Nothing of the sort happens now.
I am left empty.
Worse, every night once I have said my prayers, I am tempted to take myself in hand.
Usually, I resist for the Lord.
But now I resist for Miss de Lacey. Because I fear losing my post if she discovers I have spent against her prohibition.
Every night the problem worsens.
I quiet my body enough to sleep—but when I awake in the middle of the night, I am still crying for release.
And I have no idea when she will call me.
Worst of all, I am plagued by impossible, terrible dreams.
When I sleep, I imagine not only bedding her—which will come soon enough, I suppose—but holding her close. I hold her and feel that warm glow of peace that I sometimes achieve in prayer. In some dreams, she is my wife.
Not only do these dreams exacerbate my physical state, but they confuse me. I could never marry Annabelle de Lacey, and she would never want anything of the sort. And yet in the dreams I am happier than I have ever been awake.
At first I think she must summon me soon, but the days pass and I begin to worry about the opposite.
Finally, it is Sunday morning, and I am preparing to give my sermon.
Just as I am about to walk to church, I hear wheels on the drive.
Surprised, I go to the door.
And see the de Lacey livery.
A footman disembarks and walks towards me.
“A message from Miss de Lacey,” the man says, slipping a note into my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, expecting the man to leave.
But he doesn’t. And dread fills my heart. I have a sense of what it means.
Dear Mr. Saintsbury,
Come to the Abbey. Immediately.
Disobey me at your ownperil.
A
“But I preach this morning,” I say to the footman.
“I am to collect you, sir. She was very clear.”
He looks uneasy.
I imagine defying this message. I could go to church, preach, and deal with the consequences.
But then I think of my father reading about me defiling myself in the papers. His disappointment would be unimaginable. My shame would be infinite.
And worse, part of mewantsto go.
