Chapter 35
Alfred
Annabelle spent all afternoon in her study with Mr. Perry.
She sent me ahead to wait at the church for her.
And so now that is what I do. I wait.
It is strange to be at the church now.
It doesn’t feel the same as it did before.
Nevertheless I revel in its simple beauty and let it calm me. I beckon God to me and after a while I feel the faint rays of his presence.
After a time that feeling abates, and I wonder what Annabelle will wear to our wedding.
It is hard for me to imagine that she would put on finery for such an occasion.
But will she really only wear one of her regular, severe frocks?
I am sure that her clothing will reveal her state of mind.
If she wears no finery at all, if she does not alter her dress in the slightest, she truly sees marrying me as nothing more than the acquisition of a particular piece of property.
I hear the church door open and I turn.
She stands in the dim light of the church, lit only by my candle. Mr. Peabody enters with her.
My heart sinks.
She is in one of her usual dresses of black silk.
A dress that announces she is merely attending to business.
It is not a good omen.
She comes towards me and gestures to one of the rooms off the center of the church. I follow her into the room, which is a kind of office for Mr. Peabody.
“I have made up marriage articles,” she says brusquely once the door is closed. “They are very much to my favor.”
She puts the document down on the desk. I move towards it, knowing that I have no leverage or ability to negotiate.
“You may look it over of course,” she sniffs.
“But I will tell you what is in it. If I die, you are to have my entire fortune and all of my properties, which are considerable. That will include Trescott. It is not entailed. Any children—if there are any—will have great sums of money settled upon them. If I die after the birth of a child or children, they will get many of the properties in addition to cash settlements, but all of that will be disbursed and allocated at your discretion and held by you until they come of age. In such circumstances, you will have a comfortable income and one of the properties—of your selection, except for Trescott—settled upon you. In any event, you will be settled for life when it comes to the pecuniary aspect of our arrangement.”
“It sounds like you have dealt with me very generously,” I say, confused now by her warning.
I am not offended by the stipulations in regards to any children.
It makes sound sense to provide for them in such a way—and her fortune is so vast that it would make no difference to me.
I am merely glad that she is thinking of children. That she seems open to them.
“There are conditions,” she says, “that Mr. Perry thought unusual and that indeed are unusual. The first, however, is not unusual and is even customary in situations such as this one when the fortune of one party so exceeds the other. You will take my surname. Upon our marriage, you will no longer be Mr. Alfred Saintsbury, but Mr. Alfred de Lacey.”
I pause, surprised. Once the initial shock fades, however, I find no objection within my breast. She is correct of course.
It is not uncommon for men to change their last names when marrying into families of greater rank and fortune.
Similarly, if a great person leaves the bulk of their fortune and estates to a nephew with a different surname, the heir often changes it as a condition of the inheritance.
And I like the idea that she would stamp me as her own. That I would become, officially, hers.
“I do not object,” I say, meeting her eyes and finding surprise there. She thought I would be affronted.
“Very well,” she says. “That is not all. You will lose all of the benefits of this agreement if you are not faithful to me while the…corporeal part of our marriage lasts.”
Now I am affronted.
“I do not understand.”
“I will not be trifled with,” Annabelle says. “I require your faithfulness. I will not have you bedding other women. If we mutually agree to end that part of our marriage, then of course you are free to seek other lovers.”
“You mean if you seek to end the corporal part of our association? Because according to this article, if I understand it, I cannot.”
Annabelle blanches in the dim light. “You believe I would force you to bed me.”
“No,” I say, “but this article is not necessary. Annabelle. I would never deceive you or be unfaithful. I take the marriage state seriously. When I pledge to be faithful to you for my whole life in our vows, I will mean it. I will not break that vow. My body is yours for the entirety of my lifetime.”
She blinks at me. “That is not necessary. I only want assurance that you will not trifle with me while our—”
“Yes, while the corporeal part of our marriage continues,” Alfred says. “But I do not need such a stipulation. I can promise you right here, right now, that I’ll never bed another woman as long as I live. Even if you die. I am yours forever.”
“I am not asking that of you,” Annabelle says, a slight horror edging into her tone. “I do not wish to make you take another vow of restriction. You have had enough of that for a lifetime. I only mean to protect myself.”
“If it assures you, I will sign it. I will promise to bed no other woman while we continue to bed each other. But it is not necessary because I make another promise here before you, Annabelle. I am yours. I’ll never bed another woman as long as I live.
You are to be my wife. And I will be faithful to my wife all the days of my life. ”
Her eyes dilate slightly in the candlelight.
I can tell—I am not sure how—that my words arouse her.
She is contented with my pledge even though she will not return it.
I want to show her my devotion and I have found a way.
She might regard this marriage as a mere bit of fancy paperwork, but she must know that I am taking it seriously.
She might tire of me and take other lovers. I never will.
“Then sign it.”
She hands me the pen. I sign where she indicates, feeling not a sense of loss or entrapment. Instead I feel blessed beyond belief that of all men, I get to be hers.
“Come,” she says. “We must marry. Then we will go home.”
“I have one question,” I say. “Do you expect me to keep the living?”
“That is entirely up to you.”
Part of me wants to keep it. It is one thing that this marriage will make more possible. But another part of me is not sure I belong in the church anymore.
“I am uncertain. But I would like to see Mr. Peabody move into the vicarage since I will no longer need it. And his per annum raised. Given that I suspect I will be distracted from my duties for some time.”
“Then so be it,” she says. “We can discuss it with him after the ceremony. I am sure he will be delighted.”
I nod. I am sure he will be. He is a young man with a growing family. It is nearly as good as becoming vicar himself.
I smile at her, hoping to inject the moment with more levity.
“You have been very generous with me, Annabelle.”
She shakes her head sadly and looks away from me.
It is useless to argue with her on this point.
“I will have to convince you of my gratitude in the bedchamber,” I say softly.
She does smile a little.
“You may lose things in being married to me that nothing can make up for.”
“Why don’t you let me determine that? Right now, I do not fear any losses.”
She looks at me as if I am very young and very foolish.
“And one last thing, Alfred. You must never expect me to love you. I’m not capable of that.”
The words sting as none of her earlier stipulations did. And they confuse me because, in truth, I know her to be capable of great tenderness. She has shown me love even if she won’t avow it.
Evidently, however, to call such acts love, or to say that she loves me will be very difficult for her. At least she is being clear with me. I want her love, but I will accept what she can offer. I will not expect her to call what she does for me, what she does to me, love.
“I don’t expect you to love me, Annabelle. I only want to be with you. It is enough—more than enough—to be your husband.”
Something flashes in her eyes at my words, at my simple acceptance. And then it is gone.
“Come,” she says. “Mr. Peabody is waiting.”
She moves to the door and into the center of the church.
And then I see it.
When she walks by a row of lighted candles, I see that she is not, after all, dressed in her black silk.
Instead it is a dress of a different type altogether, one that I have not seen before.
It is black, yes, but it is arrayed with magnificent dark lace over the sleeves, bodice, and skirt.
And I realize her hair is done up in a series of braids more intricate than her usual simple coil.
I even catch a dark velvet ribbon—the same color as her dress—interwoven in the light strands of her hair.
The occasion does mean something to her.
The dress is proof.
It gives me strength. She may not be able to say that she loves me.
But her clothing, the care she took in dressing for our hasty nuptials, indicates that this wedding is a matter of importance to her.
I follow her, stand before the altar, and I pledge myself to her for life.