Chapter 50
Annabelle
Despite my ambient feeling of mild queasiness and the guilt I feel over the origins of this pregnancy which similarly comes in waves, I am very much looking forward to returning to my counting house.
But these feelings are quickly replaced by extreme nausea.
The streets of London have a less than pleasant odor under the best of circumstances. Now, however, they make my stomach roil within seconds of entering the carriage. The streets smell like horse droppings and sour milk and piss and rotting vegetables even in the cold November weather. A scent that I long learned to ignore is now an assault. Even through the thin walls of the carriage, it is nearly unbearable.
I try to close my eyes and beat down the feeling.
Which only rouses Alfred’s suspicions of course.
“Annabelle, are you feeling ill again?”
“No,” I say, demurring, hoping that I will adjust to the fragrance of the London streets. “I am only tired.”
“Annabelle,” he warns. “Do not lie to me.”
“Fine,” I say. “It is the streets. The smell—it doesn’t suit me. In my condition.”
“Perhaps we should go back.”
“No.”
The truth is that I miss the counting house. In fact, I have never been away from the place for this long. And while I wrote Miss Endicott and informed her of my marriage, it felt a cold and distant thing when I could not speak with my friend and colleague in person. Veronica is one of my closest friends along with Evie and Matilda.
“I must see Veronica,” I continue. “It isn’t fair for me to stay away any longer.”
“Veronica is Miss Endicott?”
“Yes, my head clerk. She is as devoted to the business as me and as invaluable to it. Some days, I think she might bemoredevoted than me. She has been overseeing everything in my absence.”
“She is your friend then?”
“Yes, Alfred,” I say, annoyed. “She is my friend. She is also the granddaughter of an earl and gave up her family—and their plan to have her marry a very wealthy baronet—to be my head clerk. She’s part owner now too. I must go.”
Alfred sighs across the seat. Then he pulls something from his pocket.
“Very well. See if this helps.”
He hands me a handkerchief and I am about to protest that my distress is well past the help of a square of white linen. However, it holds a few sprigs of a purple flower—lavender.
“Put it to your nose.”
“Where did you obtain lavender?” I look around as if he somehow plucked it from the seat cushions.
He rolls his eyes.
“After you seemed so disturbed by breakfast, I thought you might need a nosegay. You may have noticed that there is an enormous bouquet in your entryway that holds quite a bit of the stuff.”
I had, of course, not noticed this bouquet at all. My housekeeper attends to everything in my home and so I never pay attention to such details. Domestic concerns are of little interest to me.
I hold up the square of fabric and lavender to my face and inhale. Almost instantly, the lavender drowns out the smell of the London streets and my nausea eases.
“It works,” I exclaim, genuinely surprised by his ingenuity.
“As you see, I am more than a pretty face.”
