by Laura Martin
It was in Leo’s hand and she knew immediately he had been delayed longer than expected.
Dear Annabelle,
I send my apologies. The business with Mr Thoday is taking longer than expected. I hope to be finished and returned to Kent within a few more days.
I write to ask you a favour. Upstairs in the attic there is a room where I store the papers and correspondence that do not fit in my study. I need a paper with a map drawn on it, headed ‘Abbingdon Estate, Cornwall’. I think it should be in one of the chests closest to the door.
If you could find it for me and send it on to London, this business should be resolved much more quickly and I will be able to return to you.
Warmest regards,
Leo
Annabelle read the letter through twice, wondering if she was imagining the formal tone. There were no words of endearment, but she had run from him in London without an explanation and it did sound as though he were anticipating his return.
‘Stop worrying,’ she told herself. Leo was formal in his correspondence and she knew he felt a keen sense of responsibility to the estate he had inherited, the estate that had been in his family for generations. That was why his letter was so formal, his mind was on business.
Deciding there was no time like the present, she climbed to the top of the house. She’d only been up here once, when Mrs Barnes had shown her around her new home while Leo was lying sick in bed just after their wedding. They’d spent a grand total of four minutes in the attic rooms which comprised of four rooms for servants and two used for storage. It was one of these that Annabelle headed to now.
Like the rest of the house it was meticulously maintained with no dust in sight even though the room was rarely used. Annabelle was grateful, shuddering at the thought of the attic rooms at Birling View. Some of those had been so thick with cobwebs and dust you would leave footprints on the floor when you entered.
Crouching down, she looked at the two chests closest to the door. They were huge and heavy, made of thick wood with brass fastenings. They looked as though they had been passed down through the centuries, the wood getting more battered and scarred with each owner.
Inside the first chest were neat stacks of letters, row upon row almost identical. She lifted a stack out, frowning at the childish handwriting, before looking at the writing on the next few piles. The letters were obviously organised in chronological order, the handwriting developing and becoming more mature, more formed, as time passed. Annabelle felt a lump grow in her throat as she realised this chest contained all of Leo’s correspondence with his brother from over the years. Every letter he’d received from Josh, every drawing, all kept pristinely in this chest as if it were an important document.
She hesitated, knowing she should put the letters back, knowing they were private, but a flash of colour caught her eye. She unfolded a piece of paper from the bottom of the first stack and smiled at the childish painting of rolling green hills backed by a brilliant blue sea. The writing that accompanied the picture was large and curvy, no doubt from Josh at the age of seven or eight, soon after his arrival in India. It was a few lines only, detailing his new home. Annabelle carefully flicked through the letters, smiling as the handwriting became more formed, the letters longer. The brothers might have been young when they were separated, but by the looks of it they had written often, although the delay in receiving the communication from the other side of the world must have been hard.
Knowing she shouldn’t pry, Annabelle replaced the stack, but curiosity got the better of her and before moving away she took out the next stack. From the dates at the top of the letters it seemed these were from late adolescent and early adulthood. In one she saw a line about Josh finishing school and starting to work in his guardian’s business.
She wished she could see Leo’s replies, see his half of the treasured correspondence. The way the letters were stored so carefully, so lovingly, showed what they meant to her husband.
‘Put them away,’ she murmured to herself. They were private. She didn’t think Leo would actually mind her looking, but she owed it to him to ask first.
Carefully she tucked the second stack back in the trunk, but as she did so she dislodged a letter from the middle which floated out of place. As she picked it up she realised it was written in a different hand on thicker paper. Her curiosity won over her ethics and she unfolded it, gasping when a charcoal drawing fell out of the middle of the letter.
The drawing was of a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was half smiling, looking down in a coy way that only the truly ravishing could pull off. Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders and she was biting her bottom lip in a way that seemed both innocent and provocative.
Instantly Annabelle knew this was Emily. It was unclear who had made the drawing, Leo or Emily herself, although it looked more like someone looking on rather than a self-portrait. No wonder Leo had fallen for her so fast and so hard. She was captivating even just on paper.
With her hand shaking she reached for the letter. She was surprised to find it was written in Leo’s hand, not Emily’s as she had first thought, although the writing was curvier, more flamboyant than his writing now.
My darling love,
It has been three months since I last set eyes upon you and my heart dies a little more each day we are apart. I long to run my fingers through your hair, to taste the sweetness of your lips, to look upon your perfect face and just take you all in.
I return to Cambridge for Lent Term tomorrow, but I do so with a heavy heart. For in Cambridge I am even further from you than I am here.
I know it is difficult, my darling, but if you can send me a note, even just a single word, to show me you haven’t forgotten our time together...
I long for the day we can be with one another properly.
Keep safe, my sweet.
All my love,
L.
Annabelle felt as though she had been punched in the gut. There was nothing unexpected in the letter, nothing Leo hadn’t told her himself. It must have been written at the height of their entanglement, but before Emily’s husband found out about the affair. Her eyes flicked again to the picture.
