Chapter 7
Ana had been living a few weeks at Abbeygate already and had started to become quite familiar with Peter’s daily schedule.
He rose incredibly early and spent some time in his rooms reciting prayers of some sort.
At least she had gathered as much by the ritualistic murmuring she heard at precisely the same hour each morning.
He then took out Warrior, his horse, for a ride before breakfast. He had also made a habit of bringing up Ana’s breakfast tray himself, something she would never complain about.
She found it rather endearing to see him at the beginning of her day.
After that, he’d usually spend a few hours in the office taking care of bookkeeping and other estate responsibilities.
In the afternoon, he would meet with the staff, visit the tenants, or make connections and conversation in town with neighbors.
He then spent the remainder of the evening in her company.
They liked to take their dinner together on the back balcony just off the dining room.
Although she had gathered that it was not a traditional or customary practice in England, it was one she appreciated greatly.
They would often spend some hours conversing and practicing English until it was time to retire for the night.
Indeed, he made such an obvious practice of having such a strict routine that she could predict his responsibilities and activities at nearly any hour of the day, although she was still struggling to discern her own place in the house, particularly when he seemed to bustle about with such busyness and purpose.
In comparison, it seemed that she had become a statue.
His movements in the house, particularly in his rooms that were so close to hers, were the only indication of the passing of time.
In the moments of silence, she sat, still frozen by the shock of the events of the past months.
Her pain, both physical and internal, seemed to still be echoing through her, no matter how hard she tried to close her mind to the memories.
The weight of it all left her in an empty stillness that seemed never-ending.
She would lay in her bed for hours, or kneel, unmoving with her rosary dangling between her hands until her legs were tingling and pricking with numbness.
Often, Mrs. Thompson would interrupt her silence to remind her that she might feel better if she bathed or took a walk outside.
Or Peter would bring her food, and she would eat, if she managed to keep it down, while he spent time with her for a short while.
Mrs. Thompson had brought her a number of Lady Ashmore’s gowns from her wardrobe, but Ana had only rotated between the same few simple dresses with colors similar to those of mourning.
She lacked black options, so deep violet, rusted brown, and silver-gray would have to do.
The only thing that would break her out of her pain-induced trance was an awareness that she was not alone in her suffering.
Peter was suffering too, even if she only got small glimpses of it.
Perhaps that was why he had occupied himself so quickly with so many tasks, to help in sorting through the disaster that San Sebastián had left in their minds.
Tonight, however, he was much more solemn than she had seen him in previous days.
Such silence hadn’t enveloped him since their time on the ship crossing the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel.
He sat, stirring his lemonade while he stared, unseeing, at the bloodred sunset.
He did not drink any type of alcohol, a fact that Ana appreciated greatly, even without knowing his reasoning for such a choice.
Port, ale, and other drinks seemed quite popular among the British soldiers, particularly among the upper ranks.
A shiver of fear traveled up her spine as she remembered the drunken rampage of the men during her last night in San Sebastián.
Was that why he avoided drink? The enduring respect that she fostered for her husband grew even greater at that, accompanied by a sharp stab of sorrow.
That night had taken so much from her. From them both.
“Would you care for any more lemonade, my dear?” Peter’s voice was automatic and methodical, but his eyes were so distant that he looked nearly blind to her.
“No, gracias.”
“Very well.”
His face was a glided statue, all but for the pulsing muscle deep in his jaw that indicated to her that her assumptions were in some measure correct.
He was troubled . . . but about what, she wasn’t sure.
Her time spent with him over the past few months had taught her to read the subtle signs of his moods, which he normally kept so orderly, disciplined, and hidden.
It was not so difficult; she had done similar things when learning to translate from languages that were not as familiar to her.
The movements of one’s face, eyes, and body could tell her a great deal about the ongoings of one’s mind.
Still, she was not perfectly attuned to Peter’s and had yet to discern the cause for his concern.
