“Yes. I have suspected for a few days.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Why did you not tell meyouknew? And why did you assumeIdidn’t know?”
“I didn’t want to alarm you. And when you were unwell, you said you had the grippe—so I assumed that you merely thought you were ill.”
“I only saidthatbecause I didn’t want to tell you before I was sure. And—well—miscarriage is common. I did not want you to become too attached to the idea.”
That twinge sounds within me again. It is not theonlyreason I didn’t tell him, of course. There is the fact that I feel guilty about what I planned for him when we first met. How I wanted to get with his child and then dismiss him from me forever.
“Annabelle,” he chides. “You do not have to protect me. But,” he continues, his brow furrowing, “if you are already with child, it must have happened sometime ago.”
My stomach drops at his astuteness. I cannot tell him. I cannot bear it.
“Yes,” I say, looking down at the pattern on the coverlet. “I imagine that it happened that first time. When the French letter broke. I had no idea when we were discovered by Mr. Thompson. Or when we married.”
“It is good we married then.”
“I didn’t know,” I repeat, clinging to this one piece of truth. “It isn’t why I married you. I wouldn’t have married you for that.”
“I know,” he says, raising my fingers to his lips and kissing them.
He is smiling now and soon he is laughing.
“We both thought the other ignorant.”
“You cannot blameme. How do you even know the symptoms of a woman being with child?”
“My stepmother, Emily. I was visiting with her and my father early in her second pregnancy. There was no hiding the, er, symptoms.”
He pauses, laying a hand on my stomach.
“I am very happy to hear it, however, Annabelle. If I may risk saying so. Without appearing too attached.”
I shake my head, even though a sly sliver of delight shimmers through my chest at his gladness.
And guilt. I am happy that he appears so delighted—but the sensation is nearly ruined by the guilt I feel.
“It is early yet,” I warn. “You cannot get your heart set on it.”
“Too late,” he says, smiling and kissing my temple. “But I’ll risk the heartache. After all, I am used to it.”
For a moment, I think of how perfect the moment would be if I told him that I love him.
Do I?
Certainly, he has come closer than any other man ever has. Even Frank Holster.
But the words stick in my throat.
Chapter 49
Alfred
The next morning, when I awaken, I feel a surge of relief—and then joy.
To be with Annabelle and to have no secrets between us is heaven.
