Chapter 9
Ana’s personal dressing room was a haven now that it was not entirely white and cold.
She had gathered certain colors and textures to remind her of her beloved homeland, creating a vibrant, comforting room that made her feel more secure, more like herself.
Each morning, she knelt to recite her prayers, and the stabbing guilt at the origins of the growing babe inside her had slowly dulled to an ache.
Although the holy experience of praying for and creating that spirit together with a husband had been viciously, selfishly stolen from her, Ana was still responsible for her child.
God had somehow entrusted this little spirit to her, to care for and to love.
That her condition was progressing had to be a sign of His blessing, His forgiveness.
That was her prayer. And she would cling to the shred of peace that came at the thought.
Ana fingered the vibrant, woven fabric that she had wrapped around the back of her chair.
It was a strangely bittersweet sensation to reflect on her heritage and culture, as it always brought painful memories of her parents to her mind.
She had nothing physical to remember her father by.
She had not been able to bury her father, had not been able to mourn him traditionally in the manner of luto riguroso.
She would never be afforded the privilege of decorating his grave with a rosario.
But she vowed to remember that day each year.
She would mourn San Sebastián, mourn her father, and celebrate his life.
For now, she found that the sweet, early memories of her childhood were the only happy things grounding her, besides the quiet comfort of her husband.
She was painting an illustrative map of her hometown in Valencia when Peter knocked on the door, interrupting her work.
She froze, startled, carefully lowering her paintbrush so as not to mar her painstaking work.
“Sí?”
“May I come in?”
“Por supuesto.” Of course. He was her husband, was he not? Did he truly need to ask permission to enter?
“How are you today, Ana?”
“Muy bien, gracias.”
“And how fares everything with Mrs. Thompson?”
“Todo bien.” In reality, Ana felt that many of the traditional responsibilities she was being taught were frivolous or ridiculously stiff.
She did not understand the careful arrangement of calling cards and visiting hours.
Perhaps she was fortunate that she managed to marry Peter without the complexities of a regular English courtship.
She was not certain she could have survived one. Her lips blew out a huff of amusement.
“Is she proving helpful in teaching you about the responsibilities of your role as the lady of the house?
“Mrs. Thompson is good to me. So very kind. But our casa here is so private. Do I need to know all these things of hosting y eso?”
“I can’t honestly say I enjoy all of England’s traditions, but I’m afraid they’ll be expected of us.”
But she couldn’t so easily adopt such foreign traditions.
“While Abbeygate is not a particularly vast estate,” Peter continued, “there is still quite a lot that needs to be done to ensure that the property is well cared for. I’ll care for the tenants and the land, and I was hoping that you would take charge of caring for the house, including much of the day-to-day happenings as well as any needed decoration changes or guest parties, things of that sort.
At least, this is what Mother has explained to me would traditionally be done. ”
“Traditionally?” Ana María raised a brow in his direction, rolling the r for emphasis.
“I understand that things may be different in Spain, particularly on the part of your family, but we have been allowed to live at this wonderful place and need to do our part to take care of it, you see. And that includes calling on our neighbors, hosting events in our home, and maintaining our standing in society.”
Peter seemed to tick off his words like a great list of tasks to be completed, but Ana could see that he’d gone into that practiced, methodical form of himself that came out when he was on assignment or instructing soldiers.
Notably absent were the melodic passion in his voice or the emotion-filled crinkling of his eyes.
Clearly he did not feel a great personal connection to all their new responsibilities, not like he felt for their missions on the battlefield.
He had to comprehend why such a life felt so foreign to her.
Ana’s chest tightened with emotion as English words fled.
“But the traditions of Spain are important to me too,” she rambled in her native tongue. “I cannot abandon the culture of my heart.”
Peter’s eyes remained distant; his brow furrowed in concentration. He truly wasn’t understanding a thing she said to him.
“You have no idea what I’m saying to you,” she rattled off freely, her pronunciation sharp and precise. It was so much easier to speak Spanish than English!
“That is precisely right,” he said with a smile.
She had to at least acknowledge that his acting was rather good. But she could say all sorts of nonsense, and he would never realize what she was speaking about. It seemed that the responsibility would be hers to learn his language better.
