Chapter 45
Alfred
Imay be an innocent in many regards.
But I am familiar with the signs that a woman is with child.
I spent one memorable fortnight in my father’s home when my stepmother, Emily, was newly pregnant with her second child. Every morning, she would leave the drawing room to cast up her accounts. Once, we were walking in the gardens, and she vomited into her prized hyacinths.
During these times, my father had been seeing to the duties of his post—and poor Emily was marooned at home.
Emily and I have always been decently fond of each other.
Whenever I returned home, we spent much time together in mundane companionship.
I always faintly pitied her. I do not think my father the most obliging husband and he was, in fact, even sterner with Emily than he was with me.
Thus because of Emily, I have seen something of the early stages of pregnancy.
Now, I have the distinct feeling that my wife is suffering from the same ailment.
I help her down from the carriage, even as she tries to shrug me from her. I hand her my handkerchief. She waves me off, as she already grips her own.
She takes my arm though, when I offer it. She lets me guide her to the tavern. The train will not depart for an hour. She needs to rest.
“I must have the grippe,” she says.
I say nothing.
First, I am stunned. Annabelle is likely growing with my child. It shocks and frightens and delights me.
Second, as this statement makes clear, she doesn’t know it.
She has no idea that she will soon be swelling with my babe.
She said that she has never gotten with child before—that she is unsure if she can.
She has clearly not recognized what her symptoms mean.
Otherwise, she would surely tell me herself.
As we make our way to the tavern, unease clutches at my heart. I am unsure how to inform her of her condition. Or if she will be upset. Especially since our conversation just now seemed to suggest that she is still melancholy, even after all of these years, about Frank Holster.
When we enter the tavern, I seat her at a table and then arrange with the keeper for a luncheon. I make my way back to our table. The place is blessedly not too crowded. Only a few travelers sit at the other tables.
Despite our relative privacy, I cannot imagine telling Annabelle that she likely carries our child here. The dusty windows only let in weak light. Sawdust coats the floor.
When the keeper brings our tea, I pour her a cup. She takes a tentative sip and then pushes it back.
“I do not think we should go on,” I say. “Perhaps we should stay here for the evening.”
She shakes her head. “I will be fine. I just need to eat something. We must get to London.”
I frown but do not dare to contradict her. I don’t want to upset her in her state.
The tavern maid comes then with the bread and cheese and cold meat and a passel of roasted potatoes. It is standard tavern fare but looks fresh and wholesome enough.
Once the maid puts down the plate, Annabelle doesn’t hesitate. Before the maid’s back is turned, she has a hunk of bread in her mouth.
She continues to eat the bread and I join her.
It is a good repast and I am heartened to see her appetite.
However, it only convinces me that I am correct.
Emily always said she felt better if she could eat something solid after casting up her accounts—that it settled her stomach—and that she had to work to eat even when she didn’t feel like it.
I am hit with another jolt of anxiety. I know Annabelle consented to trying for a child. But she seemed unconvinced that it would be possible. I don’t want anything to interrupt our intimacy, especially when she seems to be growing fonder of me. When I tell her, I must pick the best way to do it.
A shadow looms over our table.
“Are you Annabelle de Lacey?” says a high, soft voice.
I look up, ready to defend my wife. Sure that I will have to. But the two faces hovering over the table give me pause.
They are young women, younger than both myself and Annabelle, with thin faces. They cannot be more than one-or-two-and-twenty. Brunettes. Sisters maybe.
One of the young women, who I guess is the one who spoke, has a large red birthmark across half of her face. Her eyes are trained on Annabelle. The other can’t seem to meet our eyes.
My wife gives them a guarded look. “Either you know who I am, or you do not.”
The one who spoke gasps. “You are her.”
“It is not something many women would freely admit while traveling on this road,” Annabelle says, but to my surprise she has returned to her bread and cheese. I am perplexed. I still feel trepidation—but Annabelle has clearly relaxed.
“We are going to London,” the bold one says. “To start a new life. And we have heard—that you hire women in your counting house.”
Annabelle nods. “I do.”
“We would be so honored to work for you, Miss de Lacey.”
“What skills do you have?” my wife asks, putting down her hunk of bread again. Her face appears less peaked now.
“Amber has a marvelous head for numbers,” the talker says, nudging her companion.
“Is that so?”
The girl raises up her eyes for the first time. She has one brown eye and one blue. The effect at first is jarring. Now the women seem less like sisters. Their faces do not hold any particular resemblance.
“Yes,” she says. “Everyone back home says it.”
“And where is home?” Annabelle asks.
“Farleigh-on-Kilbarton,” answers the young woman with the birthmark. “In Northumberland.”
“You’ve come a long way already then.”
“Yes. But we so want to get to London. We’ve been on the train a long while. And now only half a day more.”
“Did you come all the way to London to work for me? If so, that was foolish.”
At first I assume Annabelle is jesting.
But the young women nod. And it seems Annabelle is not surprised.
“We didn’t depend on it,” the shy one says. “But we did hope…”
Annabelle sighs and pulls a small card from her reticule.
“Call here when you arrive. I will see what I can do. I cannot promise anything.”
The girls look elated.
“Thank you, thank you, Miss de Lacey.”
“I hope you arrive in London safely.”
With that the young women scamper off, gripping each other’s arms. I watch as they enter the third-class compartment of the waiting train.
“We must go,” she says. “We must find my car.”
Annabelle, of course, has a private train car in which we will be travelling to London. When I expressed surprise at this fact, she leveled me with a look that I could only describe as withering.
But now I am preoccupied by her exchange with the two young women.
“You employ women in your counting house?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. No,” I say quickly. “I am just—those young women—”
She sighs in exasperation. At least she is feeling better, and we aren’t talking about her condition.
“I am not universally reviled, Alfred. Just nearly.”
“I do not understand.”
“I am hated by many. Deplored by the newspapers. To the quality, I am notorious. But that does not mean that I have no admirers. I am celebrated in the demimonde of course. And among the more eccentric bohemian circles. And for those who cannot afford to follow the ministers of respectability and the ethos they cultivate…among some of those I am even revered.”
Of course, to many, Annabelle de Lacey is a heroine. I knew she was famous and celebrated in certain circles, but I had not imagined that it extended to the humbler orders.
“I have some male employees,” she continues. “But I have found that men are more liable to disrespect my authority. And for that, I have no tolerance. Women cannot often find professional employment elsewhere. Certainly not at counting houses. Have I shocked you?”
She looks at me now with defiance.
“No,” I say. “I must confess I had not thought deeply about your counting house.” I drop my voice into a whisper. “I have been too preoccupied with your other assets.”
She gives a little laugh at that.
“Well, I assure you, many in London can think of little else where I am concerned. It is quite profitable.”
A burst of warmth bites through the froideur brought on by our fight in the carriage.
“Come,” she says. “Let us board.”
To my relief, when we stand, she takes my arm and lets me pull her close.