Chapter 17
Annabelle
Over the next few days, to my distress, I find it exceedingly difficult to not think of Alfred Saintsbury.
As I scowl over the estate ledgers and answer correspondence from London, I think idly about how I might see Alfred without appearing to seek him out.
I can summon him at any time, of course, but that feels too dangerous right now.
If not for the angry mob that threatened me on my last sojourn, I might have tried taking a turn about the village square in my carriage.
I contemplate driving on the road to the vicarage, along which he walks every day.
In my study at night, I shake my head. I am being absurd. I can wait a few days before summoning him. I should not behave as if I am ravenous. The point of this affair is to please myself, get with child, and then discard my father’s choice.
Yes, the man has endeared himself to me on a slight acquaintance.
I must not act like it is such a dangerous thing.
A preference, even a tenderness, is natural enough in anyone.
These things occur from time to time. In the past, I experienced such things with lovers, although perhaps not to this extent. It does not mean anything.
I already resolved to amend my plan by not exposing him to infamy. He need not be consumed in scandal upon losing his post. That was amendment enough. I need not grow sentimental.
But it is difficult to be completely secure in this knowledge when I find myself assailed by memories of Sunday night. He looked at me with such aching need.
Seeking to rend his hold on me, I touch myself to the memory of our evening together again and again. But still these feelings of tenderness plagued me. My ministrations do not have the desired effect.
Indeed, they only drive me to want him more.
By Wednesday, I begin to fear for my sanity.
I am having actual fantasies of driving to the man’s house and visiting him there.
I have not been inside the vicarage in years, not since I was a girl, and I try to imagine Alfred living there.
What changes has he made to the small rooms and homely walls? I remember the small morning room, used by Mr. Thompson in his prime as a study, off the main drawing room. I imagine mounting Alfred at the desk that Mr. Thompson kept by the window and riding him once more.
But I have my dignity. And I can’t have Alfred Saintsbury thinking that he affects me to such a degree.
The only thing worse than being in this state would be to have it known—by him of all people.
I cannot call him to me until I have myself under control.
To distract myself, I decide to visit the Ludlows. I owe them a call anyway—I try to check in on them at least twice a week. Yes, it does occur to me that I once saw Alfred there, but I can have no reasonable expectation that this coincidence will repeat itself.
However, when my carriage pulls up outside the Ludlow cottage, I see a familiar, tall figure in the yard. Ludicrously, my heart begins to beat faster. I fear that I will appear flushed—that I have gone crimson. For a moment, I hold a hand to my cheek and will myself calm. Then I disembark.
“Ah, Miss de Lacey!” I hear Betsy cry. “What a funny thing—you’ve come again when the good vicar is here with us.”
Alfred lowers his head in greeting to me.
He looks at me respectfully, as if I am a kind of queen.
Of course, I am no such thing. I am a wanton harlot with a talent for financial speculation and the fortune or misfortune (depending on how you look at it) of inheriting the estate of a father who hated me.
I am the whore who has ruined him, who will turn him to her purposes and then dismiss him from his post as a reward.
All three Ludlows stand in the garden next to Alfred. They look at me with their kind, friendly faces, and the sight of them with Alfred unmoors me. For years, I barely felt anything. And now the sight of Alfred with my old nurse and her family sears through my chest.
“I am showing Mr. Vicar my pig!” yells Victoria.
“Do not scream at Miss de Lacey, child,” scolds Mrs. Ludlow, although she doesn’t appear truly upset with her granddaughter’s behavior.
“A pig is a very serious business,” I say, opening the gate and walking into the yard. “Did you purchase him at market?”
“Ah, no, Miss de Lacey,” Mr. Ludlow says. “We cannot be frittering away our coin on such frivolous purchases as little pigs.”
“He was a gift from Mr. Holster,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “And very kind of him.”
I try not to start at the mention of Frank Holster.
“Victoria plays with his little daughter,” Mrs. Ludlow says, her voice gone soft with knowledge and I avoid her eye.
“This little pig was the smallest of the new litter. And I want to say to you, lass, that the improvements you have made amongst the cottagers have done much good. Frank Holster is not the only man in town who has bought pigs recently. I know two on de Lacey land who have taken to it. They can do it now that all their time isn’t spent trying to keep their roofs from falling in on them.
