As the words left him, all breath likewise abandoned him.What sort of future was he submitting himself to?
“Ay que romántico!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes and tossing her head.“Why marry?”Her theatrics did not hide the worry that laced tension through her features.
He should have known she would fight it.Peter’s rational mind started whirring, creating detailed plans as to why this was the solution with the greatest chance of success and safety.
“Because I cannot bring you to London, to my home in your...current delicate state without some kind of arrangement between us.It would not seem proper.”
“But the people, they know thatmi bebéis not yours,verdad?”
“That’s just it.If we did marry, we would act as if the child were mine.To protect you.And the child.”
Ana María had gone quiet for a moment, something that was most irregular for her.Then she whispered, “Sí, this will work.I will marry you.”
He had always imagined that a proposal of marriage would incur some kind of emotion in the gentleman proposing, even if he hadn’t ever imagined being married himself.But instead of being swept away by a whirlwind of affection, he felt empty and uneasy.Instead of grasping her hand, embracing her, or even kissing her, he merely bowed his head in resignation.
Things had certainly gotten complicated very quickly.
He had felt so frightened then, and he hadn’t even been the one to be carrying a child or suffering from the sickness that child brought.A long yawn sounded from his side.His eyes again focused on Ana—his wife—relaxed against the pillows, her eyelids low in exhaustion and relief.Now he had to do all he could to ensure that she was safe and protected.
“How are you settling into things here?”Peter asked.
“Muy bien.It is so beautiful here.I so much love the gardens and the church.I missEspaña.I missmi familia.But I feel safe here.”Ana’s delicate hands went to her abdomen, her brow relaxing, its creases slowly disappearing.“Mi bebéwill be safe here.I hope she no will feel lonely.”
A memory splashed through Peter’s mind.His own mother had married and settled into a comfortable life but had been abandoned in every other way possible.She had been left with the boys to rely on her own devices while her husband was off entertaining himself with every carnal pleasure he could conceive.Raising one child alone was difficult enough, but raising two rowdy boys?It had been nearly impossible for her in those early days.Even her large staff was loyal to her husband, leaving her emotionally isolated.Peter remembered well how she would sit next to his bed and silently cry for hours after she had supposed him asleep.The image of his mother, her beautiful face sucked thin by worry and fatigue, her cheeks doused with tears, gave Peter pause.But she had always felt a special, heaven-sent peace here, hadn’t she?Indeed, there was a special spirit in Abbeygate for the mothers of his family, one that would bless Ana María as well.
The path ahead of them was not an easy one.He still had no certainty of his standing with the army and could not guarantee that Ana’s identity and life here would remain secret forever.But he would protect her—and her child—with his life.If he had not been able to protect his own mother, he owed it to her and himself to protect his wife.
Chapter 7
November 9, 1813, Abbeygate, Surrey Hills, England
Ana had been living a few weeks at Abbeygate already and had started to become quite familiar with Peter’s daily schedule.He rose incredibly early and spent some time in his rooms reciting prayers of some sort.At least she had gathered as much by the ritualistic murmuring she heard at precisely the same hour each morning.He then took out Warrior, his horse, for a ride before breakfast.He had also made a habit of bringing up Ana’s breakfast tray himself, something she would never complain about.She found it rather endearing to see him at the beginning of her day.After that, he’d usually spend a few hours in the office taking care of bookkeeping and other estate responsibilities.In the afternoon, he would meet with the staff, visit the tenants, or make connections and conversation in town with neighbors.He then spent the remainder of the evening in her company.
They liked to take their dinner together on the back balcony just off the dining room.Although she had gathered that it was not a traditional or customary practice in England, it was one she appreciated greatly.They would often spend some hours conversing and practicing English until it was time to retire for the night.
Indeed, he made such an obvious practice of having such a strict routine that she could predict his responsibilities and activities at nearly any hour of the day, although she was still struggling to discern her own place in the house, particularly when he seemed to bustle about with such busyness and purpose.
In comparison, it seemed that she had become a statue.His movements in the house, particularly in his rooms that were so close to hers, were the only indication of the passing of time.In the moments of silence, she sat, still frozen by the shock of the events of the past months.Her pain, both physical and internal, seemed to still be echoing through her, no matter how hard she tried to close her mind to the memories.The weight of it all left her in an empty stillness that seemed never-ending.She would lay in her bed for hours, or kneel, unmoving with her rosary dangling between her hands until her legs were tingling and pricking with numbness.Often, Mrs.Thompson would interrupt her silence to remind her that she might feel better if she bathed or took a walk outside.Or Peter would bring her food, and she would eat, if she managed to keep it down, while he spent time with her for a short while.Mrs.Thompson had brought her a number of Lady Ashmore’s gowns from her wardrobe, but Ana had only rotated between the same few simple dresses with colors similar to those of mourning.She lacked black options, so deep violet, rusted brown, and silver-gray would have to do.
The only thing that would break her out of her pain-induced trance was an awareness that she was not alone in her suffering.Peter was suffering too, even if she only got small glimpses of it.Perhaps that was why he had occupied himself so quickly with so many tasks, to help in sorting through the disaster that San Sebastián had left in their minds.
Tonight, however, he was much more solemn than she had seen him in previous days.Such silence hadn’t enveloped him since their time on the ship crossing the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel.He sat, stirring his lemonade while he stared, unseeing, at the bloodred sunset.He did not drink any type of alcohol, a fact that Ana appreciated greatly, even without knowing his reasoning for such a choice.Port, ale, and other drinks seemed quite popular among the British soldiers, particularly among the upper ranks.A shiver of fear traveled up her spine as she remembered the drunken rampage of the men during her last night in San Sebastián.Was that why he avoided drink?The enduring respect that she fostered for her husband grew even greater at that, accompanied by a sharp stab of sorrow.That night had taken so much from her.From them both.
“Would you care for any more lemonade, my dear?”Peter’s voice was automatic and methodical, but his eyes were so distant that he looked nearly blind to her.
“No, gracias.”
“Very well.”
His face was a glided statue, all but for the pulsing muscle deep in his jaw that indicated to her that her assumptions were in some measure correct.He was troubled...but about what, she wasn’t sure.Her time spent with him over the past few months had taught her to read the subtle signs of his moods, which he normally kept so orderly, disciplined, and hidden.It was not so difficult; she had done similar things when learning to translate from languages that were not as familiar to her.The movements of one’s face, eyes, and body could tell her a great deal about the ongoings of one’s mind.Still, she was not perfectly attuned to Peter’s and had yet to discern the cause for his concern.
Ana reached a hand to him, squeezing twice.He jolted from his reverie, blinking rapidly and rolling his shoulders backward, as if trying to shrug off some weighty pack.
“I am well, Ana.Estoy bien.”
Ana watched as Peter rubbed at his eyes, further emphasizing the dark shadows underneath them.Had he been sleeping just as poorly as she was?
She often found herself waking at many hours of the night, not from nausea but from terror.She could feel clawing hands at her arms, her waist, her face.Could feel a wild panic that was insatiable.Could smell hot, rum-saturated breath.Then she would rub at her eyes and heave panting breaths as she clutched her soft bedclothes and stared into the dark.No glimpses of fire and smoke, no cruel, drunken fools could reach her.Only the quiet peace surrounded her.She was safe and protected, more than she had ever been, thanks to the man who slept alone in the room next to hers.
