“I challenge you,” I continue, “to a best of three. Or let’s make it five. So that we may really determine the winner.”
“Very well,” she sniffs. “But donotthink you will beat me on every occasion. I will go second next time and then you can see howyoufare under such circumstances.”
“I welcome the challenge,” I say, turning her head to me a little roughly and kissing her deeply.
When she returns my kiss, I feel that I have won something very precious indeed.
Chapter 31
Annabelle
Alfred is dressing for dinner, and I was planning on taking a half hour to attend to matters of business.
But after a few minutes of looking at my ledgers, my butler, Montgomery, informs me that I have a visitor.
“Who, Montgomery?”
I told him to admit no one, so it must be someone important.
I do not particularly want to see anyone. I can imagine any number of irate people who might take it upon themselves to try and berate me for keeping the vicar of Trescott in my house as my concubine. But I do not want the peace that I have found these past few days broken—and I certainly will not give him up.
“Mrs. Ludlow, ma’am,” he says.
Somehow, it is not who I expected.
“I will see her in here, Montgomery. Please bring tea.”
He nods, and soon Mrs. Ludlow is tottering over the threshold.
“Please sit, Betsy,” I urge. “Montgomery will bring tea.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she says. “Don’t make the man go to any trouble for me.”
“It is no trouble at all.”
I can see the care she put into her appearance for this sojourn to the Abbey. She has always regarded coming here in the same spirit as going to church: a near sacred experience that requires fine dress.
“How is Mr. Ludlow? Victoria?”
“They are very well, my lass.”
She regards me with bright, inquiring eyes. She doesn’t look horrified or upset, only curious. I cannot tell if the news of my relationship with Alfred has reached her or the rest of the village yet.
Perhaps she is merely coming here to tell me that she has finally resolved to leave the cottage and come live at Trescott as I have long urged.
“How are you, my dear? You look very well.”
“I am. Very well.”
“I hope you do not think me impertinent for saying it,” Betsy says. “But I give myself the liberty because I have known you for so long. And when you were a child, it was my duty to notice your health.”
“And my foul humors,” I say, with a smile, remembering how she was the only one who could soothe me then. “I could never think you impertinent, Betsy. And after all, I have no one else to watch after me in such a way. So I will suffer your comments happily.”
“Do you really haveno oneelse to tell you such things?” Betsy says, her voice quiet but knowing.
“I am not sure what you mean,” I say. “Here, I live a solitary life. I see very few people.”
“Ah, but you have been lately seeing much of one inparticular.”
