A Good Woman (31 page)

Hélène looked worried about her at work, and she was concerned about her for weeks. Annabelle never heard from Antoine again. He had thought Annabelle a fool for not being willing to be “tolerated,” and “forgiven” for sins she claimed she didn’t commit. He had been entirely willing to believe only the worst.

Annabelle went back to concentrating on her patients and her daughter, and forgot about men. She looked grim for the next few months, but by March she was feeling better. She was actually smiling again, and spending Sunday afternoons in the park with Consuelo. The little girl had been disappointed at first not to go to the de St. Gris Sunday lunches anymore—she had had fun with Antoine’s nephews and nieces. Her mother told her that she and Antoine felt they’d made a mistake and weren’t friends anymore. And every time Annabelle thought about what he had said about Consuelo contaminating them, and being unworthy of them, she remembered why she was alone, and intended to stay that way for good. All he had done in the end, other than disappoint her and shatter any hope she had left in the decency of humanity, was convince her of what she already knew—that she would never escape the fate that Josiah had condemned her to, and Harry Winshire had confirmed. All anyone would ever see of her were the labels others had put on her, and what they assumed was her guilt. She was convinced now that no one would ever believe her innocence, trust her, or love her, no matter what she said. Antoine had confirmed every one of her worst fears.

Chapter 25

A
nnabelle received two letters in the early days of spring. Both gave her food for thought. One was from Lady Winshire, who was inviting her and Consuelo to come for a visit for a few days. She said that she thought it would be good for Consuelo to see where the other half of her family came from and how they lived, that it was part of her ancestry. She was hoping that they would come over as soon as they could. Annabelle thought about it, but wasn’t sure. Harry Winshire was a terrible memory for her, and yet what his mother said was true. This wasn’t about Harry, it was about Consuelo and the grandmother she had finally met. And she had a feeling that Consuelo would enjoy visiting her.

The other letter was from the man at her father’s bank who still managed her affairs. She always had money sent over to live on in France, but the bulk of her fortune had remained in the States. He was asking her, for the first time in a long time, what she wanted to do about the house in Newport. She hadn’t been there in ten years, but she had never had the heart to part with it. She had too many memories in that house, and yet she couldn’t see herself going back, even for a visit. And that was part of Consuelo’s heritage too, far more than Lady Winshire’s estates, since Consuelo’s father had never been part of their lives.

The man at the bank had written to tell her that he had had a very reasonable offer for the cottage. Blanche, William, and the other servants were still there, maintaining it, and they had lost all hope of seeing her again. She couldn’t say that they were wrong. She had had no desire to go back in all these years. She missed it occasionally, but she also knew the miseries of ostracism that she would experience if she went back, even for a visit. There was no one left for her to see. And she was afraid that if she went back, it would open all the old wounds of missing her family again, and all that she had lost, even Josiah. She didn’t want to relive that pain. But she didn’t feel ready to sell it either, although her banker was right, the offer they had in hand was good. She didn’t know what she wanted to do.

She thought about Lady Winshire’s offer first, and talked to Consuelo about it at dinner that night. The little girl was instantly enthusiastic and said she wanted to go. And in an odd way, Annabelle did too. She thought it might do them good to get away. Consuelo had been begging to go back to Deauville again, but Annabelle didn’t want to go there, after her bitter experience with Antoine. It seemed as though she had bad memories everywhere, and was constantly hiding from her own ghosts.

She answered Lady Winshire’s letter the next day, and said they would like to come. Lady Winshire wrote back immediately, offering a choice of dates. In the end, they chose Consuelo’s birthday weekend. She would be seven years old. The weather would be a little better by then. Annabelle had Hélène at her office get the tickets and make the plans. They would take the train to Calais, cross the Channel to Dover, and Lady Winshire said she would have someone meet them there. It was only a two-hour drive to their estate.