Not to mention the pens and fences you gave the money for. ”
I suspect Betsy praises me to distract from the mention of Frank. I appreciate her tact.
“Mr. Holster was going to kill it,” Victoria announces, a tinge of hysterical joy in her voice, ignoring her grandmother’s attention to cottage improvements.
Yes, that did sound like Frank. Doing a painful, barbaric thing out of convenience.
“But our Victoria asked him if she could have it and he gave it to her.”
“His name is Splotches,” the girl says. “Because he has these black splotches in his fur.”
“Pigs don’t have fur, my love,” Mr. Ludlow says. “They have hair.”
“Black splotches in his hair,” the girl says.
“How will you keep it alive?”
I watch the little pig trundle around in the mud. The little thing is very wee—I can understand why Victoria is captivated.
But the Ludlows don’t have much to nurture such a creature.
“I will send milk for it,” I say, answering my own question. I already send food over to the cottage each week.
“No need, my dear. Do not trouble yourself any more on our account,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “The vicar has already offered himself.”
“Yes,” Alfred says. “I am happy to provide for our new friend Splotches.”
A gunshot sounds in the woods nearby, and I jump. It is very near.
“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “A few hunters are out. Jack Liddell and some others.”
I can’t help it—I glance towards Alfred. He takes a step towards me.
I look away. Ridiculous.
Jack Liddell wouldn’t dare. And he doesn’t even know I am here.
Another volley of gunshots sound, louder this time. I grit my teeth.
“Splotches! No!”
A long squeal rents the yard.
I whirl around. The little pig runs under the fence and into the forest.
The sight of its little tail disappearing into the brush fills me with despair.
“Oh, blast,” I say, running to the gate. “I will get it.”
“Miss de Lacey,” Alfred says, his voice iron. “I must insist that you stay here. I will go after the animal.”
“My pig! Splotches!” Victoria cries.
I have already dashed into the woods. I can see where the long grass sways from the piglet’s movement. I lunge—
“Annabelle!”
Two strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back.
“Damn you,” I howl. “I almost had it. Quick, it is getting away!”
Alfred still holds me fast.
“Do not take another step into those woods,” he says, his breath hot at my ear. “It’s not safe.”
I try to wrest myself away from him, but it is no use.
“I am not afraid of Jack Liddell. Let me go. Someone will see.”
“No one can see us. And I wouldn’t care if they did. I am not about to have you risk your life.”
“You are not a reasonable man.”
“I fear, Annabelle, that when it comes to you, I am indeed no such thing.”
A shiver of pleasure runs through me at these words. I shake my head. Absurd!
Shouts ring through the woods. Then footfalls, loud and crashing. They are chasing an animal, it seems, and they are coming this way—
“Down,” Alfred whispers in my ear. Roughly, he pushes me below a bank of ivy on the forest floor. We are between two felled tree trunks, in a narrow space where we cannot be seen by passersby.
I am lying on my side, pushed up against Alfred. My breasts touch his chest and my legs tangle with his. His arms are around me. Excepting our clothes, we are as intimately situated as we were the other night on my bed.
We are face to face. In the bright daylight I see that his green eyes are amber-flecked.
His features, usually so pretty, are blunted with fear.
I should feel the same alarm that clearly has him frightened on my behalf, but I find myself distracted by his nearness.
My core pulses. I wonder if lying like this with me will get him hard.
“Alfred, do you think this is really—”
“Shh,” he says. “Hush.”
The hunters’ voices draw closer.
“This way, I saw it!” cries one man.
“We’ve lost it now,” Liddell says. “God damn it.”
“Now look at that,” says another.
For a moment, I think we have been discovered.
But then Liddell says, “The whore’s carriage. At the Ludlow place. If Lyle Ludlow hadn’t been a friend of my father’s, I’d have a word with ‘im about consorting with such filth.”
“No reason we can’t get her from the place. No harm will come to him.”
“What blockheads I am with,” the first man says. “If you lay a finger on her, you’ll be executed. Especially if there are witnesses. She might be a whore, but she is a rich one. And the owner of the Abbey.”
I swallow. I have heard all manner of insults before, but it doesn’t mean that I glory in them now—and certainly not with the men so close and so willing to do me harm.
Alfred’s grip on me tightens. And then I feel it—his cockstand digging into my thigh. I fight a smile. The man is as impossible as me. We are about to be murdered—or I am, anyway—and the man has a cockstand.