Hidden Affections

by Delia Parr

  “Just instinct,” Widow Cannon stated as she helped Annabelle remove her cape. “I’ve been waiting for you for years, not that I’ll ever admit that to your husband. He knows well and good how I feel about the life he’s been leading, but that’s all behind him now that he’s finally gotten married.”

  Taken aback, Annabelle furrowed her brow. “You’ve been waiting years? But I only arrived last night and just left the city—”

  “And just in time to save that young rake from himself.” The housekeeper urged Annabelle not to remove her gloves or cape. “We’re nearly out of firewood, so there wasn’t enough to set a good fire down in the main house today or anywhere else, except for the kitchen. Now that Harrison is coming back, I’m expecting someone to deliver more before long.” She took Annabelle’s hand and patted it. “Just call me Irene like everybody else does. We don’t hold with being as formal out here as they do in the city. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I’m a bit relieved,” Annabelle admitted, grateful for this first ray of normalcy since she had arrived.

  Irene smiled and held on to her hand as they walked down the narrow hall that served as a foyer. “I’ve been praying every night that Harrison would settle down with a good woman like you seem to be. I don’t know how you did it, since he’s managed to evade the grasp of most of the eligible young women in the city. But I’m happy he had the good sense to bring you here instead of that museum he calls home now. ”

  Annabelle swallowed hard. Although she was thrilled to find the housekeeper so friendly, she was reluctant to disappoint her by telling her that in truth she was Harrison’s wife in name only and that her stay here was merely temporary. To her profound dismay, Annabelle’s stomach growled loud enough to elicit a chuckle from Irene, who pointed to the staircase. Its wrought-iron balustrade seemed far too ostentatious when set against plain whitewashed walls nearly devoid of decoration except for oil-lit sconces providing light.

  “Unless you’re curious or just needing a rest, I can show you the sleeping rooms and the library upstairs later. For now, I’m thinking you’d like to warm up and maybe have some dinner.”

  Annabelle grinned sheepishly. “Thank you. I think I’d like that,” she murmured and tried not to think about sharing a sleeping room with Harrison again.

  Stopping abruptly when they were halfway down the foyer, Irene lifted the edge of a heavy baize curtain and pulled it back. Annabelle looked upon an expansive room that contained a dining area with a table large enough to seat six people, a matching sideboard, and a wooden chandelier as simple in design as the furniture. The light from the hallway also revealed an area beyond the dining room where a large parlor stretched across the east side of the house. More woolen drapes along the entire outer wall suggested a full expanse of windows. Irene confirmed her suspicions, explaining it was a glass wall with French doors that led out to the portico Annabelle had seen earlier.

  “It’s a real pretty view from the parlor any time of the year, but with the severe winter we’re having, the drapes are in place to try to stave off some of the cold. Once that firewood gets here, I’ll see that there’s a good fire going and those drapes get taken down.”

  When Annabelle shivered with a sudden chill, Irene frowned. “There’s a good fire in the kitchen, which is about the only room we’ve been heating for nearly a week. If you don’t mind taking your dinner with the rest of us, I can set a place for you quickly enough, or I can make up a tray—”

  “No, I don’t mind at all,” Annabelle replied with a smile that came straight out of her heart. This temporary home was going to be a blessing.

  Irene grinned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.” She dropped the baize curtain back in place before leading Annabelle to a small door in the far western corner of the foyer.

  “We’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of us, but don’t worry. You won’t have to go outside in the elements again.”

  Curious as well as confused, Annabelle followed Irene down a set of stairs that led to the basement. Several oil lamps on the thick walls lit their way to yet another door, which Irene tugged open to reveal a narrow walkway as well lit as the basement. Annabelle’s eyes widened. “It’s a tunnel!”

  Irene chuckled. “The tunnel leads from this basement to the one beneath the cottage. If you need any one of us, just ring that bell,” she explained and pointed to an impressive bell hanging at the entrance.

