be compassionate about it.
The day after New Year’s they talked about their wedding. Since he had never been married, he wanted a big wedding, and he had many friends. She would have preferred a small one, since she was officially a “widow,” and she had very few friends, and no family of her own except Consuelo. But she wanted to do what made him happy, and whatever he thought best.
They were talking about guest lists and locations, and how many children they wanted, while finishing lunch at Le Pre Catalan in the Bois de Boulogne, and afterward they went for a walk. The day was crisp and clear. And suddenly, as she walked with her hand tucked into his arm, she knew that it was the right time, whether she liked it or not. They couldn’t talk about the details of their wedding, and how many babies they wanted, without his knowing the details of her life. She knew it wouldn’t change anything between them, but she felt honor-bound to tell him.
There was a moment of peaceful silence as they walked, and she turned to him with a serious expression.
“There are some things I have to tell you,” she said softly. There was a small butterfly fluttering in her stomach, but she wanted to get it over with, and get the butterfly out.
“What about?” he asked, smiling at her. He was the happiest man on earth.
“My past.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. To pay your way through medical school, you were a dancer at the Folies Bergere. Correct?”
“Not quite.” She smiled. It was nice to know that he would make her laugh for the rest of her life.
They walked past a bench, and she suggested that they sit down. They did, and he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She loved it when he did that. For the first time in years, she felt loved, protected, and safe.
“There are some things about my past I haven’t told you,” she said honestly. “I’m not sure if they’re important, but I still think you ought to know.” She took a breath and started. It was harder than she thought. “I was married once before.”
He smiled broadly. “Yes, my love, I know.”
“Well, not exactly the way you think, or to whom.”
“That sounds mysterious.”
“In some ways, it is. Or it was to me. For a long time. I was married to a man named Josiah Millbank, when I was nineteen. In New York. He worked for my father’s bank. I think in retrospect, he probably felt sorry for me when my father and Robert died. He was really more of a friend, nineteen years older than I was. And a year after they died, he asked me to marry him. He’s from a very respected family or rather he was. At the time, it all made sense. We got married and nothing ever happened.
“To be blunt, we never made love. I always thought there was something wrong with me. It never happened, he always put it off. He said that we ‘had lots of time.’ ” Antoine was not saying a word, and Annabelle had tears in her eyes at the memories of her long-forgotten disappointment and grief. She went on. “Two years after we were married, he told me that he had thought he could be married to me and lead a double life. As it turned out, he couldn’t. He was in love with a man, a very dear old friend of his who was always with us. I never suspected anything. And finally, Josiah told me he was in love with him, and had been for twenty years. They were going to go to Mexico together, and he was leaving me. What finally made the decision for him was that he had discovered they both had syphilis. I never saw him again. He died earlier this year. And I was never at risk, because he had never slept with me. I was a virgin at the end of our marriage, just as I had been when it began. To be honest, I wanted to stay married to him anyway. I loved him, and I was willing to give up any kind of life or future for myself. But he refused. He said he owed it to me to free me, and that I deserved better than that-a real husband, and children, and everything he promised me and couldn’t give.” There were tears running down her cheeks by then at the memory.
“He filed for divorce, because I refused to. He thought he was doing the right thing for me. And in New York, the only grounds he could do it under were adultery. So he divorced me for adultery. Someone sold the story to the newspapers, and I became a pariah overnight. No one would speak to me, not even my best friend. If I had stayed, I would have been shunned by everyone I had ever known in New York. I was an outcast and a disgrace. So I left and came to France. I felt I had no other choice. And I went to work at the Abbaye de Royaumont. That’s how I wound up there.”
“And then you married again?” Antoine was looking stunned. The only reaction on his face that she could read was astonishment.
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t marry again. I never got involved with another man. I was too shell-shocked by everything that had happened in New York. I just worked, day and night. I never looked at another man.”
“And Consuelo was a virgin birth?” he asked, looking confused.
“More or less,” she admitted, took a deep breath and said the rest. “I was raped one night at Villers-Cotterets. By a drunken British officer, who turned out to be from a decent family, though he was a very, very black sheep. I only saw him for those few minutes, and never again. He was killed shortly afterward. I found out I was pregnant. I worked until I was almost seven months pregnant, by binding myself.” They were painful details too, and hard to admit to him. But she had no other choice. Once he knew all of it, she would never have secrets from him again. And this was all there was. “I was never married to him. I didn’t even know him. All I knew was his name. And he left me with Consuelo. I never contacted his family until this year. His mother came over to see us, and she was very kind. She was very sweet to both of us. Apparently he had done things like it before. She wasn’t surprised.” She turned to look at Antoine then, her face awash with tears. “So I was married, but not to him. Technically, Consuelo is illegitimate. I gave her my name. And I’m not a widow. I’m a divorcee, from a marriage to another man. That’s it,” she said, finally relieved.
“That’s all?” he said, looking tense. “You haven’t done time in prison or killed a man?” She smiled at the question and shook her head.
“No.” She looked lovingly at him and wiped her eyes. It had been hard to tell him but she was glad she had. She wanted to be completely honest with him. And as she looked at him, he sprang to his feet and began to pace. He looked upset and as though he were in shock. And even Annabelle had to admit that the story was shocking.
“Let me get this straight. You were married to a man with syphilis, but you claim you never slept with him.”
“That’s right,” she confirmed in a small voice, worried about the tone of his.
“He divorced you for adultery, which you claim you never committed, although he never slept with you. You became an outcast in New York society, for the adultery you did not commit, but he divorced you for, because you refused to divorce him, although he cheated on you with a man. So you ran away after the divorce. And once here, you became pregnant out of wedlock, by a man you claim raped you. You never married him. You never saw him again. You gave birth to his bastard, while pretending to be a widow, instead of a divorcee, cast off by her husband for sleeping with another man. And then you brought your bastard to my parents’ house to let her play with my nephews and nieces, while pretending to be a widow to my parents and me, which is also a lie. For God’s sake, Annabelle, has anything you’ve said since the beginning been the truth? And on top of it, you claim that other than the convenient rape, which led to your bastard, you’re nearly a virgin now. How big a fool do you think I am?” His eyes were blazing at her, and his words were stabbing her in the heart. She had never in her life seen anyone so upset, but so was she. She started crying again as she huddled miserably on the bench, and he paced more and more furiously. She didn’t even dare reach out to touch him-he looked as though he might have hit her. What he had said to her was unforgivable.
“You’ll have to admit,” he said icily, “it’s all a little hard to believe. Your saintly innocence in all of it, your lack of responsibility, when in fact I suspect you cheated on your husband, probably have syphilis, and thank God I haven’t slept with you. I wonder when you were planning to let that little secret out. You were treated like the whore you obviously were in New York, and then you have a bastard child with someone you’ve claimed is British nobility, and who gives a damn for God’s sake? You’ve behaved like a trollop from beginning to end. And spare me the story of your virginity,” he raged on. “Given the risk of syphilis, I don’t plan to put it to the test.” If he had beaten her with his fists, he couldn’t have caused her more pain. She stood up to face him then, trembling from head to foot. He had just proven everything she had feared most, that she was branded forever with other people’s sins and no one would ever accept her innocence, not even a man who claimed to love her, and didn’t believe her when she told him the truth.
