I shrug. “I suppose.”
But I know—and he knows—the answer is yes.
When I am anxious, looking over the accounts is sometimes the only thing that can soothe me.
Alfred’s brow crinkles. “How did your father find out about Frank? If no one knew?”
I sigh.Thispart still turns my stomach. The most, in fact, of all of it.
“I think he knew all along that I was meeting him in the woods. He found out, at any rate, at some point. But he waited to speak to me of it. I think his plan was to strike when the affair ended. When I would feel it the most. When I was already bereft. Anyway, the day of Frank’s marriage, he called me into his study and told me thathe knew I had ruined myself for ‘that pauper.’ I had been sure he would throw me out of the Abbey, but he didn’t. He told me that I had a whore’s nature, and that I was a fool, and to never make the same mistake again.”
“Come here,” Alfred says, taking my hand.
“I am fine, Alfred, really.”
“You might be,” Alfred says. “But I’m not. I must have you in my arms. I cannot bear to think of you being treated in such a way.”
I acquiesce, settling myself on his lap as the carriage winds through the forest.
He strokes my hair and I bury my face into the crook of his neck. I take in as much of his bergamot scent as I can. The smell which has come to be affiliated, for me, with happiness.
To my surprise, my eyes fill with tears.
Had I ever believed a man would hold me in this way back when I was that plump, homely, ruined girl?
To my dismay, I cannot blink the tears back. My cheeks are soon wet.
Alfred’s arms tighten around me.
“Stop,” I murmur. He is making it worse, I am sure. I wouldn’t be crying if he wasn’t holding me.
“Annabelle,” he protests.
I have never told anyone the story of Frank Holster.
I had convinced myself that it wasn’t that bad—that its effect on me had been minimal.
When I begin to cry in earnest, he smooths my hair and pulls me in tighter.
And he doesn’t let me go until I am done. Until we reach the Abbey and I withdraw from him and wipe my eyes.
“Ridiculous,” I say as I do so.
But he merely looks at me, kisses me, and says, “No one will ever hurt you like that again. I won’t allow it. Not now. Not when I am with you. I love you. I will love you all my days.”
And fool that I am, I want to believe him.
Chapter 44
Alfred
The next morning, I am back in the carriage—and on the road to the train station that will take us to London.
With my strangely silent wife across from me.
Annabelle looks regal, beautiful, and a trifle pale. She has her eyes closed, as if she is trying to sleep, but I sense that she is very much awake.
I have tried to engage her in talk of what we will do in London. But she has barely responded to my inquiries.
