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He took another nip from his flask. “Why’s that?”
“My husband has proven to not be the man I thought he was when I married him. I am leaving him. Or perhaps I have already left him. I am not entirely certain.”
It was astonishing how uttering those words felt. It was freeing, as though she had been given permission to give voice to every little thing that had been racing through her mind since she left. She finished by saying, “Even if Guy does continue to pay something toward Rosewood House, I do not know how long the money will last. Knowing that you send money home to your wife, it does not feel right not to be honest with you about that.”
Macalister was silent for a long while and then began to nod slowly. “Thank you. What will you do?”
“I truly don’t know. If Guy wishes to dissolve our marriage, it is possible that I can arrange a settlement.” If there was any money left, that is. “Otherwise, I suppose I shall have to either rent this house and return to England to live with family or resort to teaching as a governess.”
“You would give up Rosewood House?” he asked.
Pain sliced through her. “I don’t see how I would be able to keep it if I have nothing to live on.”
“You’ll figure something out, Mrs. Whitley.”
She gave a weary little laugh. “Gentlemen’s daughters are not taught to think of money.”
He snorted.
“You don’t agree that women should be kept away from these things?” she asked.
“If you’d asked my pa who had a better head for sums, he would have been the first to tell you it was Ma. She kept the books for the family farm right up until the day we sold it.”
“And your wife?” she asked.
He paused for a moment before saying, “No. No, Annabel never had the same head for it. She tried, before she got sick, and now…”
She was certain that the way his words trailed off contained multitudes, but she could not decipher what they were.
“I am sorry, I shouldn’t ask,” she said.
He caught her gaze. “I’m glad you did. My marriage has not been everything I hoped it would be.”
“But your devotion to your wife—the trips back once a month—”
She stopped herself. Of course his marriage was not what he wanted it to be. Most of the month he was here at Rosewood House, far away from his wife.
“What is she like? Annabel?” she asked.
“Kind. That is the first thing anyone ever says about her. Annabel is kind and fragile. She has always been that way.”
“Have you known her for very long?”
“My entire life. The Mays had the farm next to ours. After Pa died, they tried to help, but eventually they sold up, and Annabel’s father went to work on the railroads. After Ma and I were finally forced to sell, I asked Annabel to marry me. We moved to her family’s little clapboard house in Sun Valley. Annabel, Ma, and me. Mrs. May took care of Ma when Ma got sick, and she takes care of Annabel as best she can now.”
“I imagine taking orders from a lady from Pasadena about her garden is not exactly the life you thought you would lead,” Adele said.
“Maybe not, but you pay well.”
She laughed. “Because you forced my hand!”
He grinned. “I was surprised you paid it. You were so stern, like a schoolmistress. I was sure you were going to tell me I was being impertinent.”
“I was not stern.”
He raised a brow. “The grand English lady living in her mansion on South Orange Grove?”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But you must have not thought I was too intimidating, otherwise you never would have agreed to come work at Rosewood House.”
