And then there is the fact that she is carrying my child.
She told me that I should not get my hopes up.
But it is impossible.
I have so wanted a family. That it now appears to be happening withAnnabelleis something that I can’t believe. My good fortune feels too immense to be true.
When Annabelle stirs beside me and grimaces, however, my delight transforms to worry. She is clearly suffering from the same ailment that plagued poor Emily.
“Are you ill again? Can I do anything for you?”
“It is fine,” she says, sitting up, clearly disliking my hand-wringing. “Give me a moment. I just need to stand.”
She does so, but then a shadow passes over her face.
She runs to the water closet and I hear her retching.
I follow her and find her bent over the privy.
Instinctively, because I have never helped anyone inthis fashion before—my intimacy with Emily didnotextend that far—I reach for her long, blonde hair, stroking it back from her face. I rub her back with my other hand.
“I am so sorry, Annabelle.”
When she is done, I hand her a handkerchief, and she wipes her mouth. Then she slumps against the wall and closes her eyes.
“I am fine,” she finally says. “Really.”
“It is perfectly all right with me if you’re not.”
I settle my arms around her and, to my surprise, she slumps against me.
“Not exactly the honeymoon you envisioned, I’m sure. Having me drag you to London and then casting up my accounts everywhere,” she murmurs. “My head in the privy is not the most appealing tableau.”
“Don’t say that,” I say, unsure of how to convey to her the depth of my care for her. How she is no less beautiful to me for being ill—and will only become more radiant in my eyes, in carrying our child. “No amount of casting up your accounts could change how I feel about you. And the way that I feel about you is that you are the most beautiful woman in all of Christendom. No, the world.”
“You’re a fool.”
“Maybe. But when it comes to you, I don’t care.”
She says nothing, but I know the words mean something to her. I know because she lets me keep holding her.
When she is ready to stand, we return to the bedroom and dress for the day. I insist on playing her lady’s maid, because I am afraid that movement will make her feel ill again. I have had the actual grippe enough times to know how that can go.
I also insist that we go downstairs for breakfastimmediately, reminding her that the bread at the tavern yesterday made her feel better.
As we walk down the stairs from the upper level, I assess the townhome for the first time. It is very large and done up in a way that melds practically and quality—but it nevertheless has a remote feeling to it. She said she has lived here for a long time, but it does not feel like it.
We enter a handsome morning room and find breakfast things already laid out. It appears that the servants have been well-apprised of our arrival, which is a very good thing because Annabelle looks peaked again.
“Here.” I cut a slice of bread off a loaf for her. “Have some of this. Do you want butter? Jam?”
She shakes her head vigorously and then sinks her teeth into the bread. She eats that slice and then a second.
She waves at the bacon and eggs.
“The smell?—”
She gestures to a bell on the table which I ring, and a maid servant appears. I ask her to take away that platter.
