“I need to rest,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Please,” Alfred says.
“Don’t worry,” I say as I drift off. “You don’t need to stay.”
When I awake hours later, I feel better, although still far from normal.
Alfred is seated by the fire. He is positioned so that he can still see me from his armchair and his profile is lit up from the side.
Heisa pretty man. I admire the curl of his hair across his strong brow. He is so handsome that at rest he looks weary of his own attractiveness, as if it is tires him to carry it around always. Propping myself up on my elbows, I address him.
“You don’t have to stay. You should go and enjoy London.”
He startles, clearly not expecting the sound of my voice. He stands and advances towards the bed.
“I couldn’t. Annabelle, do you think you are sick because of last night? Did I make it worse?”
“For the love of God, Alfred,” I snap. “Your cock does not have the power to give sickness or health. It is not anything that we did yesterday evening that has caused the problem. No, the evening that caused the problem was some weeks ago.”
I feel a pang of guilt at these words. I remember that night, of course, very well. How I knew the letter would split and how it did and what the result could be.
He grunts and looks away from me.
“So you believe it is merely…your condition?”
“Heavens, yes,” I say. “What time is it?”
“A quarter to noon,” he responds. “How are you feeling?”
“Better—but still ill.”
I move into the water closet then, brushing my teeth with paste and tending to my other needs.
When I emerge and resettle myself back in bed Alfred says, “Can I get you anything?”
“I think so. Some cake and tea. If I feel well enough after that, I may review the ledgers in my study. But I will not be more ambitious for today.”
“Good,” he says, sweeping from the room.
He returns with a new tray, laden with more food than I can eat, but that at least is not repellent to me.
Alfred returns to his armchair. As it turns out, I am hungrier than I imagined. In fact, the cake he brought is extraordinarily good.
“This lemon cake is exquisite,” I say. “I must compliment Mrs. Goddard.”
“You should.”
“Her recipe appears to have markedly improved.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Is this your doing?”
Alfred looks down, appearing almost sheepish.
“Perhaps.”
“It is!”
“I happened to have a very good recipe. From Emily. She is famous in their neighborhood for it. The Archbishop of Canterbury once praised it.”
I cannot conceive of a woman so different from myself than Emily Saintsbury. And it makes me appreciate afresh how broadminded my husband is. Not many men could respect both a woman like me and a woman like Emily. And yet I believe that he does exactly that.
