She was far better off as she was. Redlands was her home and she was undeniably mistress there, loved as well as respected, she had reason to believe. And she had a husband who was able and willing to pay all her bills, with the result that she could make of the old, shabby building a home that pleased her love of beauty. And she had her memories: memories of her wedding night, when she had given herself up to ecstasy, believing herself loved; memories of a family that, for all its oddities, was close and filled with affection, and that had extended that fondness to her; and memories of two weeks in which she had known physical fulfillment with her husband and in which she had seen him in a somewhat more sympathetic light than she had ever before seen him. Memories were a poor substitute for present happiness, but they were at least something.
It was, then, with a determined cheerfulness that Anne had joined in the almost feverish preparations of the final few days before the grand ball. She patiently went over and over a scene when Claude was dissatisfied, when tempers were generally running short. She helped the duchess sort through the cards that had been returned in reply to the invitations that had been sent out, though she did not know quite to what purpose they did so. She played with the children and took them for a long walk in the lime grove, when everyone else either ignored their existence or snapped at them for being underfoot. She gave her attention to Freddie when he was fretting over the decision of whether to wear his puce satin waistcoat beneath his gold evening coat at the ball, or his pink-and-blue-striped one. And she desperately clung to every contact with her husband, committing every word, look, and gesture to memory for future reference.
It was a result of her kindness in giving Freddie some attention that Anne became his confidante. He had brought his evening coat and the two waistcoats to the library, where she sat alone, by prearrangement. It was the morning after the search of the attic for their play costumes.
"Oh, I think definitely the puce, Freddie," Anne said, having given due consideration to both garments under consideration. "It is so much more distinguished than the striped for an evening function. And it complements the gold of your coat so much better. What do you think?"
"Grandmamma will frown and say something cutting if I do the wrong thing," he said. "But if you say so, Anne, the puce must be the better. You would tell me the truth. You have taste. Always look lovely. Lucky man, Alex. Brains, you know, if I had brains, perhaps I would have married you, Anne."
"Brains have nothing to do with the matter, Freddie," Anne said kindly. "Any woman would be fortunate to be your wife. You have the gift for making someone feel special, and you do not need intelligence for that."
"Do you think so?" Freddie asked eagerly. "Damme, I thought no woman would ever have me. Do you think Miss Fitzgerald would consent, Anne?"
"Miss Fitzgerald?" Anne repeated, taken aback. "Are you thinking of asking her, Freddie? Indeed, I am sure she is very eligible."
"And pretty," Freddie said. "Do you think she is pretty, Anne?"
Anne considered. "Well," she said carefully. "No, I would not say she is pretty, Freddie. Handsome, I think, would be a more appropriate description."
"Yes," he said. "By Jove, yes, she is remarkably handsome, is she not? Do you think she will have me, Anne?"
"I cannot answer for her," Anne replied, "but I would think her very poor-spirited if she did not, Freddie. Unless." She paused to make sure that he was giving her his full attention. "Unless she does not love you, you see. Sometimes it is possible to like someone terribly, but not to love him. And some people do not wish to marry those they do not love. Do you understand me, Freddie?"
Freddie's brow creased with concentration. "What if someone loves someone else, but does not like him?" he asked. "Do they marry?"
"Oh, yes," she said gently. "Quite frequently, I am afraid."
He looked at her. "Like you and Alex," he said, arrested by the thought. "That's it, isn't it, Anne? If you were mine, I would like you and love you, y' know."
"Thank you, Freddie," she said, for some absurd reason fighting tears. "And can you do the same for Miss Fitzgerald?"
"Oh, yes," he said, his eagerness returning. "She is a remarkable female, Anne. She will look after me. But she don't bully me. Told me I should wear my canary waistcoat even if no one else likes it, provided I like it myself."
"Did she?" said Anne. "She is a wise lady, Freddie. When do you plan to make your offer?"
On the day of the ball life became fevered. Claude positively insisted that all the actors attend a final rehearsal of the play after luncheon in the small ballroom. It was fortunate for him that he had made this wish in the form of a definite order three days before, because there were many other activities that might have distracted his actors. All of them had their preparations for the ball to attend to. And there were many visitors arriving. Most of the guests were coming from distances close enough that they could arrive merely for the evening functions. But many were coming from London and needed to stay overnight.
The lure of meeting these old acquaintances was strong upon the actors, but Claude was adamant, and the duchess declared that she did not wish to see one of the pack of them until at least teatime. The duke too cleared his throat loudly at the luncheon table and said that since this was the duchess's wedding anniversary, everything must be as she wished. As if matters were not always that way, Jack muttered to Peregrine.
The rehearsal was a disaster. Freddie kept forgetting to pause between his speeches to allow others to play their parts; Martin as Mr. Hardcastle, the bore, overdid his part to such an extent that Jack declared the audience would all drown him out with their snores; Maud as Mrs. Hardcastle played her indignation with Peregrine as Tony so well that her waving fist actually did connect with his nose and drew blood; Prudence as Constance Neville became so furious with her play lover, Jack, that she stamped her foot and called him "horrid man" just at the moment when she was supposed to be weeping sentimental tears over being parted from him for three whole years; Jack made fun of everyone and everything and continually leered and waggled his eyebrows at Prudence; Peregrine played the clown and threw himself down on the stage, clutching his sides and laughing insanely every time the script called for some merriment; Merrick was wooden again and bumped Anne's chin painfully when he was supposed to bow formally over her hand; and Anne, according to Claude, appeared dull and frightened instead of pert and bouncy in her interviews with Merrick as Charles Marlow.
Claude was complaining of an upset stomach and a splitting headache by the time they had limped and clowned their way to the end of the play. He declared that they would have to cancel the whole proceeding and let the duchess fume and scream. It was Freddie who saved the day.
"The same thing used to happen at school," he said. "I used to sing in the choir." Jack snorted, but Freddie continued, apparently not having noticed. "The last practices were always terrible. Sopranos squeaky. Altos off key. Choirmaster never worried. 'Boys,' he used to say, 'if your last practice is poor, I know you will be good on the day. If your last practice is good, I start to worry.'" Freddie beamed and Jack applauded.
" 'Out of the mouth of babes,' " he said. "Bravo, Freddie, my lad."