“We have received none at all,” Annabelle says swiftly, shaking her head. “You know that I am not beloved in town. You are our first.”
“The people in this parish are not very clever, I am afraid,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “Especially when no one in town can speak of anything else. Foolish pride is what I call it.”
“Thank you for calling,” I say. “We are very honored to receive your congratulations.”
A footman enters the drawing room with a tray, which brings forward Mrs. Ludlow’s exclamation that she does not want a fuss made for them. Annabelle effectively silences her objections and insists her guests help themselves to the fresh scones, cream, jam, and tea. I know that Annabelle wants to see her old friends fed, and indeed a smile spreads over her features when Mr. Ludlow begins to eat a well-loaded scone.
“My dear,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “I was so glad to hear of your marriage to our Mr. Saintsbury?—”
“Mr. de Lacey now,” I say, unable to keep from smiling.
“Mr. de Lacey!” Mrs. Ludlow exclaims. “Mr. de Lacey! To have a Mr. de Lacey at Trescott Abbey again! And here I thought we would never have another! Oh, it is such good fortune. It is not to be believed.”
“I only hope I can live up to the name, Mrs. Ludlow.”
“Oh, you do it a fine service already, my lad,” she exclaims. “A fine handsome man like yourself—with a superior understanding. It is very well you are the one to bear the name.”
“Mr. de Lacey was very generous to take it,” Annabelle says, her eyes on her teacup, but with an unmistakable smile playing about her lips. “It is an honor.”
“No, my dear,” I say, taking her hand and pressing it to my lips, understanding somehow that Mrs. Ludlow will delight in this display of devotion. “The honor is all mine.”
Indeed, the older woman clasps her own hands together and lets out a peal of delight.
“Ah, I was right, was I not, Annabelle? The man loved you from the start. Who could doubt it now when he is so ardent?”
“Quite right, Mrs. Ludlow,” I say easily. And really, I am desperately thankful to the old woman for seeing the good between me and Annabelle.
“My husband is very gallant,” Annabelle says. She is trying for an arch tone, but she doesn’t quite succeed.
“We will not keep you much longer,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “I know you are honeymooners after all. But I wanted to bring you something. I only wish I could have given it to you before the marriage. However, I suppose after is nearly as good.”
She pulls a square of fabric from her pocket. It looks old and not a little worn. It is a handkerchief trimmed with blue ribbon.
“It belonged to your mother,” she says to Annabelle. “I do not know how many of her things you have.”
Annabelle looks very grave.
“Almost nothing,” she whispers. “My father—I don’t know what he did with her things.”
To my horror, I realise I have no idea when Annabelle’s mother died.
“Aye, I know that your father was not a sentimental man. He would only preserve things of value.”
“I have an amber cross,” Annabelle says. “That is it.”
“Well, she visited us at our cottage not long before she died—when she was big with child, with you. And she left behind this handkerchief.”
She died in childbed then. Annabelle had not known her.
“She was a kind lady,” Mr. Ludlow says. “A veritable angel, most people said.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Ludlow adds. “But fearsome too. Not afraid to tell anyone what she thought—and certainly not Mr. de Lacey.”
“Yes,” Annabelle says softly. “Father always said that she was headstrong. He blamed her for me. He said I was just like her.”
Mrs. Ludlow gives a rueful chuckle.
“Your father did not need to blame another for your headstrong nature. He was stubborn enough to justify a half dozen headstrong children.”
