Chapter 21
Annabelle
Iam under the power of a horrible affliction.
I wonder if I am actually gravely ill somehow. Because, certainly, I am in pain.
But no, I know it is not that. Not actually.
The ache started after my last encounter with Alfred. And it will not cease.
It bothers me no matter what I do. No matter how many accounts I look over from the counting house or how many times I check the ledgers of the Abbey or how I devote myself to preparations to return to London.
No matter how many new schemes for business endeavors or investments I try to distract myself with and which usually calm my mind easily.
Somehow, I miss him horribly even though I have never spent more than a few hours in his company.
Nevertheless, I meant what I told him. I cannot stay at Trescott Abbey. I must return to London. Yes, because of my business interests there and the threats to me here.
But also because I fear that I am losing my senses around him.
I think incessantly of what he said about a child, the child I may now be carrying for all I know. He wants to be a father. He would regard my keeping a child from him as a betrayal. I seem to have found one of the only men in England who cares what becomes of his bastard.
I shouldn’t care what he wants.
But it torments me. The horrible tenderness I feel for him—and the hurt he would surely feel if I execute my plan.
Even now, I am unsure if I can bear to dismiss him from his post.
It would cause him pain. He would doubtlessly struggle to get a new one. And why should it matter if I do not intend to return to Trescott?
It disturbs me that I cannot stick to my resolution.
I am not supposed to be weak.
I am supposed to be ruthless.
And yet I cannot promise myself that I will do it.
The coming separation seems painful enough on its own.
Instead, I am fitful and restless, walking the halls of my childhood home, finding all my old hiding places and observing how small and pathetic they appear now.
I want to call Alfred to me again. I want him to fill me up and to distract me from these thoughts.
But I refuse to give into my desires. I told him that I would only call him to me once or twice more. My pride will not let me appear too eager.
Instead, day after day, I call Mr. Perry instead, forcing him to go over trifles.
“Are you well, Miss de Lacey?” he asks one afternoon, when I have called him to inquire about particular entries in the ledgers from three autumns ago.
“Yes,” I snap. “Why would I be anything but well?”
The man simply nods and then retreats. But I know it means my restive mood is noticeable to others.
The truth is that I have never felt for a man the way I feel for Alfred Saintsbury.
I have been with sweet and bashful men before, but none touched me in the same way. Alfred is more than his type. Yes, he is innocent and sweet and nervous, but he is also ardent and so willing to be within my power that it becomes a power unto itself.
I think of writing one of my friends to describe my predicament. Evie would laugh. Matilda would take it earnestly. But it is too lowering. Even if my friends would not judge me, I couldn’t bear it.
But I grow desperate. And I decide, finally, that I will write a letter to Evie. As a light skirt from the Seven Dials, Evie is not one to judge others’ sexual improprieties. In fact, it is only with Evie that I have ever felt completely normal.
Dear Evie,
I hope you are well and the information trade is to your profit.
I find myself in a predicament.
I have met a man here—I will not say who, so do not ask—and begun an affair. He is very much my usual type. Nervous. Very pretty.
I had resolved to ruin him and be done with it. But I find I feel more than I care to. What would you do in such a circumstance?
Annabelle
P.S. Tell no one of this. Not even Matilda.
Two days later, I received the following response written in Evie’s uneven hand:
Dear Annie,
(Evie always calls me Annie, when no one else does. It is ridiculous—but I tolerate it).
Ah, the queen of ice has melted! I cannot imagine how HANDSOME he must be if he has vanquished you.
What is to be done, my love? If the man has enchanted you, you must be enchanted. God knows, you have money enough to recover from a mistake.
If you want to take the man back to London with you, then I am sure you can purchase him for your own exclusive use.
But do hurry back. We miss you here.
Always yours,
Evie Colley
The letter makes my throat catch. My desire to see Alfred, which was keen before, flames into something more.
I wrote Evie instead of Matilda because I knew she would take it lightly. And I suspected she would give me license to do whatever I please.
While it heartens me to hear from Evie, it doesn’t solve any of my problems.
It has been almost a week since I last saw Alfred and I am miserable.
I have prepared to leave for London—but I cannot do it. Not without seeing him again.
It is Sunday morning and, after reading Evie’s letter, I am in agony.
She makes the affair sound so simple. And perhaps it is. Perhaps it is as simple as wanting him and letting myself have him.
I need to see him again, especially since I was so cold to him at our last parting.
My pride has evaporated under the heat of my desperation.
I decide to do something objectively mad.
I decide to go to church.