Alfred
After I have been yet against blessed with the glorious experience of Annabelle de Lacey coming on my tongue, I lay on the bed with her, resting.
I am unsure if she will let me hold her, so I do not attempt it. I would like to do so, but she has made it clear that it isn’t my place to make demands.
But we lie close enough. And given how sated I feel, and hopeshefeels, an air of peace and intimacy still prevail.
I worry for my soul. For my future. For my ability to continue in my profession after such depravity.
But I also feel such exquisite relief, such soft pleasure, that I can’t be unhappy.
“Did you always want to be a clergyman?” Annabelle asks, her voice low in the dim room.
I am surprised by the question. I had not expected she would ask such things of me.
“I suppose. I was always raised for it. And it seemed a good life—a way to get a good income, perhaps a very good income, by helping people.”
“Is that all the clergy do? Help people?”
“When they are occupying the office correctly, I believe yes.”
She is silent. It seems unlikely that she would understand my upbringing. Hers seems to have been very different.
“I have never said that I am sorry. For the loss of your father and brothers.”
She looks at me. Her eyes are wide and soft in the dim light.
“That’s not true. You did when we first met.”
“Well, not since then, I suppose. Not since I have known you better. It must have been a shock.”
She lets out a little huff.
“Yes, it was that. All three of them—dead in the same month. Typhoid. And my father went last. I did not care for my father, but even I can pity him. To watch his two heirs die before his eyes. And then become ill himself.”
“It is an unspeakable loss. Especially all at once. And it happened so recently. You must still be very affected.”
Annabelle shrugs beside me.
“I hadn’t seen them in fourteen years. And our parting wasn’t a sweet one. And to be honest, my shock at their dying was equaled by my shock of inheriting Trescott.”
I am confused by this statement. Though one of her brothers was married, his wife died with him, and they had no children. The other brother was a bachelor. As I understand it, Trescott was never entailed. Her inheritance seems the only natural outcome of these horrible events.
“I wish I had met them,” I say. “But your brothers were already sick when I arrived.”
“A morbid welcome to your new post.”
“It was certainly unexpected.”
“And then I came.”
“Everyone expected you to arrive sooner.” There are so many subjects that are embargoed between us—I cannot imagine telling her what the village gossips said of her, for instance—but this one seems safe.
“I couldn’t leave London quickly. I have my counting house. I had to make arrangements. And?—”
She breaks off.
“What?” I want to understand her better. She is less fearsome with the flush of an orgasm still on her cheeks.