“Bueno, there are many things to do, I see. But can we not choose to live how we like? Perhaps I want una siesta to rest during the day, like in Espana, but always there are guests that come visit. What do I do?” Ana tried to lighten her voice as if jesting, but it cracked with emotion, betraying the weight of the issue on her mind.
She rested her hands at her waist, her eyebrows raised.
“I’m afraid it would not be proper.” Peter bit his lip, rubbing one hand across his brow. “While this is somewhat of an isolated estate, it is well known in Surrey Hills that Abbeygate is an earl’s country seat. There would be talk, you see.”
This Ana could not understand. In Spain, the position of hidalgo, or gentleman, was often determined by those who possessed land or money, instead of it being a lineage or royalty-bequeathed title.
Certainly, there was a layer of the lower nobility that fit under the name of hidalgo through inheritance, but one could also become a hidalgo through their responsibilities, accomplishments, ownership, and more.
The broad inclusion that this caused in their culture blurred the lines between nobility and middle class, and there was a greater sense of comfort and flow between people of differing birth and origin.
This was why Ana felt so bothered, so uncomfortable, at the thought of being constrained in who she could and could not interact with in public solely because of who she married.
Couldn’t she receive a little bit of help from whoever was willing to offer it?
It seemed that settling into life here would be more difficult than she had hoped, particularly if she was trying to put the house in order while also preparing for the birth of her child.
A prickle of frustration cut at her throat. She spun on her heel, pacing the room.
“But I cannot do all. Entiendes?”
In moments like these, she longed for Spain. Longed for her house, the lively banter of her family, the cooking of Mamá. Why must everything be so different here in England?
“We must find you a maid. That will help you a great deal, I’m sure. A Spanish maid, even better. I’ll write to Mother. Surely she has heard of something among the ladies of the Ton. That will help you feel more comfortable.”
“Sí, a maid would be nice, but I need that I feel comfortable!” Ana said, her voice rising as she strode about the room, emphasizing her words as she cast her hands into the air.
“I need that I feel safe to live my culture here. I cannot have una bebé and live a different life than I always dream of. It would not be true. I will not feel safe.”
Pain splashed across Peter’s features as he nodded. “I know very well how it feels to be an outcast, a stranger in one’s own home. But this is our home now. And I wish to do whatever is necessary to ensure that we are both comfortable, happy, and safe here.”
“But I cannot feel segura aquí!”
That was just it—Ana didn’t feel secure here, so far away from family and familiarity.
She desperately wished to, but she doubted if she would ever feel safe again after the events of San Sebastián.
One hand pressed against her abdomen, feeling the tiniest hint of rounding hardness there.
How could she bring a child into such a world?
“This isn’t merely about Spain, is it?”
Ana sank down to the floor, sobs finally shuddering their way out of her.
“No.”
Firm, strong hands grasped her upper arms, then softened, circling around her.
“Everything is wrong. I always wanted a child, and now I have a child but not from my husband. I always want a home, and now I have a home but not in Espana. I am so far de mi familia and I no entiendo nada of mine responsibilities here. It is all wrong. Todo. And I no feel comfortable like this is my home.” Ana wiped at her doused cheeks.
“But I no want to be ungrateful, Pedro. You are so kind. You saved me and my child. I feel so mad to be ungrateful.”
“I know it’s difficult, Ana. I also know I cannot understand how you are feeling.
I have not passed through the . . . pain you have experienced.
I am also not carrying a child and enduring the sickness and changes you are enduring.
But when I asked you to marry me, I was entirely serious that I would support you in whatever way necessary.
Not simply out of responsibility or honor, but also because I know what it is to feel unsafe and alone in the world.
I do not desire the same for you or your child. ”
Ana blinked hard, trying to clear her eyes, and looked up at Peter. His face was before hers, creased with concern and sincerity, his eyes dark with pain and understanding.
“I will help you, Ana María. You will not be alone, I promise. Te lo prometo.”
The racing of Ana’s heart began to slow as the faintest glimmer of hope broke through on the horizon of her mind.
She had experienced some of life’s most painful changes in the last few months, but she did not have to move forward alone.
Peter would help her, just as he had in listening to her concerns.
That was surely an indication of safety in their relationship, was it not?