Ana reached a hand to him, squeezing twice. He jolted from his reverie, blinking rapidly and rolling his shoulders backward, as if trying to shrug off some weighty pack.
“I am well, Ana. Estoy bien.”
Ana watched as Peter rubbed at his eyes, further emphasizing the dark shadows underneath them. Had he been sleeping just as poorly as she was?
She often found herself waking at many hours of the night, not from nausea but from terror.
She could feel clawing hands at her arms, her waist, her face.
Could feel a wild panic that was insatiable.
Could smell hot, rum-saturated breath. Then she would rub at her eyes and heave panting breaths as she clutched her soft bedclothes and stared into the dark.
No glimpses of fire and smoke, no cruel, drunken fools could reach her.
Only the quiet peace surrounded her. She was safe and protected, more than she had ever been, thanks to the man who slept alone in the room next to hers.
Did he ever wake from night terrors like she did?
Ana was beginning to feel calmer during the day, but at night, fear enveloped her.
She often found sleep so impossible to claim until the early hours of the night.
Was it possible that memories burdened him just as much as they did her?
And if they did, how sad to think that they should suffer, side by side, but still divided by a thick, wooden door.
In moments like these, it felt they were farther apart than ever, a fact that Ana mourned.
Her gaze returned to Peter’s face, lit by the fading sun. The exhaustion evident in his face and the knitting of his brow testified that he was not faring as well as he insisted.
“Truly, I am well,” he repeated.
Ana huffed her disbelief, shaking her head and pursing her lips.
“No te creo.” I don’t believe you.
“I am trying to find order and peace here in this new way of living,” he said, at last meeting her eyes.
“Yo también.” Ana nodded, gesturing to herself. Didn’t he know she was working through many of the same issues? She moved her chair closer to him and left her hand clasping his. But what was he thinking about? “Piensas en San Sebastián?”
“I find I am always thinking of . . . it. I find I almost cannot escape it all.”
She nodded. “I think of other things in the day, but the night . . . it is full of terrores.” Unwilling, Ana pulled her hands from his grasp and twisted them about in her skirts, bunching them up terribly as her mind spun into darker memories.
“I don’t wish to carry on in this way. I wish to be a better father than my own, a better example for your child. And I fear I cannot do so in my current state.”
Ana nearly laughed. He was not alone in feeling so.
She was entirely unprepared to be a parent.
But if their marriage was going to be strong enough to endure the challenges that were coming, they needed to be able to speak plainly about such things.
She knew such open communication was not customary for many Englishmen, and gentlemen soldiers even less.
But speaking her mind was the way that Ana understood the world.
And if he was to be half of her world, he would need to learn to speak his mind too.
Perhaps he just needed a little assistance.
“Can I help you, Pedro, when you feel así?”
“That is just the issue.” He pressed his hands together in a learned, methodical movement, popping his knuckles and stretching out the tension in his fingers.
“I am seeking to discover how I need to be helped myself. For so many years, the army was a place of order. I could expect how things would be carried on. But now . . . I find I have lost all faith in them.”
“Quizás . . . it helps that you talk about these things.”
Ana managed to unlace her fingers from the fabric of her skirts long enough to reach for Peter. He took her hand and squeezed it. Ana’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt her heartbeat thud in her chest.
“I can certainly try. But would you mind if we walk as we talk?”
* * *
Peter’s eyes scoured the faded evening skies as if he would find a script written there.
But instead of words, he only spotted a few last birds darting about, the dregs of a bloody sunset, and the faintest glimmer of stars.
He sighed. Clearly Mother Nature would be no help to him tonight.
But at least she serenaded them with the quiet song of the night singers.
His own mother would have liked to pick out the different songs, identifying the nightingale, robin, and blackbird.
She had always appreciated that sort of thing.
Peter was just grateful there was something to break up the silence so Ana would not be so entirely bored at his lack of communication.