staircase.
‘She’s at it again hey?’ In strode Mr Banner, also in tails, fixing the silver hairpins in his sleeve.
‘Darn right she is. You give them flowers and they make you late for tea. You give them diamonds and they make you late for the rest of your bloomin’ life!’
‘If she didn’t carry it off so well I’d agree with you.’
‘Agree with what darling?’ In a deep plum gown that glittered like ice, wearing the diamond earrings and a fur trim, Miss Harrison-Blythe came down the stairs.
‘Late again,’ Crawley huffed and bumped Mr Banner away from the mirror to better adjust his tie.
Annabelle attended to him, fixing the white tie just so, and, giving him a smile as bright as her diamonds, waited for him to offer his arm. Lord Crawley obliged.
‘So, the opera hey? Again. What are we seeing this time?’ asked Mr Banner, not in the least bit interested.
‘Henry, darling, does it matter?’ asked Annabelle to Mr Banner, ‘You know you’re only there to admire the ladies and break a few hearts.’
Mr Banner’s eyes remained fixed on the mirror (which he had reclaimed) but his cheeks lifted ever so slightly in a grin as he replied, ‘And you’re only there to get yours broken.’
Annabelle laughed in excitement as the little party went to meet the carriages.
***
There was only one rule at the great hall of St Martin’s: Never! wear brass cufflinks with silver buttons. Heads turned, ladies gasped, and Lord Crawley grumbled ‘Those who can’t abide by the fashions of the establishment should not be allowed entry!’
A bold statement to make at a masked ball that had a dress code longer than the invitation.
Seeing the need for a woman’s saving grace, Annabelle Harrison-Blythe swept over to the young man wearing a rather plain mask, standing alone in the doorway. With a twirl of her fan, and the strategic use of two silver hairpins, she rectified the problem, flashed a dazzling smile from behind her glittering mask and then sashayed away. Mr Banner, now appropriately attired, fell instantly in love.
***
As I warmed my hands by the fire, in strode Annabelle in yet another outfit: a satin nightgown, heels and the curls of her hair falling loosely down her back. Apparently bedroom attire was just another excuse to play dress-ups.
‘I am exhausted!’ she sighed, falling into the sofa, her curls flying out behind her and her gown slipping from her knee.
‘I should think so after all the trouble you caused tonight.’
‘Ha! Trouble! What nonsense you talk Mr Banner. People at those places live for evenings like these. But I can’t talk properly until I’ve got a cocktail in my hand. Martini. Gin.’
I obliged and made her order, despite the fact she already had three at the ball.
‘Henry, what did you think of Miss Christine’s gown tonight?’
‘I think it suited her perfectly well.’ I handed her the glass.
‘Ha! It may have, if she could fit into it.’
‘The colour was most becoming on her.’
‘I suppose... Henry? What did you think of my dress tonight?’
A loaded question; a typical trait of all women, yet Annabelle used it like a well sharpened sword, but I was not afraid. Despite what she wanted people to believe, Annabelle was not a real threat and the temper tantrums could be managed. ‘You looked marvellous my dear, of which you know very well.’
‘But how do I know when you won’t tell me such things?’ She got up and walked quietly over to me by the fire. We stared at each other a long moment and it was surprisingly hard to read her face; the mixture of gin and shadows creating a mask. I tried not to remember another evening similar to this. A night, where by this very fire, a kiss had been given to me.
As if reading the thoughts on my face she gently took my hand, squeezed it once and left to her room. A subtle reminder that as magnificent as she was, she was too much for me.