Chapter 50
Annabelle
Despite my ambient feeling of mild queasiness and the guilt I feel over the origins of this pregnancy which similarly comes in waves, I am very much looking forward to returning to my counting house.
But these feelings are quickly replaced by extreme nausea.
The streets of London have a less than pleasant odor under the best of circumstances.
Now, however, they make my stomach roil within seconds of entering the carriage.
The streets smell like horse droppings and sour milk and piss and rotting vegetables even in the cold November weather.
A scent that I long learned to ignore is now an assault.
Even through the thin walls of the carriage, it is nearly unbearable.
I try to close my eyes and beat down the feeling.
Which only rouses Alfred’s suspicions of course.
“Annabelle, are you feeling ill again?”
“No,” I say, demurring, hoping that I will adjust to the fragrance of the London streets. “I am only tired.”
“Annabelle,” he warns. “Do not lie to me.”
“Fine,” I say. “It is the streets. The smell—it doesn’t suit me. In my condition.”
“Perhaps we should go back.”
“No.”
The truth is that I miss the counting house.
In fact, I have never been away from the place for this long.
And while I wrote Miss Endicott and informed her of my marriage, it felt a cold and distant thing when I could not speak with my friend and colleague in person.
Veronica is one of my closest friends along with Evie and Matilda.
“I must see Veronica,” I continue. “It isn’t fair for me to stay away any longer.”
“Veronica is Miss Endicott?”
“Yes, my head clerk. She is as devoted to the business as me and as invaluable to it. Some days, I think she might be more devoted than me. She has been overseeing everything in my absence.”
“She is your friend then?”
“Yes, Alfred,” I say, annoyed. “She is my friend. She is also the granddaughter of an earl and gave up her family—and their plan to have her marry a very wealthy baronet—to be my head clerk. She’s part owner now too. I must go.”
Alfred sighs across the seat. Then he pulls something from his pocket.
“Very well. See if this helps.”
He hands me a handkerchief and I am about to protest that my distress is well past the help of a square of white linen. However, it holds a few sprigs of a purple flower—lavender.
“Put it to your nose.”
“Where did you obtain lavender?” I look around as if he somehow plucked it from the seat cushions.
He rolls his eyes.
“After you seemed so disturbed by breakfast, I thought you might need a nosegay. You may have noticed that there is an enormous bouquet in your entryway that holds quite a bit of the stuff.”
I had, of course, not noticed this bouquet at all. My housekeeper attends to everything in my home and so I never pay attention to such details. Domestic concerns are of little interest to me.
I hold up the square of fabric and lavender to my face and inhale. Almost instantly, the lavender drowns out the smell of the London streets and my nausea eases.
“It works,” I exclaim, genuinely surprised by his ingenuity.
“As you see, I am more than a pretty face.”
“Another thing learned from the unending trials of the second Mrs. Saintsbury?”
“No,” he says with a smile. “This little trick I invented only for you.”
Blessedly, we arrive at the counting house, and I am able to slip inside without further aggravation of my symptoms. Inside the counting house the smell of ink and parchment reigns, and I forget my ailment almost completely.
We walk up the long stairs to the first floor where the bulk of my employees usually work. I feel some anticipation as we approach. My marriage must have caused all sorts of talk.
When I open the door to the rows of gleaming desks, I take a deep breath. The space is a balm. I did not realize how much I truly missed it.
“Miss de Lacey!” exclaims one of my employees, a recent addition, a young lady from a genteel family in Lancashire that threw her out without a penny after she was ruined.
The girl, Katherine, has dark red hair and usually wears a pensive expression.
Now, however, she flushes a deep crimson. “Or Mrs. de Lacey, I should say!”
“Yes, I suppose you should,” I say with a laugh.
Now everyone rushes towards me, tendering congratulations and remarking openly on how handsome Alfred is. Usually my employees are more reserved with me, but clearly my long absence and surprising marriage, and now my reappearance with Alfred, has dissolved the usual barriers between us.
And it is a welcome reminder that while I am reviled across Britain, here I am something else.
Veronica makes her appearance through the crowd of young women.
“Ah, so the happily married woman has finally decided to visit our humble counting house.”
“Last time I checked it is still my counting house,” I retort, unable to keep from smiling. One of the reasons that I love Veronica is that she refuses to be intimidated by me.
“Is it?” Veronica says, looking over at Alfred. Her implication is clear. A married woman’s property is, at present, a contested thing in England. The small crowd of women fall silent around me.
“Of course,” I say. “Mr. de Lacey has no interest in the business—and even if he did, well, you cannot imagine that I of all people would have neglected to make marriage articles to my advantage?”