When the appointed weekend came, Consuelo was so excited she could hardly sit still. They were leaving Brigitte in Paris, where she was planning to spend time with her new boyfriend. Annabelle boarded the train, carrying their two suitcases, and guiding Consuelo along, and they settled into the first-class compartment Hélène had reserved for them. It was the biggest adventure Consuelo had had since they came to Paris two years before, and the weekend in Deauville with Antoine. They no longer spoke about him. Even at her tender age, Consuelo had understood that the subject was painful for her mother and stayed away from it. Annabelle had seen him at the hospital once, and the moment she caught a glimpse of him she had turned away and run up the back staircase to see her patient. She never wanted to speak to him again. His betrayal had been too great.

As the train pulled out of Gare du Nord station, Consuelo was looking at everything with fascination, and Annabelle smiled. They had lunch in the dining car, “like big ladies,” as Consuelo said, and then they watched the scenery drift by, until the child finally fell asleep on her mother’s lap. Annabelle lay her head back against the seat, thinking of the past few months. They had been hard. It was as though Antoine had taken back not only the dream he had offered her but her hope that things would ever be different in her life.

It seemed now as though she would always be punished for the past. She had been a victim of other people’s decisions, weaknesses, and lies. It was depressing to come away from that feeling as though the truth would never come to light and she would never clear her name. No matter how much she had done since, or what she had achieved, what seemed to linger on forever, like a tattoo she could never remove, were the sins she had been branded with, even though they were someone else’s. She was a good mother and a fine doctor, a decent person, and in spite of that, she would be labeled by her past, and Consuelo worse than that, forever. Only Antoine had dared to say the word. It was a cruel label for an innocent child.

Just over three hours later, they reached Calais, and boarded the boat. Annabelle was dreading it. She was a decent sailor, but the Channel was always rough and she was afraid that Consuelo would be seasick. As it turned out, it was indeed a rough trip, and Consuelo loved every minute of it. The more the ferry pitched and rolled in the bouncing seas, the more she giggled and squealed and was totally delighted. By the time they reached Dover on the other side, Annabelle was beginning to feel ill, and Consuelo was happier than ever. She bounced right off the boat, holding her mother’s hand, and her favorite doll in the other.

Lady Winshire’s chauffeur and ancient Rolls were waiting for them on the dock, as promised. The two-hour drive was through gently rolling countryside, with farms and cows and enormous estates, and the occasional ancient castle. As far as Consuelo was concerned, it was a great adventure. And now that they were off the boat, Annabelle was enjoying it too.

But neither of them was prepared for the magnificence of the Winshire estate, and the splendor of the enormous house. There were huge ancient trees bordering the long driveway, and due to Lady Winshire’s fortune, independent of the late earl’s, the house itself, built in the sixteenth century, was in impeccable condition. The stables were bigger, cleaner, and more beautiful than most homes. Lady Winshire had been a notable horsewoman in her youth, and still liked keeping a stable of fine horses, which half a dozen grooms rode every day.

She came out to greet them on the front steps, looking grander than ever, wearing a deep blue dress, stout walking shoes, the familiar pearls, and another enormous hat. She brandished her silver cane like a sword, pointing it at their suitcases and asking her driver to see to it that the bags got to their rooms. And with a broad smile, after she had hugged both Annabelle and Consuelo, who was looking wideeyed at everything she saw, she motioned them to follow her inside.

There was an endless gallery lined with serious-looking family portraits, a gigantic living room with a magnificent chandelier, a library lined with miles of ancient books, a music room with two harps and a grand piano, a dining room with a table long enough to seat forty people for the dinner parties they used to give. The reception rooms seemed to go on forever, until they finally reached a small, cozy drawing room where her ladyship liked to sit and gaze out at the gardens. As Annabelle looked at the surroundings, and the splendor of the home, it was hard to believe that anyone who had grown up here could rape a woman, and then threaten to kill her if she told. There were photographs of both the Winshire sons on the mantelpiece in the room where they were sitting. And after they had tea with scones and clotted cream and jam, Lady Winshire asked one of the maids to show Consuelo the stables. She had arranged for a pony to be brought around, if she wanted to try and ride it, and Annabelle thanked her for her kindness to them, and her warm welcome as Consuelo disappeared to see the pony.

