Chapter 4
So far, the two-hour journey to Surrey Hills had been surprisingly calm.
Despite having traveled alone with Ana María for more than a month, Peter had noticed a shift in their company since the wedding ceremony.
He had always been able to read her emotions as easily as the large writing in a young child’s book.
But now he could see that there was something bothering her.
Her incessant chewing of her lip was enough to tell him that her mind was scrambling.
And he suspected the cause of her worry.
There was one topic that Peter had been avoiding—their wedding night.
All their staff would expect them to act like an affectionate, freshly wed couple on their wedding trip, despite the fact that they wouldn’t be traveling due to Ana María’s current sickness and condition.
Undoubtedly, there would be talk below stairs regarding their relationship.
And while he wanted to act the part of the happily married couple to prevent any embarrassment to his new wife, he also didn’t want to begin their married life with any confusion surrounding his expectations for their relationship.
He needed to be clear on the subject, particularly after the violence that Ana María had endured.
“I did wish to say one more thing regarding our marriage,” Peter stated, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Sí?”
“I have no illusions about the nature of our relationship, particularly considering your health and condition. Our marriage will be in name only, and I hope that will bring you some measure of comfort.”
“Name . . . only? I take your name, no?”
Oh dear. This incredibly awkward conversation just became even more difficult. Peter breathed out heavily. How could he make her understand?
“Yes, that is . . . I mean to say that we will likely have adjoining rooms and all sorts of well-intentioned preparations on the part of our staff. But I will not be visiting your room tonight. My only intention in marrying you was to provide you with a safe place to bring your child into this world, not to pay you a visit on our wedding night—or any other night, for that matter.”
It was not a typical marriage arrangement. But Peter couldn’t ever imagine her being comfortable with such familiarity after the horrors she endured.
“Wedding night? But our wedding was during el día, not la noche. No entiendo. And what means adjoining?”
A heated flush crept up Peter’s neck, making sweat bead on his forehead. Why was he still wearing this blasted cravat?
“Our rooms will be close. Connected, even.” He motioned with his hands, placing his two palms together to signify his words.
“As your husband, I normally would have certain responsibilities that I would be expected to fulfill . . .” Her lips were scrunched to one side, her brows quirked in obvious confusion.
He was certainly making a grand mess of this, wasn’t he?
He hardly knew how to broach the topic in English, much less Spanish.
All the polite vocabulary that could explain the situation was currently beyond her understanding.
He would not embarrass her or dredge up recent traumatic experiences by spelling it out in frank words or common language. So he decided on the next best thing.
He reached out and grasped her hand. “You will be safe with me, Ana. I promise.”
The stiffness slid from Ana María’s posture like rain on a glass windowpane. Her shoulders fell and she pressed her eyes closed, resting her head against the back of the bench.
“I had not planned to marry. But I hope I can be the sort of husband you deserve. I will protect you, just as I vowed. And I will protect your child.”
“Gracias, Capitán.” Her large, dark eyes glistened with emotion. “Muchísimas gracias for everything.”
“I could not simply sit by and watch you suffer.”
She nodded as tears trickled down her cheeks. Peter’s heart squeezed in his chest. He had softened in the months prior to the rambunctious Ana María and was no longer totally mortified by her teasing. But he could not bear the sight of her crying. Tears would not do.
Peter fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief, offering it up. He settled back into his chair, staring out the window to give Ana María some privacy as she calmed her emotions.
“Do you mind, Pedro?”
Surprised, he saw Ana María patting the bench next to her and motioning for him to join her.
“Do you feel ill?”
Sometimes it had helped her to lie down to ease her stomach. He had been happy to provide his lap for her to rest on to help stave off her nausea. As intimate as it might have seemed, Peter had merely felt he was fulfilling a responsibility.
“A little, pero estoy bien. I want that you sit here.”
He would not refuse her. Peter nimbly shifted to the forward-facing bench.
He settled in next to her, an appropriate distance between them, and waited.
She scooted closer to him until their knees and arms touched.