  “You’ll be able to hear it?”

  “We’re paid to hear it,” Irene replied and led Annabelle into the brick-lined tunnel, securing the door behind them. “Isaac Graymoor, your husband’s great-grandfather, had this country estate built to escape the hot, humid summers in the city long before I was born,” she began as they started walking down the tunnel, which was surprisingly warmer than the house they had just left. “As I heard the tale, he was rather eccentric. He also had a very sensitive nose and couldn’t tolerate cooking smells beyond mealtimes. He had a real penchant for privacy, too, which explains why he had a cottage built forty feet away from the house—where he put the kitchen as well as rooms for the staff. There’s a second tunnel leading from the cottage basement down to the river, so the family wouldn’t be bothered by supplies being delivered, either.”

  Annabelle shook her head. “You have to walk through a tunnel that’s forty feet long each and every time you need to enter the house to do your work?”

  “Keeps the figure trim and the legs from seizing up with old age,” Irene teased. “The bricks keep the temperature in the tunnel cooler in summer and warmer in winter than either the cottage or the house, so I’m not complaining. Oh, I should probably tell you that these oil lamps along the way are only lit until sunset or so, so you shouldn’t try to use the tunnel at night.”

  Annabelle shook her head again, surprised at Irene’s openness and positive outlook. When she caught the aroma of food, her stomach growled again, even louder this time.

  Irene paused and cocked her head. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she asked, as if she was prepared to reprimand Harrison when he arrived for not being attentive to his bride’s needs.

  “Just a few hours. I’m not shy when it comes to mealtime,” she admitted.

  Irene hooked her arm with Annabelle’s. “I knew I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you.” She smiled and quickly ushered Annabelle through a final door that opened into the cottage basement.

  Annabelle followed the housekeeper up the staircase and into the kitchen. Greeted by a warm blast of air and mouthwatering aromas, she was surprised to see only two other servants, a middle-aged man and woman, seated at the large round table in the center of the room.

  Irene quickly introduced her to Alan, who had a shock of startling red hair on his head and immediately rose to his feet. His reed-thin wife, Peggy, stood up next to her much-shorter husband. “Please. Don’t let me interrupt your meal,” Annabelle urged, but they both looked to Irene for permission.

  “Go ahead. Do as Miss Annabelle asked.”

  Both of them returned to their seats, but wore a look of total surprise when Irene took Annabelle’s cape and gloves, pulled out a chair, and Annabelle joined them at the table. “Miss Annabelle is hungry. You can’t expect her to take her meal at the main house in an unheated dining room,” she admonished.

  Alan’s cheeks flushed bright red. “I’m sorry, Miss Annabelle. I’ll see to setting the fires on the first floor right quick, just as soon as that firewood gets delivered.”

  “I suppose I’ll need to help,” Peggy murmured reluctantly.

  Irene cast a hard glance at the woman. “We all have to do what we can now that Mr. Harrison and Miss Annabelle will be in residence.” She set a napkin, a plate of thick pottery, and utensils in front of Annabelle and smiled before spinning the raised center of the table to give Annabelle a full view of the food prepared for dinner. “If there’s nothing here that suits you, I’ll fix something else.”

  Annabelle bypassed the platter of thickly
sliced ham and ladled a spoonful of steaming chicken topped with featherlight dumplings onto her plate. “This is my favorite dish in all the world,” she murmured. Troubled by Peggy’s comment, however, she paused before taking a bite and addressed Irene, who was clearly in charge of the staff. “I don’t mean to burden any of you by arriving unexpectedly.”

  Irene sat down next to her and filled her plate. “It’s no burden at all. We’re just short a pair of hands at the moment.”

  Peggy frowned. “We wouldn’t be shorthanded if that silly goose, Jane, hadn’t run off to marry that nitwit who convinced her to travel west with him.”

