Chapter 69 The dreadful silence
A final stop to the day's tiring drama was the bedroom door clicking shut. Annabel was lying under the silk comforter like a still figure.
Her body tensed with a quiet simmering tension and she continued to squeeze her eyes tightly. On the dresser she heard a jacket being peeled off and the gentle clink of keys striking a wooden dish.
As he approached, the air in the room changed still heavy with the smell of Carson's day—old leather paper and a hint of cologne.
On the bed's edge a warm weight fell. She sensed the mattress dip and the slight temperature change. As he leaned over his soft recognizable breath drifted across her face.
His voice was a low murmur, more of a question than an order “Annabel?”
She didn't move. Like a statue, her breathing stayed steady and practiced. Behind her closed eyelids hot treacherous tears poured.
She felt their prickle and the pain of containing them but one of them managed to get away and followed a silent blazing trail down her temple and into her hairline.
She allowed a sob to burn in her throat as she swallowed it not wanting it to ruin her flawless sleep mask.
Carson let out a quiet sigh of exhausted satisfaction. He was ignorant. He thought that all that mattered was that she was here and that she was doing well.
He missed the pain in her shoulders, the faint lingering smell of copper polish and the calloused hands concealed beneath the sheets.
Finally agreeing to live this life with him, he saw the woman he loved. The ideal image. Her forehead was touched by his warm gentle lips. The brief gentle kiss was a boon to her pretending sleep.
She resisted the impulse to recoil, to pull away to scream. She continued to exist only as a stone, a reminder of her own silent anguish.
He rose and she heard the sounds she had heard before as he undressed: the unbuttoning of a shirt, the soft slither of pants the snap of a belt. As he folded his clothes and set them on a chair she could hear a steady rustle.
He headed for the bathroom as the floorboards creaked. After the hallway light spilled into the room a fresh light emerged from the restroom.
A gentle steady rush of water began to run. Annabel's eyes popped open. Silent torrential rivers of grief poured down her face releasing the tears she had been suppressing.
Using the back of her hand, she vigorously removed them, rubbing her skin until it was raw. She sat up resting her chin on her knees and drawing them up to her chest.
The gentle yellow light emanating from the bathroom filled the space. She heard him humming a low untuned tune—the sound of a man who is totally at peace. The disparity was a fresh setback.
Like a shattered film, the days events played back in her head. Margery’s merciless courteous face. The shine of silverware that has been polished. The pain in her back and the sting of hot water.
“Your place here will be earned.” She had said.
They were a chilling mantra that reverberated throughout the silent room. She could feel the weight of the house bearing down on her the cold marble floors, the quiet of the great halls and the perfection of the rooms.
It was a test, a gilded cage with a hundred tiny locks not a home. Even though Victoria had referred to it as a legacy it seemed more like a sentence.
And the water stopped.
She clambered back beneath the covers reverting to her previous position and shutting her eyes. She listened while holding her breath.
The slight smell of his soap preceded him as he came out of the restroom. He padded over to the bed laid down next to her and the mattress dipped once more.
After adjusting to a comfortable position, he put his arm around her waist and drew her back against his chest.
“Good night my darling.” he muttered into the void between his lips and her hair.
Annabel's body became rigid. He did not love her. She was an impostor, a commoner attempting to make ends meet in a world she didn't belong in a woman who had sacrificed her independence for a future she wasn't sure she wanted.
Her body ached from the labour, her soul ached for a life she no longer had and she was a woman with a clean face and a dirty heart—a charade of peace.
She remained silent. No she couldn't even say anything right now. The words ‘I'm not fine I can't do this’ made her throat turn bitter. She was unable to show him how hurt she really was. Not yet.
The only thing that could make this worthwhile had to be his comfort. But what if he wasn't? Was he worth losing herself for since he was the prize she had to fight for and this was the price she had to pay?
Her mind whirled with questions.
The chipped mug, her tiny apartment and the noisy neighbors whose lives were public knowledge were all on her mind.
She reflected on her simple straightforward friendship with Carson, their car laughs and the joy of simply being together. It seemed so distant like a life apart.
His steady breathing, the rhythm of a man at last at rest deepened for her. He had fallen asleep. She was by herself with the houses weight the silence and her thoughts.
Somewhere in the distance, the grandfather clock in the foyer made a deep resonant chime. At one oclock. She lay there with her body as rigid as a board her mind a whirlpool of regret and terror tears silently streaming down her cheeks.
What was in store for her tomorrow? What new challenge humiliation or lesson would Margery present? She was unaware.
She was certain only of the fact that she was no longer Annabel, the woman from the tiny loft. Her title was Annabel Lancaster which seemed as weighty and foreign as the opulent home itself.
She was also far from the truth.Between her and the man holding her there was an endless frigid void. It seemed as if it would engulf her in silence a silence that spoke louder than any argument.
She had no idea how much the reality of her life here would weigh on her.