Then she snuggled up against his shoulder, the movement accompanied by a series of hiccupping breaths and sniffles.
Peter found himself unable to move. He was frozen, as if he were carefully hidden from the French in the underbrush of the Spanish countryside.
But this felt entirely different. Instead of bracing himself for attack, he was trying not to scare off a very frightened and fragile creature.
Indeed, he would not complain if this moment continued for a great while.
They were married, but this was a closeness he was not accustomed to. It was also not the reaction he had necessarily expected after telling his new bride that he would not be fulfilling all of his husbandly responsibilities.
“I do have one request,” he said.
“Sí?”
“Could you perhaps call me Peter? Or Pedro at least?” he said, chuckling.
“You no like el capitán?”
“Perhaps something a little more . . . personal would help keep up appearances.”
“I understand. No hay problema, Pedro.”
Finally, their carriage was pulling up the long gravel drive of the Ashmore family’s summer estate and country seat, Abbeygate.
Towering trees were splashed in vibrant autumn colors, blurring Peter’s vision into shades of gold, scarlet, and rust. Arching branches swayed as the jewel-like leaves dripped onto their carriage.
A rush of nostalgia flooded Peter’s senses, his chest aching suddenly.
How had he stepped away from this place, his family, for so long?
He turned from the window to see Ana María, similarly smitten by the sight. The ache faded somewhat. She deserved to bask in this moment of awe. He would do anything to prolong this breath of reprieve from her pain. What a blessing he could share such a beautiful place with her . . . and her child.
“Mother has been generous enough to grant us Abbeygate as our home, at least for the time being. And I must tell you it is one of my favorite places in the world,” he said.
“I much prefer this vista to London. Everything is so . . . hermoso.”
It was indeed beautiful. Even more so than he remembered. “There is a lovely pond out beyond the house and a walking path in the gardens. There have always been singing birds about, as you will hear very soon. A wonderful sound, it is. I have so many memories here.”
He hoped it would bring him as much happiness as it had before. If so, this place had the potential to help—and heal—them both.
The carriage pulled to a stop, the crunch of the gravel quieting.
Peter hopped out and savored the freshness of the air.
No smoke, like San Sebastián. No fog, like London.
This air was pure. He held out both hands, helping Ana down slowly.
It may have been a bumpier journey than she had expected, but he would think that she would prefer the carriage to the incessant rocking of the ship they had endured for weeks on end.
“Are you all right?”
She grabbed his arm, steadying herself, while her other arm pressed against her stomach. “Better ahora. How good to stand on the ground!”
He chuckled. “Indeed.” They approached the tall wooden doors that split the stone exterior of the building.
Glints of small, glass windows shone from the high walls, almost like a Spanish mosaic.
It was a historic structure, built years before more modern, large windowpanes had been invented.
On the stone steps waited the staff, their numbers minimal but their talents immense.
Peter was thrilled to see Mr. Burnsey, the butler.
His short frame had rounded out slightly over the years, but his smile-lined face and impeccably combed white hair were unchanged.
“Ah, Mr. Ashmore, wha’ a delight to see you after all this time.”
“Indeed, Burnsey, it has been a number of years.”
“More than that, at least by my count. We’ve missed you ’ere.”
“And I have missed this place as well.”
Abbeygate had been like a small haven in Peter’s childhood—a place where Mother, Matthew, and he could escape Father’s furies and play carefree, just the three of them. But he hadn’t been here since the summer of his seventeenth year. Oh, how he had missed it.
* * *
Ana had not felt any great emotion at the sight of London.
It was dirty and stuffy and altogether too gray.
How she had missed the intricacies of Spanish architecture and tradition!
But at her first glimpses of Abbeygate and the Surrey Hill community that surrounded it, she was completamente enamorada.
How could she not be in love with it all?
Still, she could hardly believe she would be the mistress of such a house.
She never would have guessed that shy, stoic Captain Ashmore had ownership of such a grand estate.
She would be somewhat unnerved and intimidated by it all if it weren’t for their arrangement affording them both great privacy and anonymity.
This would be a place for her to heal. To heal and to hide.