Chapter 3

Shaken and tongue-tied, Annabelle stumbled back. The room spun wildly, growing cold and closing in around her. Air. She needed air, but her lungs locked painfully, refusing to contract. How could she possibly breathe when the man whose memory saw her through her mother's death, through her losing every possession even that of her own name had reappeared? Only it wasn't him. He had been erased, replaced. The man whose words wiped her tears at night with his promise to come back for her had indeed returned, only to mock her of her foolishness.

The world collapsed. Winded, Annabelle coughed desperately for air, bracing onto the bedpost as pain and realization tore through her body. Not only had he not returned for her, but his only motivation in reappearing was to marry Madeline!

Running to Annabelle’s side, Beatrice genuinely sought to ease her, wrapping her arms about Annabelle’s shaking frame, but Annabelle just trembled. Fully clothed and near the fire, she shivered violently.  There was no easing her ache. Sympathy hurt far more. She didn’t want empty soothing words of which while being spoken to help only offended and mocked her further.

How could she truly believe all would be well? Or that it would all pass? How was that possible when the one thing she wanted most was what she couldn’t have? When what she wanted more than air, no longer wanted or even remembered her?

Jerking back, Annabelle dashed from the room. The walls being her only support, she dragged her crumbling body down blurred corridors and shifting stairs. Upon reaching her dark quarters, the world went still with the closing of the door.

Lifeless, Annabelle slid against the door until but a bundle of tears remained on the hard floor. Gripping at her hair, Annabelle screamed, but there was no sound.

Voices echoed then through the house. It was Madeline welcoming Lord William Hamilton with arched praises. Sounding more like millions of marbles crashing on the floor, Annabelle cringed. But possessed by masochistic tendency, she pressed her ear to the floor.

She wanted to hear him.

She needed to hear him.

She had to prove to her aching body and accusatory conscience that it wasn't Nathaniel she saw.

Straining to hear him, even a faint vibration of his voice, Annabelle froze. Hollow footsteps thudded lightly toward her door. Like a frightened child, Annabelle scurried back. There was a light rap at the door.

"Martha, it's me, Beatrice."

Clumsily wiping her tears and struggling to regain some composure, Annabelle rose. "Come in," she said, her voice rusted and hoarse.

Beatrice opened the door and poked her head inside, her body gradually following. Though wanting to seem unruffled, her movements were saturated in worry. "Martha, are you ill?"

Tears stung Annabelle’s eyes. Flushing, she smoothed her apron down meticulously. "I had a hard time breathing is all. I'm much better now. Thank you," she lied no further, turning away from her friend. Resting her hand softly against the wall, Annabelle wished in earnest to melt into it and disappear. Disappear or die.

"That's good then,” Beatrice replied, a strange cautiousness in her voice, “Because Mrs. Melbourne requests your presence downstairs."

The ground shook underfoot. Or at least it felt so to Annabelle.

Horrified, she tried to speak, but dry heaves claimed her. "W-w-why does she need me? Is it not something you can do?" Annabelle found herself gripping the wall to keep from falling. Could her luck really be such? She couldn't go downstairs. Nathaniel would be there, and he would see her. What if he remembered? Mrs. Melbourne might mention something that would strike a chord in his memory as to who she was. Not only would he then know who she was, but he would know what she had become.

Annabelle shivered. He couldn’t ever know. The shame would be too painful and his pity…that would kill her. No, she couldn't go. Refusing to appear would guarantee Mrs. Melbourne's wrath, but had Annabelle not managed for seven years?

Beatrice’s hushed tones jarred Annabelle from thought. She was saying, "Lord Hamilton's guest is his son! Can you believe it? Miss Madeline nearly collapsed at the sight!" Beatrice laughed quietly. However, Annabelle closed her eyes, a freezing sensation sweeping through her. Perhaps shame? Regret? Denial?

Beatrice went on, "That's not the worst of it. The child’s mother was his lordships mistress!”

Anger, Annabelle thought decidedly. It was anger.

“Pneumonia claimed her just last month and his lordship has taken the child in. It's caused quite the scandal, but he has acknowledged the child as his son, regardless of whom or better yet, what the mother was. I may not know much about him or his reasons for marrying Madeline, but I daresay he is a noble man.”

Annabelle's blood seared. "Noble?" She spun harshly. "Noble? His mistress bore him a child of which he just came to acknowledge. Furthermore, he didn't have the decency to marry the woman and you think him noble? She carried his child and what; he settled an annuity on her? No, no, if indeed her were noble it would not have taken the hand of death for him to accept the responsibility that is his son. Noble?” Annabelle scoffed. “I much prefer another word. Liar! He's a liar Beatrice. Lord Hamilton is nothing more than a liar."  

