Where was he?
I waited at the window for hours with Anne playing in the floor beside me.
“Don’t pull on the drapery, darling…” I tugged gently at the dark silk but she did not turn loose. Instead she giggled and yanked hard back. “This is not a game!” Edginess showed in my voice.
She smiled up at me but did not release her grip, pulling hard again.
I knelt and unfurled the fingers of her good hand from the fabric. She was strong when she wanted to be. The curtain was quickly draped carefully over the chair back out of her reach.
Anne pulled herself up on the chair, still smiling. Reaching. Standing on bare tip toes she balanced with the one arm, reaching with the other. Unsuccessful, she switched hands. Realizing she could not reach it, I was quickly met with wails of frustration.
Still, he had not come.
Darkness descended, empty and foreign.
What did it mean?
My mind explored all possible scenarios: A carriage accident? He had finally come to his senses about me? He was ill? Someone else was ill? The diocese had called a meeting about his suspect activities on these Sunday afternoons?
Sleep was fitful, punctuated by fear filled dreams of blood and fever.
Monday passed without word from him as did Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday. Hurt. Desperation. Anger. Relief. My emotions ran the gamut.
There was no one I could ask and pride prevented me from sending a letter of inquiry directly to him. I was not sure I wanted to know the answer, quite frankly. As long as it was possible that there had been an accident, I was spared the inevitable rejection.
Another Sunday passed at the window, alone.
Finally, I was done with it. I would not care. I settled in the flickering shadows after putting Anne down for the night and burned his letters in the fire one by one.
All except one. My favorite.
“I hold you in the highest regard and pray for your wellbeing nightly…”
I would keep it as a token, a reminder of my folly. The dangers of hope. The flattery of attention, being led astray…
I traced the letters over and over again, then refolded the paper, returning it to the envelope.
Great wracking sobs came. I mourned. For myself, the loneliness. For Anne. For Nathaniel. For hoping for something better than what I had, better than this miserable existance in its perpetual state of uncertainty…
Mid morning on Wednesday, still with no word, I swung Anne up onto my hip and set out, intending to get bread but instead walking past the bakery.
We walked on and on, the dappled sunlight filtering through the occasional trees.
There was the beginning of a strange, dull ache and I shifted Anne to the other hip. She rested her head on my shoulder and dozed off a bit, lulled by the movement.
I did not stop.
People crossed to the other side of the street as we approached, fear recognizable in their eyes even from that distance. I was used to anger and loathing. Fear was new and puzzling.
There it was.
The modest gray stone building in traditional Georgian construct, the rectory.
I halted at the bottom of the front steps.
There on the heavy wooden door hung my answer. Acid crept up the back of my throat as understanding set in.
A sharp pain suddenly broke through the dull ache in the base of my pelvis. Severe. Crippling.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.