Then she rose and carried the letter to the fire. Bending, she slipped it into the flames, watching the paper smoke and curl and finally blacken, obliterating her words.
When they were all gone, she stood, laying her forehead tiredly against the mantle a moment before she turned to survey the sunlit room. She would spend the rest of her life at Fenton Hall and only a few short weeks in the company of the man she loved. And she had found that, despite the outcome, she was unwilling to give up even a single day of them.
Impulsive, romantic, and very, very foolish.
*~*~*~*
The ball gown had exceeded even her fantasies. Ian, despite his vaunted experience with Portuguese grandmothers, seemed to have been rendered momentarily speechless. By the dress or by the sight of her in it? she wondered. In either case, his admiration was very satisfying and had been salve for her battered heart.
She had preceded him to the door of the shop after they were done with the fitting. When she reached it, she realized that Ian had not followed her, but was still engaged with the modiste. Making arrangement for payment, she suppossed, or for having the dress delivered.
The air in the shop was heated and close, almost oppressive. Without thinking too much about the propreity of her action, she opened the door and stopped through it into the street without waiting for her guardian's escort.
The coachman had been instructed to walk the horses while they were inside, and there was no sign of the Earl's carriage. She leaned forward to peer along the street in the opposite direction and became aware that something unusual was occurring a little farther along the sidewalk.
There was enough commotion that a crowd had gathered to watch. Judging by their clothing, Annie realized that the people, mostly men, who made up that knot of spectators were not patrons of the neighbouring shops.
Actually, they appeared to be more like roughs who frequented the area of London near the wharves than shoppers for this exclusive district.
Annie looked up and down the street again, searching for the reassuring sight of the approaching coach. There was nothing there. Actually, there was very little traffic at all.
She turned, glancing through the glass of the shop's door behind her. Ian and the dressmaker were still conversing. Her guardian didn't even seem to be aware that she had stepped outside.
Just as she had decided that doing so had not been a very wise decision, she heard the scream of a child. High-pitched and distinct. Given her background, the cry left no doubt in Annie's mind about her identification of it's source.
She looked in the direction from which it had come from, realizing that it seemed to originate from the place where the group of ruffians she had noticed earlier were gathered. She had already taken a step in that direction when she heard another scream, this one seeming more despairing than the last. And then another, following in quick succession.
Without stopping to think of her own safety, Annie began to run towards those increasingly frantic shrieks. When she was near enough to peer between the closed packed bodies of the crowd she could see that a man was beating a small boy. The leather strop he was using rose and fell with terrifying regularity and produced a scream from the child each time it landed.
His arm firmly held by the man who was beating him, the little boy was trying to squirm out of the way of the descending lash, desperately dodging away from it's blows. His fruitless attempts at evasion seemed to enrage his captor and delight the watchers. They urged the child's tormentor on with catcalls and suggestions.
Furious, Annie began to push her way through the outer fringes of the circle. The element of surprise apparently worked to her advantage because the men parted to let her through, until at last she reached the centre. She grabbed at the piece of leather, catching it with her gloved hand just as it was about to crack down again against the boy's narrow back.
The man holding the other end of it looked up, his expression incredulous. It was obvious he hadn't expected any interference with what he was doing, especially not from a gentlewoman.
"That's enough," Annie said, jerking the strap in an attempt to pull it out of his hand.
Despite his shock, the man refused to release it. Instead he turned it once more about his wrist, making his hold more secure.
"Leave off," he said, his face red and contorted with anger, either at the boy or at Annie's intervention on his behalf.
"You cannot beat a child on a public street," Annie said.
"Course I can! 'e's my boy. I beats him when I pleases." Contempt was strong in his voice.
"Whatever your son has done..." Annie began.
The crowd hooted, as did the man, who seemed not so much amused at her error, but mocking of it. Roughly using the thin arm he held, he pulled the child around to face Annie. "Does this 'ere scoundrel look like he might be my son?"
It was hard to tell who the child looked like. His skin was blackened with soot, which seemed ground into its very pores.