Breathless from her passionate snarl, Annabelle paced the room aimlessly. Her tongue burned from saying his name, but she found much pleasure in calling him what he truly was.

Beatrice stared, clearly astonished at Annabelle’s outburst. Recovering slightly she shrugged. "Forgive me, Martha. You are right. Perhaps noble is too much of a word for Lord Hamilton. But either way, you will have to quiet your righteousness for some time," she warned lowly. "Mrs. Melbourne offered to have you care of the child during his lordships stay."

 “No, no, that cannot be. You must be mistaken. For me to be the child’s nanny is unheard of, Beatrice. His lordship will never agree to it.  Even if he does, I can’t be the boy’s nurse, I simply can’t.” Her words faded to slurred sounds as darkness swept over her eyes.

"Martha!" Beatrice eased a faint Annabelle onto the bed. "Perhaps you’d better rest and I will tell Mrs. Melbourne that you’ve fallen ill." Smoothing down Annabelle's ravished curls, Beatrice offered the words Annabelle did not want to hear. But it mattered little as Annabelle could barely hear them. Her thundering heart drowned out all other sound. Looking away from her concerned friend, Annabelle watched in gloom as the leaves carelessly blew about in the autumn wind. Never had she envied anything so much in her life...

Annabelle lay in her bed, painfully waiting for the knock at her window that would never come. Four days had passed since she last saw his face. Days of which had vanished between tears and sleep, with morsels in between to please her worried mother.

The door opened slowly.

"Annie," her mother whispered. Annabelle didn't move. Light footsteps padded toward the bed, a plate being placed down at her side table whispering through the silence. The warm aroma of a hearty stew tickled at Annabelle's nose, but it vanished quickly. Thoughts of enjoying anything only made Annabelle want to fall deeper into her black abyss.

Her bed sunk momentarily, her mother’s arms then wrapping around her. In the infinite silence disturbed only by the crackling fire, her mother smoothed down Annabelle’s auburn strands, twirling curls in her fingers. Keeping to that silence, they lay until the fire in the room extinguished.

Her mother whispered, “It hurts, and it will hurt for a long time, but each day will get easier little by little."

Annabelle squeezed her mother’s hand tenderly, understanding the pain with which she spoke her words. Her parents had loved each other the way Annabelle thought two soul mates should, wholly in heart and soul. When her father passed, Annabelle felt a part of her mother dim indefinitely, just as the flame had left them alone in the dark.

"I'm scared I won't ever see him again." Annabelle burst with emotion,  and unable to contain her sobs, confessed the secret of her heart. "I loved him.”

"I know, my love, but you will always have your memories. Let them carry you, as they do me."

**

Annabelle woke to darkness. Rubbing her eyes, she cast her sights about her darkened quarters.  Night had fallen, further evidenced by the lack of movement outside her bedchamber. But when had she fallen asleep? She sighed. It didn’t matter. Sleep normally helped ease all her woes, but Annabelle felt worse than ever. Crying left her bones immensely sore as did the pain reverberating in her heart. But at least Mrs. Melbourne hadn't come to reprimand her during her rest, the thought only a little comfort.

Annabelle chuckled miserably. Mrs. Melbourne probably didn’t want ‘Lord Hamilton' being frightened away with any fear of disease. Nothing would come between Madeline marrying a title.

Rising slowly, Annabelle shook them all from her mind and sought the comforts of her nightdress to which she then wrapped a robe about her, lit her candle and paced slowly toward the door. Stepping quietly from her room, she closed the door with a silent click and dashed to the servant stairs. Surely her heart threatened to give her away by beating so fast, but Annabelle knew there was no way she would run into Lord Hamilton in the back stairs.

Tiptoeing down, Annabelle made it to the kitchen in immense terror. Though accepting that seeing Nathaniel was highly unlikely, the thought that he, at that moment, resided in one of the rooms at Melbourne House utterly consumed her. No doubt she would have to see him and in some measure interact with him, but deuces take all! That night was hers. She would live out that very night in its entire splendor before the ensuing rains of truth whirled in like a hurricane. Deciding on a cup of tea with staled bread, Annabelle reached for the kettle. She froze.

Someone was coming!  Dashing up the stairs, Annabelle crouched into the darkness at the second level. Pressing her quivering hands against her mouth, she held her breath. One thing was certain—it wasn't a servant. No servant would dare roam the household at night. They were only allowed passage to the kitchen through the servant stairs, yet Annabelle found herself alone.

