Chapter 32
Annabelle
The visit from Betsy impresses upon me that Alfred and I will not be able to hide away in Trescott forever.
But I am not ready to give up our cloistered intimacy yet.
The day will come when I have no choice—and soon.
Nevertheless, my heart whispers not yet, and I obey it.
I am unable to keep the conversation with Betsy from my mind.
It changes something for me that at least one person on this earth knows about me and Alfred—and does not regard the connection as a disgrace.
Even if that one person is an old cottager.
Not that I could seriously think of marrying Alfred.
For so many reasons.
But Betsy’s view of the situation sits in my mind nonetheless.
That same afternoon I find Alfred in the small sitting room that I gave him for his exclusive use. He sits on the sofa, a few letters spread out before him.
“Has someone written to you? Your father?”
My pulse quickens as I step towards him.
“Not my father,” Alfred says, although his brow is still knit.
“Then who?”
“My friends.”
I move towards the table and reach for a letter.
Dear Alfred,
I do not know how to adequately or delicately warn you—and perhaps you already know—but something dreadful has happened.
Your association with Miss de Lacey is widely known by all.
I overheard those bastards Plummer and Molvin discussing it at the club.
Ever since, the news has spread, and no one has been able to talk of anything else.
You know that I would not desert you and in private shall always be your friend.
But in an infinite variety of ways, the scandal shall make your life difficult.
For instance, I do not think I will be able to have you at my dinners when the company is mixed.
Do not be offended. I suspect bedding Miss de Lacey is worth forfeiting a night in the company of politicians’ wives and daughters.
I must say, I never thought you’d be the one to leave our little club first, especially not in such a way as this. From a certain angle, I am quite impressed. It is the devout fellows that are the most abandoned, it turns out…Of course, I only joke.
Nevertheless, please send word that you are alright.
Ever yours,
The Honourable Mr. Henry Bertram, MP
P.S. I just received your last. Please know that you will always be my private friend. Nothing could induce me to abandon you in such a capacity and no real gentleman would ask it.
I pick up another letter, lying beside this one.
Dear Alfred,
No one can talk of anything but yourself and Miss de Lacey.
It is nonsense of course. Everyone should mind their own affairs and not pry into yours.
All the same if you ever need any aid, I remain faithfully yours,
Captain Bram O’Donnell
I drop this letter and pick up the last.
Dearest Alfred,
I have heard the news. All I can say is that I hope you are happy with Miss de Lacey.
If you are not, however, and she has presumed on your good humor and innocence (don’t scoff at my use of this last term or take offense), then know I will happily assist you in breaking with her.
You will always be welcome in my home—Lady Calloway agrees.
Lord Peter Calloway
“The lord needs to be reassured that you haven’t been kidnapped,” I say dryly, putting down the letter.
Alfred frowns.
“Peter is the oldest of our set—he has a tendency to be protective.”
“Do you need to be protected?”
“No,” he says, rubbing his eyebrow.
“You are upset. You have realized what I have cost you. And your friends do not approve. So much for your ardent love.”
“That is not fair, Annabelle. I do love you. And my friends do not disapprove. But they are concerned.”
“The first man said you could no longer dine with him.”
“Only in mixed company. He is in the House of Commons—he must be strategic. I am not affronted.”
“Who are these men? Friends from school?”
He shakes his head.
“You said ‘your set.’ I never knew you had a set.”
I realize how little I know about this man. He mentioned Oxford for university—but that is the extent of my knowledge of his education.
“I don’t have many friends from Oxford or Charterhouse. My current set—I know them through my club.”
“How despicably masculine. But I do not see why you cannot belong to the club any longer.”
“Oh,” Alfred says. “He didn’t mean—he meant a different club.”
“A different club?”
“It is a joke.”
“I don’t understand. What other club does my scandalous reputation bar you from? I should know what privileges I am causing you to lose.”
“It is not that.”
“You aren’t making sense. I demand to know. I will fix it.”
I am prepared to punish anyone who harms Alfred for his association with me. There is much that I can make right with threats and money.
He smiles sheepishly.
“You misunderstand. My set—we have a strange thing that unites us. We refer to ourselves as a club in jest.”
“What unites you?”
He sighs.
“We are all virgins. Or we were.”
“There are more of you?”
The idea that Alfred is not a wholly singular creature stuns me.
“Yes,” he says. “Although all of our reasons are different. None of my friends are clergymen. We are a varied bunch.”
“But the lord said he is married—or is Lady Calloway his mother?”
“No, Lady Calloway is his wife. That I do not understand. His wife is a known beauty. And he seems very fond of her. And yet…”
“Do you care for their disapproval? These friends who write you letters?”
“Damn it, Annabelle. They don’t disapprove. They are merely concerned.”
“Do you think their concern is warranted?”
The silence that follows my question is deep. I am not sure why, but the meddling of these men makes me violent. I itch to find their sources of affluence and stopper them. To make these men beg for my approval.
I cross my arms.
“Very well,” I say finally, after he has merely sighed and rubbed his brow once more.
“You do not understand me. Or them,” Alfred breaks out. “You must think of who I was. Careful. Devout. It is hard for them to understand such a change. And for some of them, it will make our friendship more difficult.”
“I see. You give me up.”
He looks at me with wide eyes.
“Give you up? Annabelle, I do no such thing.”
“Your regret is evident.”
“No, it is not. I may care about the difficulties our relationship puts me in—but that doesn’t mean I give you up. Or regret it.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble for you, Alfred.”
“I know,” he says. “But you cannot control it. Our connection is scandalous. We are living together unwed.”
There it is again. Matrimony. It already itches at my brain after my discussion with Mrs. Ludlow.
“Mrs. Ludlow came to see me,” I say. “She thought we should marry.”
“She is a very sweet woman,” Alfred says. He isn’t looking at me but closing up his letters.
“I can never marry,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“And you would never want to marry me.”
He looks up at me.
“Why do you say that?”
“I am infamous,” I say, gesturing in frustration. “Etcetera. And it is a very permanent connection. What could be your incentive?”
“To be your husband, for one. To have you forever.”
I startle at his ardent tone.
“Are you saying—you would? Want to marry me?”
“Of course I would, Annabelle,” he says. “It would quiet the scandal as well. In time. It would ease the way. But that’s not why. I have told you. I love you. And I would love to be bound to you in the manner of a man to his wife. Before God.”
“God,” I say, spitting out the word. “I do not believe in God.”
“Yes, but I do,” he says.
“You believe in the God that made you suffer all those years?” I say. “That tortured you?”
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t God. That was man. It was my father and my teachers and the church and William Acton who told me such things. And they are wrong. About God and what he wants.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I never feel closer to God then when I’m inside of you. Or giving you pleasure. Or receiving it from you.”
He kisses me then, putting his lips to my neck.
“I don’t think the archbishop would agree.”
“Devil the archbishop,” he says. “He doesn’t know of what he speaks. I know what I feel. I believe in God—and I believe that he wants me here with you.”
My mind rebels at his absurd belief. But when he covers my mouth with his, I lose myself in the kiss.