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Chapter Ten
“The beginning is always today.”
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
* * *
T heir argument started over dinner. After a long day of traveling, both Annabel and Philip were weary by the time the meal was served. The cold ham, braised potatoes, and thyme carrots had been quickly prepared at Philip’s request for a simple supper, hoping to ease their arrival at Avonmead.
Both had fallen on their food with the desperation of travelers who had not eaten properly in hours, silence reigning until their initial hunger was satisfied.
“Philip, why have you not spoken with Richard in three years?” Annabel’s question cut through the soft clatter of silverware.
Philip froze mid-motion, his fork hovering over his plate. He set it down deliberately, feigning a casual deportment that did not fool her. “My sweet, it is our first night together. Let us not spoil it by discussing Richard. Another time, perhaps?”
“But Richard seemed to think your decision to marry me was related to a dispute between you,” she pressed, her tone gentle but insistent.
Philip sighed, his gaze slipping away from hers. “Annabel, Richard is the furthest thing from my mind at present.” His voice softened, a teasing note creeping in. “I was just thinking about how we might enjoy our wedding night later this evening.”
Annabel shot a mortified look at the footman standing against the far wall, her cheeks warming to a vivid pink. “Philip!” she hissed under her breath, glaring at him.
“My dear, the servants are not fools,” he said with a slight smirk. “They are well aware of what newlyweds typically do on their wedding night.”
Her blush deepened, and she cast an apologetic glance at the footman, who remained impassive. Undeterred, Annabel returned her attention to Philip. “If it concerns me, or your decision to marry me, I believe I have a right to know what happened.”
Philip’s expression tightened. “It does not concern you,” he said brusquely. Then, clearly attempting to redirect the conversation, he leaned forward, his voice dipping into a warmer tone. “Annabel, I must tell you—you are absolutely radiant in that gown.”
Her focus wavered as she glanced down at her attire, the striking saffron silk accented with ivory underskirt and intricate pearl beading. The dress was undoubtedly lovely, but she shook her head, apparently unwilling to let him distract her. “Thank you, but you are changing the subject.”
“I am attempting to protect you,” he responded quietly, his earlier lightness gone.
“From what?” Her voice was soft, almost fragile, but it struck him like a hammer blow.
Philip leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His fatigue was catching up with him, sharpening his frustration. “From matters that are painful and in the past. Why dig into old wounds?”
Annabel met his gaze steadily. “Because I want to understand you, Philip. I thought we were to have a partnership.”
He stiffened at her words, and a shadow crossed his very soul. “Some things are best left buried, Annabel.”
The rest of the meal passed in tense silence, broken only by polite exchanges with the footman. When the last course was cleared away, Philip stood abruptly, pushing his chair back. “Shall we adjourn to your chambers?” he asked, his tone polite but distant.
Annabel hesitated before nodding.
Reaching her bedchambers, Philip shut the door behind them and turned toward her with a tender expression, but Annabel was not to be distracted. “Philip,” she began, her voice almost pleading, “please promise me that your quarrel with Richard has nothing to do with why you married me.”
“Annabel, it is our wedding night,” he responded, his voice edged with frustration. “Tonight is supposed to be about us—about the vows we took this morning.”
Her brow furrowed, her concern evidently deepening. “But how can I trust?—”
“Blazes, Annabel!” Philip exploded, his voice rising before he abruptly caught himself. He took a step back, his hands falling to his sides. “The fact that I stand here should be clear why I married you.”
Her lip trembled, and she looked away, the hurt in her eyes piercing through his temper. His chest tightened with regret, but his own turmoil held him back. He was a man caught between past and present, his emotions tangled in ways he did not yet know how to explain—or control.
Philip sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps we are both overly tired,” he said, his tone softer now. “Let us rest, Annabel. We can speak tomorrow, with clearer minds.”
She stepped aside, creating a path for him to leave. He hesitated before taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “Good night, duchess,” he murmured, his voice laden with unresolved emotion.
He exited the room before he could say anything further, closing the door gently behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the hall, a stark punctuation to their fraught conversation.