  Irene took the knife she was using to butter her dumplings and pointed it at the woman. “There’s no need to bother Miss Annabelle with such gossip. Or Mr. Harrison when he first arrives, either. Other than spending a weekend or two here occasionally, he hasn’t been back here to live for eight years, and I won’t have you or Alan start complaining. There’s time enough to tell him tomorrow, which I plan to do myself,” she said, taking firm command.

  Annabelle was tempted to ask what had prompted Harrison to abandon this home to live in the city, but she was far too intimidated by the look on Irene’s face to say a word, even though the housekeeper was directing her glare at her staff. Instead, she polished off her entire plate, took a second helping, and finished that, too. She’d asked Mrs. Faye to purchase a diary for her to replace the one she had burned before leaving home, and she planned to add this scrumptious meal to the list of treasures she’d record for today.

  Hopeful that the other items she had requested would also arrive soon, she nearly gasped when Irene took her plate and replaced it with a smaller plate filled with dessert. “I couldn’t possibly eat that piece of pie. It’s enormous!”

  “Of course you can,” Irene countered. “Besides, it’s the only thing I know how to bake that tastes any good.”

  Annabelle took one bite of the cinnamon-laced confection and sighed. “It’s heavenly. I highly doubt that anyone who can make a pie this good wouldn’t be able to bake anything to perfection.”

  Alan chuckled. “Actually, Irene’s right. She can’t bake much of anything else. Not that I’m complaining,” he said before helping himself to a healthy serving of the pie.

  Before he had a chance to take a single bite, the sound of a wagon pulling up in the outside yard had him leaping to his feet. He took one look out of the kitchen window and grinned. “Firewood’s finally here,” he explained and charged out of the kitchen, donning his coat as he hurried off.

  He had no sooner closed the door when the sound of a distant bell echoed up the basement staircase. Irene answered Annabelle’s unspoken question with a smile. “That would be supplies coming from town. The bell they ring to let us know they’ve arrived has a different pitch,” she offered. “Peggy and I will need to take care of this. We’ll be a while, so if you get tired of waiting after you finish your pie, you might want to walk around the house and take stock of your new home. If you need me for any reason, I’ll be in that tunnel I showed you. The one that leads down to the river.” Then she followed Peggy down the steps to the basement.

  After Annabelle finished her pie, she was so full she could barely move. Although she was curious about the second floor of the house, she did not feel comfortable wandering about and felt guilty that everyone else was busy while she had virtually nothing important to do. She took one glance around the kitchen, took note of the dirty dishes on the table and the pots and pans on the cookstove that had been set into the old walk-in hearth, and smiled.

  She removed the clean apron hanging from a peg next to the water pump and put it on before she set a pot of water on the cookstove to heat and started tidying up. She was scraping the last platter clean when she heard footsteps coming up the basement staircase. “I thought you said it would take you a while. I hope you don’t mind, but I was feeling rather useless, so I thought I’d help by cleaning up from dinner. I’m not certain what you do with the scraps—”

  “Annabelle, just exactly what do you think you’re doing?”

  The sound of Harrison’s voice, though not stern, startled her so badly she dropped the platter, which broke into several pieces on the floor at her feet. “Harrison! I thought you weren’t going to arrive until much later.”

  He shook his head. “I finished up my errands much faster than I expected, although I must admit to hurrying so I could make it out here before the worst of the snowstorm hit,” he explained as he stepped toward her. “Obviously, my unexpected arrival has proven to be more fortuitous than I thought it would be.”

  “Oh?” she managed, surprised at how her pulse began to race when he approached her, his hair glistening with several snowflakes that had yet to melt.

  “Apparently you and I need to have a talk.” His eyes sparkled with more humor than disapproval.

  She swallowed hard. “A talk?” She dropped her gaze. “What about?”

  “As my wife, I have certain expectations, certain wants and needs that I need to discuss with you. Privately, before my staff finds their way back here,” he added gently before retrieving her cape and handing it to her.

