Chapter 22
Annabelle
Itell myself that if I can sit in my family pew—which I know is kept empty out of respect for my brothers and father—and look up at Alfred, I might find peace.
Afterwards, perhaps, I will speak to him. I will insist that he come to luncheon at the Abbey.
However, when I pull up outside the church, I realize that I am already late. Everyone else is inside. I cringe at the scene I will make entering the church so unexpectedly and so late.
Then I remember that there is a more discreet entry through a side door. This door leads to a small room, almost an antechamber, and out to my family pew. I can enter more discreetly that way. My presence will cause a stir no matter what, but perhaps this way some will not detect me.
I walk to this side entrance, eschewing the main one. I open the door and—to my shock—Alfred Saintsbury is standing in the small room.
I say nothing. We merely look at each other, neither of us guarded in our surprise. He looks no less shocked to see me than I feel to see him.
And then he reaches for me. He grasps my arms right above the elbows, his touch not particularly gentle.
“Why are you here?” he says, his tone low and rough.
I give a little laugh, but not one that I recognize from myself. It is not the harsh, bitter laugh I gave him during our first meeting. I am not sure what it is, but I am vaguely conscious that his presence has wrung it from me before.
“I came to see you. To see you preach.”
“I am not preaching the sermon today. I asked Mr. Peabody to do so in my stead.”
“Why?”
“Annabelle,” he says. “I have not been well—"
“Are you ill?” I say, alarm spiking through me at the possibility that he might be sick.
“No, no, not actually ill, just—I have been—well, I suppose you could say I have been ill. Ill at the prospect of our last meeting.”
His words seem like they emanate from within myself.
On the other side of the door, I can hear the deep drone of Mr. Peabody’s preaching. I can hear the shifting of people in the pews. I want to say me too but the words catch in my throat.
He is so good at telling me what he feels—and it is impossible for me to even confirm that I feel the same.
Instead, I put my arms around his neck and kiss him. He groans against me. It is a groan, I know, of desire and of resistance to our dangerous location.
Frantically, I tell myself that we are invisible. Everyone is listening to the sermon. I can have this with Alfred to fortify myself, to make it possible to speak to him about—about what I am not sure. My staying longer in Trescott perhaps. A few more weeks of assignations.
I push him against the wall of the antechamber and kiss him deeply, his cock hard against my stomach. He moans again.
“Annabelle, God,” he says. “We can’t. Not here.”
“I want you,” I say, my voice desperate even to my own ears. My nipples are hard points underneath my chemise and corset. “No one will see. No one will know. I demand it.”
It is a mad thing to insist upon, but I have lost my mind. I need him. I want him. I will have him.
“We will be quiet. All outside are occupied.”
“Annabelle, we could be discovered,” he says, but his words are not harsh. His breath is coming fast and shallow. He won’t resist me. He always does what I ask.
To reward him for being so good, I drop to my knees and lay a hand on his engorged cock.
He exhales sharply.
“Yes,” he whispers, bringing his hand to tangle in my hair. “I have thought of it a thousand times this past week. Your sweet mouth.”
My hands shaking, I undo the placket of his trousers. When I see his cock again, I nearly moan at the sight of it.
I take him in my mouth and he groans, his fingers tangling in my hair.
“Annabelle,” he whispers. “You are too good.”
Given that I am sucking his cock in church, I think God would disagree.
But I will not argue with him.
I suck him, trying to keep my movements rhythmic and restrained, but finding it difficult given my enthusiasm.
When he touches the back of my throat, he cries out.
“Alfred,” I whisper. “You must be quiet.”
“Yes, yes, I will be. Just don’t stop.”
I don’t trifle with him.
I suck him in long, deep strokes.
“You are going to make me come,” he says. “I haven’t spent all week.”
“Good boy,” I murmur before putting my mouth back on him.
And then he comes, his seed filling my mouth, and I swallow it happily.
“Annabelle,” he repeats. “Fuck. I love you.”
I love you.
The words are clear in the small antechamber.
And I have no idea what to say.
But it turns out that I don’t have to formulate a response.
Because someone else speaks.
“I hate to interrupt a lover’s tryst,” says a deadly voice.
I spring up, whirling around.
And I find myself facing Mr. Thompson.
He is standing at the threshold of the door I just came through. He is a neat and tidy man, his waistcoat is fresh and impeccable, and his smile is that of a school master who has caught his charges in the kitchen after hours.
He gives me the look that weeks ago in my study he tried to honey over with flattery and a servile manner.
Of all the people to discover us, he is perhaps the worst.
“Well,” he says, “The archbishop, I am sure, would like to hear of this development.”
I glance at Alfred. He is blinking at Mr. Thompson, clearly stunned.
Then it dawns on me.
Mr. Alfred Saintsbury is ruined.
He is compromised.
His virtue, so important to his profession, is shattered. And I have shattered it.
Only a few choices stand before me.
But at least I have choices.
Mr. Alfred Saintsbury only has consequences.
There is only one choice, however, that I can tolerate.
“If you think, Mr. Thompson, that Mr. Saintsbury will be scared out of his post, you are very mistaken,” I say, using my most intimidating voice.
The man, however, does not cower.
“Fire him and give the living to my son. Or everyone will know of this—this liaison.”
“Your son will never have this post. Tell whomever you please. Mr. Saintsbury is keeping the living.”
“The archbishop will surely object to such a depraved man serving in his clergy.”
“He will do no such thing,” I say. “And if he does, he will have to answer to me.”
Mr. Thompson flushes with anger.
“I do not understand you, madam.”
“Mr. Saintsbury is mine. He belongs to me. He is under my special protection.” I give a smile at that. “If the archbishop has a problem with this state of affairs, he can take it up with me.”
Not many men in England want to displease me. While they may lampoon me in the press and shun me in polite society, no one wants to contend with what my money can do.
“Your worldly power is nothing to that of the church,” Mr. Thompson hisses.
“I would not be so confident, Mr. Thompson. Even archbishops have financial interests—I could buy and sell any clergyman in England twenty times over, including the deans and bishops.”
“I will ruin you both. I cannot believe you would stoop to this level, Mr. Saintsbury.”
Alfred steps forward suddenly. For a moment, I wonder if he will reject my protection and throw himself on the mercy of his church. The prospective humiliation takes my breath away.
“I have done nothing of which I am ashamed,” Alfred says softly. “I would ask for your discretion, Mr. Thompson.”
“My discretion! My son was to have your post, Mr. Saintsbury, if her father—” he gestures towards me, “—hadn’t been jealous that my boy was worth ten times any of his children.
And now he must serve in a little nothing village with no curate.
So you will not have my discretion. I will be telling anyone who will hear me about this affair, including the archbishop.
” He turns a truly nasty smile on Alfred. “And your father.”
Alfred blanches.
“Good day, Mr. Saintsbury. Enjoy this Sunday. It very well may be your last as clergyman of this parish.”