Iam under the power of a horrible affliction.
I wonder if I am actually gravely ill somehow. Because, certainly, I am in pain.
But no, I know it is not that. Not actually.
The ache started after my last encounter with Alfred. And it will not cease.
It bothers me no matter what I do. No matter how many accounts I look over from the counting house or how many times I check the ledgers of the Abbey or how I devote myself to preparations to return to London.
No matter how many new schemes for business endeavors or investments I try to distract myself with and which usually calm my mind easily.
Somehow, I miss him horribly even though I have never spent more than a few hours in his company.
Nevertheless, I meant what I told him. I cannot stay at Trescott Abbey. I must return to London. Yes, because of my business interests there and the threats to me here.
But also because I fear that I am losing my senses around him.
I think incessantly of what he said about a child, the child I may now be carrying for all I know. Hewantsto be a father. He would regard my keeping a child from him as a betrayal. I seem to have found one of the only men in England who cares what becomes of his bastard.
I shouldn’t care what he wants.
But it torments me. The horrible tenderness I feel for him—and the hurt he would surely feel if I execute my plan.
Even now, I am unsure if I can bear to dismiss him from his post.
It would cause him pain. He would doubtlessly struggle to get a new one. And why should it matter if I do not intend to return to Trescott?
It disturbs me that I cannot stick to my resolution.
I am not supposed to be weak.
I am supposed to be ruthless.
And yet I cannot promise myself that I will do it.
The coming separation seems painful enough on its own.
Instead, I am fitful and restless, walking the halls of my childhood home, finding all my old hiding places and observing how small and pathetic they appear now.
I want to call Alfred to me again. I want him to fill me up and to distract me from these thoughts.
But I refuse to give into my desires. I told him that I would only call him to me once or twice more. My pride will not let me appear too eager.
Instead, day after day, I call Mr. Perry instead, forcing him to go over trifles.
“Are you well, Miss de Lacey?” he asks one afternoon, when I have called him to inquire about particular entries in the ledgers from three autumns ago.
“Yes,” I snap. “Why would I be anything butwell?”
The man simply nods and then retreats. But I know it means my restive mood is noticeable to others.
The truth is that I have never felt for a man the way I feel for Alfred Saintsbury.
I have been with sweet and bashful men before, but none touched me in the same way. Alfred is more than his type. Yes, he is innocent and sweet and nervous, but he is also ardent and so willing to be within my power that it becomes a power unto itself.
I think of writing one of my friends to describe my predicament. Evie would laugh. Matilda would take it earnestly. But it is too lowering. Even if my friends would not judge me, I couldn’t bear it.
But I grow desperate. And I decide, finally, that I will write a letter to Evie. As a light skirt from the Seven Dials, Evie is not one to judge others’ sexual improprieties. In fact, it is only with Evie that I have ever felt completely normal.