‘Don’t compare yourself,’ she told herself harshly, feeling sickened that she felt jealous of a dead woman. Leo had said he had loved Emily, but that he had mourned her and moved on. She should believe him. She did believe him. What she couldn’t believe was that he would ever find her attractive if this was the woman he had lost his heart to.
All the platitudes people had uttered over the years started swirling around in her head: Beauty is on the inside. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Looks are only skin-deep...a person’s true worth is in their heart.
With shaking hands she folded up the letters and put them carefully back in the trunk. Scrabbling in the second trunk as she felt the tears start to form in her eyes, she finally found the map Leo wanted, pulling it out and slamming the lid down with a crash.
She sank back against the wall, wishing she could just disappear, wishing that she could free Leo from this marriage to her. He deserved someone like Emily, someone beautiful, someone whom he didn’t have to warn the other society ladies about, someone he could walk into a ballroom with and not have to be subject to whispers and stares.
Closing her eyes, she tried to tell herself to calm down, that she was overreacting, but all she could see in the darkness was Emily’s portrait, her perfect face.
After a few minutes she staggered downstairs, knowing she shouldn’t act rashly, but feeling trapped and upset. She loved Leo and realised she secretly hoped that one day he might love her back. Despite going into this union as a way to get away from her oppressive life and her mother, despite promising it was a marriage of convenience only, it had become so much more than that. Leo had been attentive on their honeymoon, and she knew he enjoyed her company, even enjoyed her
in bed, but she was beginning to realise he would never love her. It was nothing to him to spend time apart from her, she was the one who had followed him to London, who had foisted herself on him. There would never be any of the adoration she had seen in the letter to Emily directed to her.
It shouldn’t matter. She had a lovely home and a kind husband, but Annabelle knew her heart would break if she stayed too long in Leo’s company, her love unrequited. Perhaps a few weeks away would help her to decide what to do. Perhaps with some time and some distance she would be able to persuade herself that it didn’t matter, that she could just quietly live her life loving Leo, knowing he cared for her, but would never return her love.
He had plenty of properties and as his wife she could make any of them her home for a few weeks. She had the desire to be alone, to find her peace with her lot. Throughout her formative years she had often been left on her own at Birling View while her parents and Beth visited friends or went on little trips.
‘Just a few weeks,’ she murmured to herself.
She glanced down at the map in her hands. Cornwall seemed a long way away, but perhaps that was what she needed. Time and distance. Time to think and distance to accept her lot, to accept that her marriage might be more than Leo had first promised her, but it would never be exactly what she wanted. As she looked at the map she shook her head—Cornwall was perhaps too far. Surely somewhere closer would give her the space she needed.
‘Mrs Barnes,’ she called as she hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. ‘I’m going on a little trip.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dear Josh,
I think I’ve ruined everything.
Leo was weary. He’d ridden from London, having sent the carriage on with Annabelle a week earlier. It was getting dark and he probably should have stopped overnight to break up his journey, but he had decided to push on and just get home. Michaels was riding beside him, the valet half-asleep in the saddle, but he roused at the sight of Five Oaks in the dusk.
The house was quiet as they dismounted. He had planned on sending a note to say he was returning home, but had only finalised his plans the night before so it felt a bit unnecessary. A rider would only arrive a few hours before him and he didn’t need a fanfare to announce his arrival.
The door opened as he and Michaels dismounted and Leo handed his reins to his valet who started to walk the horses round to the back of the house where the stables were situated.
‘Good evening, my lord,’ the footman said, taking Leo’s jacket.
‘Good evening. Do you know where Lady Abbingdon is?’
He had hoped she would be up to meet him, had been imagining the moment of their reunion for the past week, but perhaps it was too much to ask. He had arrived unannounced and Annabelle might have already retired to bed. Suppressing a smile, he decided he didn’t mind having to seek her out in the bedroom.
‘Lord Abbingdon, how lovely to have you home,’ Mrs Barnes said as she hurried up from the kitchen. ‘I have a note from your wife.’
‘A note?’
Surely she didn’t need to send him a note when she was just upstairs.
‘Is something amiss?’ He tore open the seal with trepidation and unfolded the small square of paper. Perhaps her mother had been taken ill and she’d had to journey down to Sussex. He couldn’t think of any other reason she wouldn’t be here waiting for him.
As he skimmed over the words he started to frown, then folded up the paper and strode to his study. Brown, the young footman, followed him and lit a candle, then discreetly slipped away, closing the door behind him. Slowly Leo unfolded the note again.
Dear Leo,
I have gone away.
Please do not follow me. I need time to think.
Love,
Annabelle
That was all it said, short and brutal. Leo sagged back in his chair, reading and rereading the note, trying to find some scrap of information to put the words in context. When they had parted in London Annabelle had been a little quiet, keen to leave the capital, but he had thought that was because it was her first time in the city and she had become a little overwhelmed. He couldn’t think of anything he had done to upset her.
