“No, Annabelle,” I say. “This is what you taught me. My worst impulses weren’t the ones that made me desire. That wanted to give and receive pleasure. My worst impulses were the ones that made me afraid and kept me in agony. I stifled my best impulses for years—until you let me follow them.”
She is silent, which means that my words are having some effect.
“You were only finding your way out, Annabelle. You didn’t know how to get out of your father’s house. And this was the only way you knew how to do it. I wish I had been as brave as you. I still wish I was.”
“That is a very generous interpretation of the tale.”
“No more generous than the one you gave to me for my own conduct. You saw the potential I had for love, for passion, when you could have seen cowardice and repression and shame.”
“But doesn’t it disgust you? That I would let myself be treated in such a way?”
I pull back from her, because I want to look in her eyes when I say these words.
“No. Your body is your own. You shared it with one boy who didn’t deserve it and another boy who seemed as heartsick and confused as yourself. There is no shame in that. I wish Terrence had been better to you. Because you are precious. But if you think that I will condemn you, that I will call you a whore for being young and curious and lost, I won’t.”
Her soft blue eyes fill with tears.
I pull her towards me.
“Thank you for telling me,” I repeat.
Unlike when she told me the story of Frank,Annabelle doesn’t sob. But she clings to me even tighter than before, her wet face pressed into my shoulder.
“I do want to kill Terrence French though,” I say.
She laughs, the sound muffled by my chest.
“He isn’t worth the effort.”
She looks up at me, her expression softer, somehow, than I have ever seen it. As if our conversation relieved her of something.
“Honestly, Frank hurt me more because I felt something for him. I never cared for Terrence, and he could tell. I think it made him angry.”
“It’s no excuse.”
“You know,” she says haltingly. “You know that I care for you, Alfred, don’t you? That I couldn’t ever be married to anyone else?”
“I do,” I say, pulling her back into my arms.
And tears spring into my eyes now.
Because I am pretty sure that these words—well, they might be the closest Annabelle de Lacey gets toI love you.
Chapter 55
Annabelle
Three weeks later, I am beginning to feel better. My nausea has gently subsided. And I have begun to enjoy London again. I go to the counting house almost every day for a few hours, conferring with Veronica and my other employees. I am even a little less stern, which Veronica disapproves of and the other women seem to appreciate.
Unfortunately, however, my desire for my husband has not returned.
Alfred is a resolute gentleman on the subject, never even raising it. When I bring it up to him, he tells me not to worry.
Our days pass with such harmony that I begin to understand why people marry in the first place. In my earlier life, I was unable to comprehend why people would lock themselves into such a prison by choice.
Now I begin to comprehend it.
If you thought it could be like this, with this easy companionship, this acceptance and intimacy, then you would desire it.