Veronica should know better. No one has ever accused me of being soft in matters of business, that is certain. But to be fair, my marriage must have come as a shock.
“I have no ambitions in business,” Alfred says beside me in his rich, even-toned voice.
It is, undoubtedly, the voice that many women desire in a lover or a husband.
The female faces around us soften as he speaks.
“Alas, I have no head for numbers. But I plan to support and admire my wife in all facets of her life—so I have come here to see her empire.”
I take it as a testament to the hardnosed nature of my clerks that no sighs are audible at this declaration. But I am sure that at least a few of the women are suppressing such exhalations.
“Good,” Veronica says, not likely to be vulnerable, I know, to Alfred’s charms. “Because I would tolerate no interference here.”
I open my mouth to remind Veronica that the counting house is mine—but find myself beat to the declaration.
“As I said, I would never dream of interference, Miss Endicott,” Alfred says.
“I know very little about your business here and would be of no use to it. If I were a fortune hunter—which I can assure you I am not—interference wouldn’t even be in my interest. Just about the only thing I understand about this counting house is that the women who run it do so very well.
Especially you, to hear my wife tell it. ”
Veronica narrows her eyes at this speech, but a faint blush rises on her cheeks. She might be immune to Alfred’s erotic charms but not his flattery of her business acumen.
“Very well,” Veronica says quickly. “Then you will not object to me speaking with your wife about the status of our business? All is running smoothly, but there are a few things, Annabelle, that I would like your opinion on.”
“Of course.” Alfred bows. “I can wait in the carriage. I do not want to disturb your work.”
Alfred is exceedingly gracious, but I will not have him scared off by Veronica. Besides, if there is any concern that my husband will disrupt the business, especially for my employees who count on their jobs more than most and would be made vulnerable by such changes, I want to dispel such worries.
As if anticipating my concerns, Marianne Kemble, a plump, brown-haired girl with a pale face, steps forward and says, “Mrs. de Lacey, I could give Mr. de Lacey a tour of the counting house and warehouses. So that he may understand more of the business. If that would be desirable.”
I assess the young woman. She is only two-and-twenty and is from the Seven Dials—Evie recommended her to me a few years ago. She has an amazing ability with sums and statistical probabilities—and if she had been born a man, she would already have her own fortune.
She is also quite pretty.
I shake my head. I do not need to be jealous of Marianne. And I certainly trust Alfred.
“That would be wonderful,” I say.
An hour later, I find myself back in the carriage with Alfred—and I am in an exceedingly good humor.
While Veronica asked my opinion on a number of small matters, there was nothing of note to address.
The counting house is thriving as usual.
An investment in a company attempting to bring modernized plumbing into the many London homes without it—and that many other investors regarded as too risky—is already bringing in returns.
Now that I am back in the carriage, my nausea returns. Mercifully, with the help of the lavender, I am able to stave it off.
“How was your meeting with Miss Endicott?” Alfred asks.
I smile, doubly pleased with him for his handsome behavior to my employees now that I have confirmed all is truly well with my business.
“It was very good.”
“Did she question you about my intentions? Or did you merely speak of business?”
“We spoke mostly of business. But she also made sure to get the story of how I came to be married.”
“And what did you say?”
“The truth, mostly.”
Alfred blanches, and I must laugh.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t give her every detail. I explained that we found our passion too overwhelming and, under the circumstances, it was easier to marry.”
“It sounds practically proper when you describe it like that.”
“I’m not sure the church would agree,” I say, arching a brow at him. “How was your tour?”
“Very edifying. I do understand the business much better now. Miss Kemble was very patient with all my ignorant questions.”
“I am sure she was half in love with you by the end of the tour.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. There it is again—love. What I told Alfred I could never feel for him. The word I have denied him.
He fixes me with his green eyes, and I wait for him to say it. Something that punishes me for being so careless with my words.
Instead, he blinks—he lets the moment pass.
Then he gives a slightly mischievous smile.
“It’s possible,” he says. “But a gentleman would never presume such a thing.”
It is kind, so like him, to show me mercy.
I would feel completely at ease now if it weren’t for the soft, ridiculous jealousy in my gut which has replaced my nausea.
The possibility that he could be tempted by another rankles me.
It is most absurd because I know how unwarranted it is. Miss Kemble would never dare and Alfred would never do such a thing to me even if he was tempted. And I forbid it in our marriage articles after all. He would forfeit any money from me if he strayed.
Of course, this prohibition is not the reason he would be true.
It is a stark example of my harshness in dealing with him.
Whereas he always shows me mercy, I make it clear he will never receive any from me.
I am vexed by this contrast all the way home.