Now we are pulling into a town—the train station must be up ahead.
“Is he the only man that you have ever loved?”
“Are you punishing me for telling you that story? Now I wish I hadn’t.”
My stomach churns. I have taken it too far. My jealousy is a sick, evil thing.
We have arrived at the train station. I want to apologize, but she still has her eyes closed. I have the sense that I have ruined everything.
“We are here,” I say instead.
Her eyes open once more—and I see now that shedoeslook peaked.
“Annabelle—are you well?”
She doesn’t answer me.
No, to my surprise, my wife lurches forward.
She propels herself halfway out the coach door and then I hear the sound of retching.
My wife, Mrs. Annabelle de Lacey, the richest, most powerful woman in England, is casting up her accounts.
Chapter 45
Alfred
Imay be an innocent in many regards.
But I am familiar with the signs that a woman is with child.
I spent one memorable fortnight in my father’s home when my stepmother, Emily, was newly pregnant with her second child. Every morning, she would leave the drawing room to cast up her accounts. Once, we were walking in the gardens, and she vomited into her prized hyacinths.
During these times, my father had been seeing to the duties of his post—and poor Emily was marooned at home. Emily and I have always been decently fond of each other. Whenever I returned home, we spent much time together in mundane companionship. I always faintly pitied her. I do not think my father the most obliging husband and he was, in fact, even sterner with Emily than he was with me. Thus because of Emily, I have seen something of the early stages of pregnancy.
Now, I have the distinct feeling that my wife is suffering from the same ailment.
I help her down from the carriage, even as she tries toshrug me from her. I hand her my handkerchief. She waves me off, as she already grips her own.
She takes my arm though, when I offer it. She lets me guide her to the tavern. The train will not depart for an hour. She needs to rest.
“I must have the grippe,” she says.
I say nothing.
First, I am stunned. Annabelle is likely growing withmychild. It shocks and frightens and delights me.
Second, as this statement makes clear, she doesn’t know it. She has no idea that she will soon be swelling with my babe. She said that she has never gotten with child before—that she is unsure if she can. She has clearly not recognized what her symptoms mean. Otherwise, she would surely tell me herself.
As we make our way to the tavern, unease clutches at my heart. I am unsure how to inform her of her condition. Or if she will be upset. Especially since our conversation just now seemed to suggest that she is still melancholy, even after all of these years, about Frank Holster.
When we enter the tavern, I seat her at a table and then arrange with the keeper for a luncheon. I make my way back to our table. The place is blessedly not too crowded. Only a few travelers sit at the other tables.
Despite our relative privacy, I cannot imagine telling Annabelle that she likely carries our childhere. The dusty windows only let in weak light. Sawdust coats the floor.
When the keeper brings our tea, I pour her a cup. She takes a tentative sip and then pushes it back.
“I do not think we should go on,” I say. “Perhaps we should stay here for the evening.”
