Chapter 44
Alfred
The next morning, I am back in the carriage—and on the road to the train station that will take us to London.
With my strangely silent wife across from me.
Annabelle looks regal, beautiful, and a trifle pale. She has her eyes closed, as if she is trying to sleep, but I sense that she is very much awake.
I have tried to engage her in talk of what we will do in London. But she has barely responded to my inquiries.
Annabelle is not exactly verbose under normal circumstances.
But nor is she characteristically silent.
Yesterday after hearing her story, I wanted to take a sledgehammer to Frank Holster’s friendly, handsome face.
I wanted to wake her father from the dead just to kill him for her sake.
My own father was strict to the point of cruelty perhaps, but he was never vindictive.
Annabelle’s father was evidently of a different sort altogether. That is apparent now.
She cried in my arms in this very carriage. She wasn’t happy about it, I know. She didn’t enjoy being that vulnerable. I was careful last night in bed to not give the impression that I wanted to make anything up to her. Even though I did.
Nevertheless, I lavished her with attention. I made her come once and then again and then again.
I bite back a groan at the memory.
“What is wrong?” my wife says.
Her eyes are still closed.
Apparently, I did not suppress my sigh enough.
Strange that in so little time she has come to understand the smallest sound from me.
“Nothing is wrong. I am well.”
“Do not lie to me. You are unhappy.”
“I am not.”
“We will be at the station in ten minutes. If you are hungry, we can have luncheon.”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” I say, still uncertain as to her strange behavior and unsure of what questions to ask.
Perhaps she is tiring of me.
Perhaps the unpleasant memories from yesterday still upset her.
Or perhaps they have caused her to linger on old memories of Frank.
I shake my head, trying to ignore the sting of jealousy in my gut. I am being very stupid, I know that.
“Annabelle, are you—are you well?”
“I’m fine, Alfred, really.”
“Are you sure you’re not upset? Yesterday—”
“Please, I don’t want to speak of it. I have given Frank and my father enough tears for a lifetime.”
Frank. I feel that twist of jealousy again.
“Do you wish you were married to him?”
Her eyes open a crack.
“Frank Holster?”
I nod.
“You can tell me. If that’s how you feel. He was your first love.”
“You are a lunatic,” she says, closing her eyes again.
Now we are pulling into a town—the train station must be up ahead.
“Is he the only man that you have ever loved?”
“Are you punishing me for telling you that story? Now I wish I hadn’t.”
My stomach churns. I have taken it too far. My jealousy is a sick, evil thing.
We have arrived at the train station. I want to apologize, but she still has her eyes closed. I have the sense that I have ruined everything.
“We are here,” I say instead.
Her eyes open once more—and I see now that she does look peaked.
“Annabelle—are you well?”
She doesn’t answer me.
No, to my surprise, my wife lurches forward.
She propels herself halfway out the coach door and then I hear the sound of retching.
My wife, Mrs. Annabelle de Lacey, the richest, most powerful woman in England, is casting up her accounts.