  Her heart thudded in her chest, and she moistened her lips as she slipped into the cape. She did not know why or how he might possibly have had a change of heart about having their marriage annulled after meeting with his lawyer. But if he did and if he had any expectations that she might be interested in being anything other than his wife in name only, she was going to set him straight. Right here and right now.

  Just as soon as she found her voice, which seemed to be just beyond her reach at the moment.

  Experience, however, had taught Annabelle that a handsome, charming man, more often than not, led to one thing and one thing only: heartbreak.

  And she was never, ever going to let that happen again.

  Chapter Nine

  Harrison had been pleased that Annabelle had not balked when he pressed her to keep their marriage a secret and to live quietly in a boardinghouse while he pursued an annulment. With that plan now eliminated, convincing her to play the role of a loving, dutiful wife both at home and at several social events they would be expected to attend offered an even greater challenge.

  He could ill afford to antagonize her for fear she would simply walk right out of this house and disappear. He needed her, and her cooperation, at least until she signed the documents young Fennimore had drafted as well as the settlement agreement his usual attorney had prepared.

  Pleased that his calming words had eased the uncertainty from her gaze while they traveled through the tunnel back to the main house, he led her up the curving staircase to the second floor and into the library. The room was as cold as all the others in the main house, and he made a mental note to talk to Irene and ask her why she had waited so long to order more firewood.

  He closed the door to assure their privacy, and he was confident that he had the arsenal of weapons he needed to get her to do as he asked: money, jewels, and a charm that most women found irresistible.

  He watched her as she moved directly past the desk in the center of the room, where a pair of gas lamps provided light. She stopped in front of one of the three walls lined with shelves of books that stretched from floor to ceiling. “When Irene mentioned the library, I had no idea there would be so many books here.”

  “Do you like to read?” he asked as she worked her way down the length of the wall, studying the collection his grandfather had gathered here.

  She nodded, then suddenly stopped and pointed to a thick book bound in rich, well-worn leather that stirred no memories for him. “Would I be able to take this one and keep it in my room, or must I read it here?”

  He didn’t bother to check which book she had chosen and merely shrugged. “Whichever pleases you more.”

  She took the book from the shelf and tucked it under her arm. “I think I’ll take it with me, since there isn’t a fireplace or warming stove in here, let alone any windows
,” she noted and cocked her head. “I thought I saw several upstairs windows when I first arrived.”

  “You did, but the library was built squarely in the center of the second floor for a reason. My grandfather designed the room as his refuge that was sacrosanct. When he was in residence, no one, not even the staff, was permitted into the room without his express permission, which is a tradition that remains in place today.”

  “Did he like to read, or are all these books just for display?”

  “I’ve been told he was well-read, but he also used the library to maintain extensive correspondence that demanded strict privacy. He slept here occasionally, as well.” He pulled a curtain aside to reveal a narrow bed tucked within the alcove before dropping it back into place.

  “Have you read any of these books?”

  “I have,” he replied, “but rather than analyze my taste in literature, we have much more important things to discuss.”

  Her chin tilted up just a tad.

  He pulled the chair out from the desk. “If you’ll take a seat, I have two legal documents for you to sign.” He walked around to the other side of the desk where he had placed the documents earlier and flashed her a reassuring smile.

  “Are they part of your ‘expectations,’ ” she quipped, although she took her seat and placed the book she had selected on her lap.

  “I suspect they’re yours, as well,” he murmured, then selected the most important of the two documents and opened it. “This is simply a recounting of the coercion used to force both of us to marry against our will. This may or may not be necessary in the end, but my lawyer agrees that it’s best to be overprepared.”

  “I agree,” she said. “Did your lawyer give you any indication of how long it will take to obtain the annulment?”

  He swallowed hard. He did not correct her assumption that it would be an annulment rather than a divorce; instead, he eased the concern in her gaze with the one truth he was prepared to share with her. “By the end of January, if not sooner.”