Chapter 49
Alfred
The next morning, when I awaken, I feel a surge of relief—and then joy.
To be with Annabelle and to have no secrets between us is heaven.
And then there is the fact that she is carrying my child.
She told me that I should not get my hopes up.
But it is impossible.
I have so wanted a family. That it now appears to be happening with Annabelle is something that I can’t believe. My good fortune feels too immense to be true.
When Annabelle stirs beside me and grimaces, however, my delight transforms to worry. She is clearly suffering from the same ailment that plagued poor Emily.
“Are you ill again? Can I do anything for you?”
“It is fine,” she says, sitting up, clearly disliking my hand-wringing. “Give me a moment. I just need to stand.”
She does so, but then a shadow passes over her face.
She runs to the water closet and I hear her retching.
I follow her and find her bent over the privy.
Instinctively, because I have never helped anyone in this fashion before—my intimacy with Emily did not extend that far—I reach for her long, blonde hair, stroking it back from her face. I rub her back with my other hand.
“I am so sorry, Annabelle.”
When she is done, I hand her a handkerchief, and she wipes her mouth. Then she slumps against the wall and closes her eyes.
“I am fine,” she finally says. “Really.”
“It is perfectly all right with me if you’re not.”
I settle my arms around her and, to my surprise, she slumps against me.
“Not exactly the honeymoon you envisioned, I’m sure. Having me drag you to London and then casting up my accounts everywhere,” she murmurs. “My head in the privy is not the most appealing tableau.”
“Don’t say that,” I say, unsure of how to convey to her the depth of my care for her.
How she is no less beautiful to me for being ill—and will only become more radiant in my eyes, in carrying our child.
“No amount of casting up your accounts could change how I feel about you. And the way that I feel about you is that you are the most beautiful woman in all of Christendom. No, the world.”
“You’re a fool.”
“Maybe. But when it comes to you, I don’t care.”
She says nothing, but I know the words mean something to her. I know because she lets me keep holding her.
When she is ready to stand, we return to the bedroom and dress for the day. I insist on playing her lady’s maid, because I am afraid that movement will make her feel ill again. I have had the actual grippe enough times to know how that can go.
I also insist that we go downstairs for breakfast immediately, reminding her that the bread at the tavern yesterday made her feel better.
As we walk down the stairs from the upper level, I assess the townhome for the first time. It is very large and done up in a way that melds practically and quality—but it nevertheless has a remote feeling to it. She said she has lived here for a long time, but it does not feel like it.
We enter a handsome morning room and find breakfast things already laid out. It appears that the servants have been well-apprised of our arrival, which is a very good thing because Annabelle looks peaked again.
“Here.” I cut a slice of bread off a loaf for her. “Have some of this. Do you want butter? Jam?”
She shakes her head vigorously and then sinks her teeth into the bread. She eats that slice and then a second.
She waves at the bacon and eggs.
“The smell—”
She gestures to a bell on the table which I ring, and a maid servant appears. I ask her to take away that platter.
“Is that better?” I ask.
“Much,” she replies, slathering butter and jam on a third slice of toast. I take her adding these accentuations as a good sign.
“Coffee?” I ask, pouring myself a cup.
“Yes.”
I hand her the cup I just poured and she brings it to her lips—but then sets it back down again.
“On second thought,” she says. “I don’t think so.”
I take back the cup and pour in cream.
“Is it worse in the mornings?”
She looks up at me. “Yes. It usually is. Or that is what I have always heard said.”
“It was the same for Emily. She would look positively green at breakfast and then be perfectly fine by supper.”
“Poor wench. I have been feeling just the same. And at least I have had many orgasms in bed with a handsome man as compensation. Where she probably only had a dry rutting courtesy of your father as prelude.”
“Annabelle!”
The thought of my father bedding Emily is not one I want to entertain. However, I can’t keep from laughing either.
“You know I am right.”
“They have never struck me as particularly in love, you are correct.”
“Shocking. Clergymen over fifty and their wives thirty years their junior are known for their passionate marital beds.”
“It is ghastly when you put it that way. I always felt bad for Emily.”
“As I said, poor wench. She’s probably been dying of love for you the entire time. I am sure she wishes she were married to you and not your father.”
I shake my head. “She isn’t that type of woman.”
Annabelle opens her mouth to lay down another saucy retort, I am sure, but then she closes it again and goes pale.
She closes her eyes.
“I am fine,” she says before I can react. “Just a bad moment.”
“I am concerned. You suffer too much,” I say. “There must be something that we can do.”
“I will write to my friend, Matilda—she is an apothecary. But I doubt much can be done.”
“Let me write for you.”
And so I do, addressing a letter to a Mrs. Matilda Cunningham, a widow and a practicing apothecary in the Seven Dials.
I introduce myself as Annabelle’s new husband and ask for her to call that afternoon, if she is able, with any remedies for nausea.
I don’t state that my wife is pregnant, but I suspect that between the sudden marriage and my request, it will be obvious.
After I dispatch the letter, we continue to eat breakfast. Annabelle opts for black tea and manages to drink that without incident.
“I want to go over to the counting house this morning,” Annabelle says finally after a period of silence. “I feel it is my duty. I know my steward, Miss Endicott, has everything under control. But nevertheless I have neglected the place for too long.”
I can’t help but frown at this plan. “But you are ill.”
“I am already feeling better. Soon I will be well even, I am sure. As you said, it is worse in the morning.”
“Still, you must rest. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon—”
“Alfred, I will not tolerate being told what I can and cannot do.”
Her tone is severe indeed and I reel back. I hadn’t intended to be controlling. I only wanted to protect her.
“That is not my intention. I hate that I am the cause of your illness. I want to make it better.”
“You are not the cause. Or if you are, we are both the cause. And you cannot make it better. You can only do so much. You have been a great help this morning.”
“I am at your command in all things, Annabelle, but especially in this. You should, of course, go to the counting house if that is what you desire. It is only—”
I break off, not sure if I want to continue. It is not relevant, really, to what is happening between us now.
“It is only what?”
“It is nothing.”
“I don’t like when you begin to say something and then stop yourself. Please just say it.”
“My father,” I say, reluctant to bring up the man. “I did not feel he was sufficiently attentive to Emily. During her pregnancy.”
“Somehow that does not surprise me.”
“She was very ill every day. And he ignored it, expecting her to see to all of her household duties as usual.”
“Did she object to such treatment?”
“Emily is very mild-mannered. She never goes against my father.”
“You do not want to be like him.”
“No,” I say. “I do not.”
“Don’t worry,” Annabelle says. “You aren’t.”
“Still,” I warn her. “It is not fair, is it? That a woman carries so much of the burden of bringing a child into the world. I want to do what I can to lessen the strain on you. To somehow make it more equal.”
“Unfortunately, I do not think any amount of effort on your part will do that.”
I smile at her wry tone. “You are undoubtedly correct. But I can try.”
“Well, if you are at my service then, will you escort me to the counting house?”
I flush with pleasure at this offer. I didn’t think she intended to include me on her sojourn to the center of her empire. And I very much want to see it.
“Absolutely, my love.”
“You mustn’t become jealous,” she says. “At the vastness of my power.”
I sweep her hand to my lips.
“That is not the kind of thing that would make me jealous, Annabelle. I will leave the vast power to you. If you reserve the privilege of pleasuring you and loving you to me.”
She smiles a bit at that even though she does not meet my gaze.
“Well, I suppose I cannot refuse those terms.”
“Then don’t.”