As the minutes ticked past the feeling of confusion was slowly replaced by the familiar sensation of abandonment. She’d left him. Without a proper explanation, without a proper plan on when she was coming back. She’d crept away while he was still in London and left him.
Leo felt sick. The feeling of abandonment conjured up all the horrible memories from childhood, the awful sensation of being left on his own. Annabelle knew all about that, yet still she had left. With shaking hands he rose and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter on the shelf, but it tasted bitter on his tongue and he set the glass down after just one mouthful.
She’d left him. Perhaps not for ever, but she’d left all the same.
Letting his head sink into his hands, he tried to think logically, tried to work out why she had gone so abruptly. Until the day before she had left him in London everything had been wonderful. Then she had become a little more distant, but nothing that he would have thought would cause her to run away from her home.
Standing, he went over to the corner of the room and rang the bell, asking Brown to fetch Mrs Barnes when he appeared at the door.
She came in a minute later, a look of concern on her face.
‘My wife,’ he barked, knowing it was unfair to take his foul mood out on his housekeeper. She didn’t even blink, the expression of concern never wavering on her face.
‘Lady Abbingdon left four days ago, she took the carriage and a few changes of clothes.’
‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘No, my lord...’ Mrs Barnes hesitated. ‘Although she did seem to make up her mind after she had been up in the attic looking for the documents you asked her to find. And I got the impression she was planning for a long journey.’
‘Surely not Cornwall. What would possess her?’
‘Can I get you anything, my lord?’ Mrs Barnes looked at him with an air of motherly concern.
‘No. I think I will retire to bed soon. I’m weary from travelling and I need a clear head to decide what to do in the morning.’ He had another thought. ‘The carriage hasn’t returned?’
‘No, my lord.’ She smiled at him and started to move away, but seemed to want to say something more, hesitating by the door.
‘What is it, Mrs Barnes?’
‘I hope Lady Abbingdon is safe, my lord. She may be new, but she is very well liked by the servants. She is kind.’
Leo inclined his head. Annabelle might only have been mistress of Five Oaks for a short time, but it would seem his servants were good judges of character.
When his housekeeper had closed the door behind her he flopped back in his chair and rubbed his brow with one hand. He felt worried, wanting to know that Annabelle was safe, but he couldn’t deny the feeling that she had abandoned him overshadowed everything else. Surely she wasn’t so unhappy she felt the need to flee right to the other end of the country.
* * *
The next morning things were no clearer to him. He had hoped a good night’s sleep would clarify how he felt and illuminate the course of action he should take. If anything, this morning he felt less sure about anything. Surely he hadn’t imagined the way she looked at him, the way she responded to him. She’d come all the way to London to just be with him, to the city where she was completely out of her area of comfort.
Once he was dressed and had gulped down some scorching hot coffee, he abandoned the rest of his breakfast and stomped up to the attic, wondering if there were any clues up there as to why Annabelle had left so suddenly. There was nothing, just the trunk of old letters from Josh, kept meticulously in date order from the very first letter received when Leo was eight and Josh had first left for I
ndia with his new guardian right up until the letter that Josh had written from France, informing Leo he would be back in England in just a few short days. The letters spanned twenty-five years, a brotherly relationship almost entirely made out of pen and ink. Soon the letters would start arriving again from India, once Josh was back home with his new wife.
He couldn’t see anything here that would upset Annabelle, except perhaps for the reminder that her sister was on that same boat bound for India, but that shouldn’t make her want to run away. If anything, the shared loss of their siblings should bring them closer together, not rip them apart.
He moved on to the next chest, but in there were just official documents, maps of the estates, deeds of ownership, old contracts.
Sitting back, he closed his eyes for a moment. She’d left him, by the sounds of it had travelled to Cornwall, to the other end of the country, to get away from him and he had no idea why.
He could choose to wallow, to let the pain of her leaving build up inside him, to conjure up all the old feelings of being left alone, being abandoned and unloved. Or he could go and find her, bring her home and work out exactly why she had felt the need to run from him.
‘If you let her go, she might not ever come back,’ he murmured to himself. The idea of losing her, even after such a short time together, was more painful than he had expected. Over the past couple of months he had grown to first respect and like Annabelle, then to care for her. Now...well, now it was feeling even more than that.
‘You don’t love her.’ As soon as he said the words he knew it was a lie. He did love her. It might not be the sudden, destructive love he had felt for Emily, but it was love all the same, warm and completing. As soon as he realised it, it was as if a peace descended on him. He loved his wife, he loved her and he needed her, and he needed to make things right with her, whatever had happened to make her feel as though she did not want to be here.
Standing, he packed away the contents of the chests and pushed them back to where they had been stored, then hurried back downstairs to instruct Michaels to prepare for a trip to Cornwall.
