Chapter Twenty-Four
The rest of that strange, pivotal day had passed in a dream-like fashion. Annie had functioned as best she could, while secretly longing for the moment when she could retire to her room. Weary of feigning bravery, she craved solitude, that she might finally surrender to the demands of her despair.
At last her solitude had been granted, though she’d found no peace in the confines of her room.
For the past few hours, her unshackled emotions had spun her in vicious, unending circles.
Time and again she’d wept over the cruel unpredictability of life, and then castigated herself for her weakness and for unfairly blaming others for her predicament.
The past was gone. She was grieving, she knew, for the future she’d lost. A future that had promised so much love and happiness.
Weighed down with exhaustion, Annie now sat at her small table surrounded by a halo of lanternlight.
Her bed remained unslept in, her letter to Julian Northcott unwritten.
Her current mindset was that life went on.
That all her grief and self-pity served no purpose.
And that she needed to do what had to be done.
The pen in her hand hovered over the paper as she whispered the first words to be written.
“Dear Mr. Northcott.” Ah, but they were much more than a written salutation, those words.
They were a statement. Blinking away persistent tears, Annie dipped the nib and began to write, silently cursing the slight tremble in her hand.
Dear Mr. Northcott,
To begin, please be assured, I take no pleasure in writing this letter. That being so, I shall not fatigue you or myself with extraneous verbiage, but shall simply get straight to the point.
After some consideration, I have decided to end our association.
This is in no way a reflection upon your character.
You have been most gracious to me, and I shall always think of you with fondness.
Beyond that sentiment, however, I am unable to venture and must apologize if I gave you a contradictory impression.
My decision, as it pertains, is absolute and steadfast, the reasons for it personal to me. I must insist, sir, that you set aside all thoughts of responding to this letter and also refrain from seeking me out personally at any time in the future.
I trust you will respect my wishes and thank you in advance for your deference.
Yours most sincerely,
Annabelle Fairfax
“May God forgive me,” Annie whispered, shivering as she set the pen aside. “I’m so sorry, Julian.”
But the chill edging her words was necessary. There could be no sign of anguish, no hint of agonizing regret, no mistaking her message. She read it again and again before folding and sealing it. Then, in a moment of tearful fancy, she pressed her lips to the seal.
As the downstairs clock struck four, she lowered the lantern wick and, still shivering, climbed into bed.
Fatigue swam in her head, yet she was way beyond sleep.
She stared into the darkness and prayed that time might pass quickly, for only time would soothe what ailed her.
Healing, she mused, would surely take a lifetime.
Later that day, having dragged herself from her bed without a wink of sleep, Annie dispatched her letter to Julian Northcott and took the timely delivery of a response from Archibald Mason.
Two days later, despite pleadings and protests from her mother and aunt, Annie left Ferndale Grange and returned to London.
Alone.