Alone now, Philip leaned against the other side of the door, his head bowed. Jane’s voice rang in his ears, a specter from the past: “You are a menace, and I do not want you in my chambers again, Your Grace!” The memory clawed at him, dredging up a wave of shame and sorrow he had tried desperately to bury.
He pushed himself upright with a resigned sigh and strode down the hall. Annabel deserved better than his dark regrets—but he feared he did not know how to give it to her.
* * *
Annabel slept poorly; her insides hollowed with disappointment. Her confidence in their marriage was shaken, and she could not think how to bridge the chasm that had formed between her and her new husband. She had had so much hope for their future together, and it seemed founded on her own na?veté and glib misunderstanding of who Philip really was.
Annabel suspected she was being melodramatic, but all felt lost, and she did not know what she could do to restore their convivial interplay. She cried into her pillow, which just made her more miserable and uncomfortable since she had to wipe up her tears, which had dripped down her cheek and streamed down her neck and into her nape. She had to turn the pillow over to rest her head on the dry side. Then switch pillows after she had dampened both sides because it took some time for the tears to flow to a stop.
She tossed and turned all night. Each time she awoke, she remembered their argument and re-experienced the keen loss of affection and closeness until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep at dawn.
It was late morning when she finally awoke. She could see from the light that she had slept later than her usual time, but she did not have the energy to rise. Her heart physically pained her. She wanted to return to the day before, in the carriage, before she had pressed him, when they had shared those magical moments together. It had been a mistake to push him so hard, and she had to admit that she may not have been fully herself. The over-excitement and lost sleep over the past week had compounded and taken its toll.
Last night, she admitted to herself, she had been suffering from exhaustion as Philip had pointed out. As a result, she had handled the conversation with drama and impatience. Her poor judgment had ruined her own wedding night, the only one she would ever have.
She heard the door open and listlessly she turned her head on her pillow, expecting to see Mary come to clean her room.
Instead, she found Philip standing inside the room as he shut the door behind him. His clothes were rumpled, and he was barefoot, while his face looked as haunted as she felt, with deep shadows under his eyes. Noticing he had suffered during the night as she had made her feel better. Perhaps it was evidence that he cared about making their marriage work as much as she did. Maybe they were in this together, and he would work to repair it as she wanted to do?
“I am sorry, Annabel.” Tears of relief welled in her eyes, and she sat up to receive him. Philip strode across the room urgently. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened his arms. Annabel emitted a low sob as she buried herself in his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Can we start again, my beautiful wife?”
Annabel nodded emphatically into his shoulder, her tears drying up. “I want to make this marriage work. I am so sorry for pressing you to talk about it.”
“I will tell you about Richard, but not yet. Can you give me a little time? I have been alone with my thoughts for a long time, and I am not accustomed to discussing such subjects. It is embarrassing and painful, but I promise you I will talk to you about it as soon as I am ready.” He held her against his broad chest, his long arms engulfing her much smaller body. She could hear his heart beating, and it was the most wonderful sound she had ever heard. He rested his head against her disheveled hair as he clasped her close, and she felt a rush of hope restoring her to her natural state of optimism. They could work together to form a strong marriage if they were both willing participants. Philip’s presence was a balm, a vow that they were in this marriage together.
“You promise?”
“I promise. I will always tell you the truth. But sometimes you will have to be patient and give me a little time. I have to get used to the notion that I can bare my thoughts to you. I have placed my faith unwisely in the past, but know this, Annabel, I do trust you. We will build a strong marriage.”
Annabel gave a happy sigh as his words mirrored her thoughts of moments ago. This new beginning was important to her.
“You will have your time. Now let me up.”
Philip let her go, and she clumsily lifted herself, straightening her maidenly night rail and hopping down from the bed. She made her way over to the washstand where a jug of cold water, some towels, and a washbasin were waiting. She poured some water in and then used a towel to clean her face and water to rinse her mouth. When she felt presentable, she walked back to where Philip sat up against her headboard. He regarded her affectionately and looked up at her standing beside him, arching one of his blond eyebrows in query.
“I am still in my bedroom in my night rail. As far as I am concerned, this still counts as my wedding night.”
Philip chuckled, his gray eyes sparkling. “I cannot fault that logic.”