Chapter 42
Alfred
Ihave no objection to leaving Trescott.
However, when I awaken on our last full day in the place, our nearing departure makes me a bit melancholy.
While I know that Annabelle has bad memories—some very recent—at Trescott, I have come to love the place. After all, I have very good memories here, the best of my life, and it unmoors me a bit to imagine the two of us in a new location.
I have to wonder—will my rich, beautiful wife still be interested in me once we return to London? Surely, she has friends and former lovers who will try and claim her attention. Perhaps, I will quickly pale in comparison.
I have been to London many times, of course, but it always overwhelmed me.
Despite belonging to a club there for years now, and having made such good friends through it, my membership was only granted as a favor to my father.
In truth, I have never lived in London for longer than a few months at a time between posts.
My father often encouraged me to reside there in these intervals, so that I would acquire what he called “city polish.”
During these times, I attended the theaters, visited the fashionable shops, went to the opera, dined at the famous coffee houses and taverns, and, of course, frequented my club daily. Nevertheless, I don’t know London the way Annabelle clearly does.
Hell, in London, Annabelle de Lacey isn’t just infamous—she is famous. I know enough of London, and enough of her life there, to understand that there exist milieus in which her notoriety makes her fascinating—and desirable.
With these thoughts swirling in my head, I peer down at my sleeping wife. I heard her stirring this morning and was vaguely aware of her warm presence leaving the bed. But if she left, she clearly returned and fell back asleep.
God, she is beautiful.
In sleep, her expression holds a blend of fierceness and vulnerability. She always expects herself to be strong. What would it be like if she let me be strong for her? What might then happen between us?
She confessed last night that she felt things for me. Those feelings scare her. It wasn’t a declaration of love. But it felt close.
As if she senses my attention, her eyes flutter open.
There is no hiding that I have been looking at her.
“Alfred,” she gasps and then begins to laugh. “Have you been staring at me all morning? Am I really such a fascinating object when I sleep?”
“Yes,” I say, my cheeks heating. “I like watching you at rest.”
“What time is it?”
“Not past nine.”
She shakes her head in disapproval. “You should have woken me.”
She sits up and, immediately, her countenance turns—almost as if she is in pain.
“Annabelle, are you well?”
She shakes me off.
“Of course. I just sat up too quickly. I must dress. We have things to see to before we leave. In town.”
Annabelle rises from the bed and walks quickly towards her bureau.
“I will see you downstairs. In the breakfast room. I will only need a quarter of an hour to dress. And then we will go out.”
I nod dumbly, hating that she is putting distance between us once more. Last night, she seemed so open to me—like her feelings for me were real. But now she seems as she always does, very fond of me, but in a way that remains firmly within her control.
But I know not to complain. And the truth is that even if I feel disappointment in her brisk manner, it is still many leagues better than the alternative: no Annabelle at all.
I wait for her downstairs, perusing the newspapers. As usual, I skip over the scandal pages. I have no desire to read what they are saying of me. My friends have already given me a taste in their letters and it is enough to know the contours.
When Annabelle appears in the breakfast room, we dine in near silence, both of us occupied with the newspapers.
She does not seem upset, merely contemplative, and she eats her tea and toast slower than usual.
I wonder again if she is ill, but she took the question so poorly the first time, I don’t want to repeat it.
It worries me, however, that she might be ill.
If she continues to be poorly, I will insist that we delay our trip to London.
The idea does not displease me.
Soon we are seated in the carriage, on our way to visit town for the first time since Mr. Thompson discovered us in the church. Since our marriage, too.
I realize I have no idea where exactly we are going.
“What is your business in town?”
“I must see Mr. Perry.”
“What for?”
She shrugs. “Arrangements for the estate. I want to make sure everything runs well in my absence.”
“You seem to take very good care of the estate.”
“I hate to see anything done badly. Especially when the estate employs so many. My father ran the place very ill. He hardly turned a profit. And his workers were not happy. I have been working to reverse this state of affairs.”
“Have you been having success?”
She scoffs. “Of course. To be fair to my father, I have access to reserves of capital of which he could have only dreamed. You must invest money—albeit wisely—to make money.”
I, of course, know nothing of such things. I have never dealt with money matters beyond my own expenses.
But when we enter Mr. Perry’s offices, I am surprised to hear what Annabelle has come to say.
First they run over the accounts, and I appreciate afresh how intimidating my wife is in business.
Of course, the only business dealings I have had with her previously concerned my own debauching—and I see she brings the same tenacity to her purely pecuniary affairs.
She questions Mr. Perry on minute concerns.
Nothing regarding the estate seems to escape her notice.
But when she begins to lay out plans for providing the cottagers on her rent rolls with monthly stores of food, I am taken aback.
“Each household should receive a bushel of the apple harvest—and the blackberries too. In the winter months, the families with children need an extra pound of flour monthly from the mill. And poultry too, whether the wild turkeys or the chickens when they come up for slaughter—one bird a month for each cottage,” she lists to Mr. Perry who writes down her requests.
“And if anyone in town needs work in the winter, we should give it and pay for the labor well.”
“Anyone?” I ask. I can hardly scruple her generosity to her workers, but hiring from the townspeople that menaced her hardly seems safe.
Mr. Perry appears to have the same thought because he stops his scratching.