Surrendering to curiosity, Annabelle peeked from the second landing.  Who in heavens could it be? Suddenly a small figure flew past the stairs. Blinking rapidly, Annabelle gripped the hand rail tightly, knuckles white with fear.  Had she really seen that? It was dark after all. Perhaps it was a shadow—Yes, a shadow. She chuckled, mocking her cowardice when a door open and instantly closed. Annabelle swallowed. It hadn’t been a shadow, but there were no servants in the house that small…

Annabelle’s conscience whispered past offering familiar words,

"Logan! How many times have I told you not to run away from me?"

Annabelle gasped in horror. The darkness outside was infinite and she didn't see a candle in Logan’s hand. Before her mind came to reason, Annabelle found herself in the freezing October air. Shielding the flame from the frigid breeze, Annabelle forced her trembling fingers to steady. The cold air burned her lungs, but the urgency to find Logan possessed her, prevailing upon all reason.

Spinning, there was nothing but darkness. Desperate, Annabelle wanted to call to him, but what if it scared him and he ran further? She couldn’t risk it. There were ponds and streams, and perhaps he didn't know how to swim. Annabelle shuddered. She mustn’t think dreadful thoughts.

Blinking back her own tears, Annabelle bit her lip. "Crying will do you no good, Annabelle!" she reprimanded herself harshly to which then there was a sob...but not of her own. A foreign fire blazed within her. It was the awakening of every maternal instinct she possessed yet never knew of.

Forgetting all time, place and circumstance she cried, "Logan, sweetheart, please answer me! It's Ann-It's Martha!" She spun wildly, trying to locate him.  Another sob escaped in the direction of the gardens. Rushing into the night, Annabelle found the frightened boy huddled at the entrance to the elaborate gazebo prematurely built for his father's nuptials. His small body shivered as he sat, crying into his bent knees.

Annabelle dismissed proprieties to hell and slipped off her robe it about Logan's shuddering shoulders saying, "Logan sweetheart," she whispered, kneeling before him. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?"  

Swallowing, Annabelle sought to rid the tremble from her voice. She could not afford Logan thinking she was upset as he might run off into the night. Logan didn’t reply and hugged his knees tighter. Annabelle thought it best not to push him any further. Sitting beside him, she placed the candle at her side and gathered him into her arms.  Closing her eyes against his frozen strands, Annabelle rocked him, whispering sweet endearments over his head. As much as her numb toes and fingers hurt, Annabelle rubbed his back until his sobs turned to silent whimpers, to whispering sniffles.

He then whispered weakly, "I remember you."

Looking down Annabelle met familiar blue eyes. "I remember you too." She smiled softly, trying to keep her own tears at bay. Annabelle pressed a palm against his damp cheek and her heart sunk. He looked so much like his father.

Out of no fear of her health rather that of Logan’s, Annabelle tightened her robe about him, "We should get inside—"

"No!" Logan protested, coiling. "I'm going home."

Annabelle contained a light laugh recognizing the stubborn spirit in the boy. Good thing she remembered how to appease it from practice. During all the parties and holidays, she was always ordered to look after the children. Of all her experiences, one proved most valuable: biscuits were greater than gold.

Annabelle softened her voice. "But, if you go home then what am I to do with all those biscuits in the kitchen? Surely you cannot expect me to eat them all by myself!" Annabelle sighed dramatically. Logan peeked up.

"Biscuits?" he whispered. "Like the one's mama would give me?"

Annabelle stomach knotted viciously. Mama. In all her anger, she had never once stopped to think about the woman, the woman who lay with Nathaniel and bore him a son. The woman, who even for a few passion filled nights, got to feel the whisper of Nathaniel’s touch. A touch Annabelle could only dream to feel again. But as the cold breeze shocked her bones, she nodded softly in realization. Logan's mother never lay with Nathaniel, no. She lay with Lord Hamilton.

Clearing her throat, she pulled Logan closer. "If we go back inside now, I'll let you have one, just for being such a gentleman and accompanying me on this cold and lonely night.” She pressed a dainty wrist on her forehead. “What would I ever have done without you?"

Logan laughed through a sniffle. "You mean I'm a true gentleman, like Father?"

Annabelle paused. She couldn't possibly lie to the child, but how would she be able to answer his question without uttering the greatest lie of her life? The thought of Lord Hamilton made her ill. The thought of Nathaniel threatened to kill her. But swallowing her disdain she vowed to never involve Logan in her bitterness. And so she answered his question, appeasing both her conscience and the small child.

"Yes my love," she whispered as she whisked him into her arms and into the warm house. "You are a true gentleman." 

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<3Thank you so much for reading