“I have a lot to make up for,” the older woman said simply, and Annabelle smiled. She didn’t hold her responsible for her son’s crimes. And how could they be considered crimes when they had resulted in Consuelo, no matter how she had happened. She said as much to Lady Winshire, who thanked Annabelle for her generosity of spirit, and said her son didn’t deserve it, much as she had loved him. She confessed sadly that he had been wild and spoiled.

They chatted for a while and strolled in the gardens, and in a little while, one of the grooms appeared, leading Consuelo on the pony. She looked ecstatic. It was clear that the child was having a ball, thanks to her newfound grandmother. Lady Winshire asked if Annabelle would like to ride too. She said she hadn’t in years, but might do so the next morning. All of those luxuries and indulgences had gone out of her life when she left the States. It would be fun, Annabelle thought, to ride again. She had done a lot of it in her youth, mostly in Newport in the summer.

After Consuelo and the groom went back to the stables, Annabelle mentioned that she was thinking of selling her house in Newport.

“Why would you sell it?” the older woman asked, with a look of disapproval. “You said it had been in your family for generations. You need to preserve it, if it’s part of your history. Not sell it.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever go back. I’ve been gone for ten years. It’s just sitting there, unloved and empty, with five servants.”

“You should go back,” Lady Winshire said firmly. “That’s part of Consuelo’s history too. She has a right to that, yours, ours, it’s all part of who she is, and who she’ll become one day. Just as it’s a part of you.” Clearly, all of that hadn’t helped Harry, Annabelle thought to herself, but she wouldn’t have said it to his mother, who knew it anyway, and had said as much herself. “You can’t run away from who you are, Annabelle. You can’t deny it. And Consuelo should see it. You should take her back to visit sometime.”

“That’s all over for me,” Annabelle said, looking stubborn as Lady Winshire shook her head.

“It’s only beginning for her. She needs more than Paris in her life, just as you do. She needs all our histories blended together, and offered to her like a bouquet.”

“I’ve had a very good offer. I could always buy a property in France.” She never had, though. All she had was her very modest house in the sixteenth arrondissement. She had nothing in the country, and she had to agree, seeing Consuelo here, it was doing her good.

“I suspect you can do that anyway,” her ladyship guessed correctly. Annabelle had inherited a very large fortune from her father, and an only slightly smaller one from her mother, and she had hardly spent anything in years. It was no longer in keeping with her lifestyle, or her life as a doctor, and she had been careful not to let any of that show for the past ten years. It spoke well of her, but now, at almost thirtytwo, she was old enough to enjoy it.

Lady Winshire turned to her with a smile then. “I hope you’ll both come to visit often. I still go to London once in a while, but most of the time I’m here.” It had been her late husband’s family seat, which had brought her to another thought she had wanted to mention to Annabelle, when Consuelo wasn’t around. She wasn’t sure if it was too soon to mention it, but it had been much on her mind. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about Consuelo’s situation, because you and her father were never married. That could be a heavy burden for her to carry in a few years, as she gets older. You can’t lie to her forever, and one day someone may figure it out. I spoke to our attorneys, and it makes no sense for me to adopt her, and she’s your daughter. Harry can’t marry you posthumously, which is unfortunate. But I can officially recognize her, which would improve things somewhat, and she could add our name to yours, if that would be acceptable to you,” she said cautiously. She didn’t want to offend the child’s mother, who had been so brave about shouldering all her responsibilities alone. But Annabelle was smiling at her. She had become more sensitive to it herself, ever since Antoine’s outrageous insults, especially calling Consuelo a bastard. The thought of it still hurt her now.

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Annabelle said gratefully. “It might make things easier for her one day.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Lady Winshire looked hopeful.

“I’d like it very much.” She associated Lady Winshire with the name, and not her evil son. “That would make her Consuelo WorthingtonWinshire, or the reverse, whatever you prefer.”

“I think Worthington-Winshire would do very well. I can have our attorneys draw up the papers whenever you like.” She beamed at Annabelle, who leaned over and hugged her.