“Yes,” Annabelle says. “We may need the extra help and in Trescott the winters are often quite lean. There may be families that need the extra money.”
“Surely you wouldn’t hire the men who threatened you.”
Annabelle shrugs. “Most of those men have children. They shouldn’t starve because their fathers are fools.”
“Annabelle, those men are more than fools. They are violent.”
“And yet here I stand,” my wife snaps. “No worse for it.”
“If I may, Mr. and Mrs. de Lacey,” Mr. Perry says smoothly. “Such a move could be diplomatic. If they are employed by Trescott, if they are directly enriched by the estate, they may drop their hostilities.”
Annabelle nods. “For the winter and spring planting, hire anyone who will work, and pay them well. And,” my wife looks down at her cuff sleeve, “send the extra flour to every home in the parish right after our departure. For Christmas we can send something else—preserves perhaps. I agree, Mr. Perry, that the current state of relations between Trescott and the town cannot be borne. If better relations can be bought, then I will buy them.”
I am nonplussed by this conclusion. These men threatened my wife—and she wants to placate them.
“Annabelle, I am not sure that this is wise. They may see it as a sign of weakness.”
“Are you questioning me, Alfred?” she says, her tone icy.
“I am protecting you. These people are dangerous—and who knows how they have reacted to our marriage. They may see it as a provocation and want to harm you further.”
“Alfred, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Yes, you didn’t need me at all when that angry mob nearly seized your carriage.”
“You exaggerate,” she huffs.
“I do not,” I say, working to keep my voice soft but firm. I won’t have her endangered. I will not have her harmed.
“Mr. de Lacey,” Mr. Perry interjects once more.
“I do not mean to interfere in a personal matter. But I must agree with your wife. And I have reason for doing so. After those events by which you were so right to be alarmed, I set about investigating the origins of the trouble. And it is my belief that the animus is motivated, yes, by Mrs. de Lacey’s, uh, reputation, but also—in no small part—by the late Mr. de Lacey’s… ”
The man trails off as if unsure how to phrase what comes next.
“You needn’t mince your words about my father for the sake of anyone here, Mr. Perry, I assure you,” Annabelle bites off.
“His lack of, shall we say, stewardship of Trescott. The resentment has been building for years, I believe. I tried to tell your father, Mrs. de Lacey, but you know how he could be. Very proud. And he didn’t like to let go of a shilling, even if it was to save a pound.”
“Indeed,” Annabelle concurs dryly.
“With generous treatment from you, Mrs. de Lacey, relations between yourself, your husband, and the parishioners could be quite cordial.” He stops then, as if weighing whether he wants to say more.
“And as to the matter of your marriage, well, I do not think it will have an ill effect. If I may say, sir, you are popular with the people of Trescott, particularly the ladies, as vicar. I don’t think they are disposed to look ill on the marriage—with a little encouragement. ”
Annabelle laughs. “No, not really? My family’s reputation in Trescott will be fixed by Alfred’s amiability.”
Mr. Perry chuckles.
I, however, do not feel amused. Not least because it feels as though Mr. Perry and Annabelle are laughing at me.
“How can you be certain that they don’t condemn our union?”
Mr. Perry sees my lack of amusement and schools his features.
“I am sure some would condemn it, Mr. de Lacey. But that is a rather melancholy prospect—for a bright young man such as yourself to be swallowed up into sin. And rather a useless conclusion for the people here. It would be much more useful to them if you charmed Mrs. de Lacey and made her liberal.”
“She was always liberal,” I say. “She has been helping the cottagers since she inherited. I was vicar after all. I know that.”
“Yes, of course, but if people here choose to credit you for what your wife has arranged and credit love for their new prosperity—well, I don’t see harm in it.”
Love. That is not the word that my wife would use to describe our relationship. I feel a twinge in my chest. Stupid, that.
My wife takes my hand. She wants to chase away my dismay and, as usual, I am not averse to being cajoled by her.
“We should send the people of Trescott a gift announcing our nuptials. I suspect we have enough cider to send to everyone in town. And then maybe we will not have to fear being ambushed on the open road.”
“That would be an excellent start,” Mr. Perry says.
I sigh. I am not sure why the conversation makes me cross. I suppose it is the reminder that there are people not just out in the world somewhere, but close to us in Trescott, who have wished my wife true harm. I hate the idea of appealing to such people. They don’t deserve it.
“Alfred,” Annabelle says. “My father—he treated people here harshly. He was ungenerous and a bad master. If this has the added benefit of making it safer here for us, then we have all the more reason to pursue it.”
I suspect that she knows the idea of correcting a moral wrong will appeal to me more than appeasing the violent.
“And if we are ever to have a child—”
She says the last part in a soft voice. I am sure Mr. Perry heard her all the same—it is impossible that he would miss the statement.
But I know the words are for me alone. Their effect is immediate.
Of course, if we ever come back to Trescott with a child, we could not risk the babe being harmed by the men who threatened Annabelle.
“Very well,” I say, squeezing her hand and turning towards Mr. Perry. “Let’s bribe them until they are as in love with my wife as I am.”
Mr. Perry flushes at his raw declaration—and when I turn to Annabelle, her cheeks are a bit red as well.
Good.
I want no one mistaking where I stand: Annabelle above everything.