A Good Woman

Chapter 23

The ensuing weeks and months with Antoine were like a dream for both of them. He spent time on the weekends with her and Consuelo. He let Annabelle watch some of his surgeries. She consulted him on several of her patients, and respected his diagnostic skill and opinions, sometimes even more than her own. He invited her to all the best restaurants in Paris, and took her dancing afterward. As the weather got colder, they went for long walks in the park. He took her to the gardens of Versailles, and they were there holding hands and kissing as the first snow came down. Every moment they shared was magical, and no man had ever been as kind and loving to her in her life, not even Josiah. Her relationship with Antoine was more mature, far more romantic, and they had their profession in common. He made constant thoughtful gestures, showed up with flowers for her, and he gave Consuelo the most beautiful doll she’d ever seen. He couldn’t do enough for them. And they spent every Sunday with his family. Annabelle felt as though she and Consuelo had been adopted and embraced in every way.

She prepared a real Thanksgiving dinner for him, with all the trimmings, and tried to explain the holiday to him, which he said he found touching. They spent Christmas Eve with his family, and everyone gave them presents. She had picked a gift for each of them as well, a warm cashmere shawl for his mother, handsome gold pens for both his brothers, a rare first-edition book on surgery for his father, pretty sweaters for both his sisters-in-law, and toys for all their children. And they had been equally generous with her.

On Christmas Day she invited them all to her house, to thank them for the many Sundays she and Consuelo had shared with them. Antoine hadn’t said anything official yet, but it was obvious that he was thinking long term. He was already making plans with her for the following summer. And Hélène teased her about it all the time.

“I hear wedding bells!” she said, smiling. She had decided that she liked him, and he was so good for Annabelle. She looked blissfully happy.

On New Year’s Eve he took her dancing at the Hôtel de Crillon. He kissed her tenderly at midnight, and looked into her eyes. And then, without warning, he got down on one knee and gazed imploringly at her as she stood there in a white satin evening gown embroidered with silver beading, and looked down at him in amazement. He spoke solemnly, with great emotion in his voice.

“Annabelle, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” There was no one else to ask for her hand, and with tears in her eyes, she nodded and then said yes. He stood up and swept her into his arms, and people around them in the nightclub cheered. They were the golden couple everywhere they went, beautiful people who were talented, intelligent, stylish, dignified. They had never disagreed on a single thing, and he was always loving and kind.

They announced their engagement to his family on New Year’s Day. His mother cried and kissed them both, and everyone drank champagne. They told Consuelo that night. He was going to move into the house with them when they married, and they had already talked about having children. It was what he wanted most, and so did she. And this time, it would be right, and she wouldn’t be alone. It was the marriage she always should have had, but had been cheated of till now. This time, everything about it was perfect. They hadn’t slept with each other but he was so sensual and passionate with her, that she had no concern about it.

The only thing that bothered her was that Antoine still did not know about her past. She had never told him about Josiah, their marriage, why he had divorced her, or the reason she had left New York, that if she hadn’t she would have been shunned and run out of town on a rail for being a disgrace, since no one knew Josiah’s dark secrets, and she had never told, and never would.

He knew nothing about Consuelo’s conception, the rape at VillersCotterêts by Harry Winshire. At first she had seen no reason to share it all with him. As they grew closer, she wanted him to know all of it, and thought he should. But there had never been a right time. And now that he had asked her to marry him and she’d accepted, it felt awkward explaining it to him and seemed almost too late. But Annabelle was a woman of honor and thought she should tell him. There was a good chance that he would never know, but even if he never found out, she still felt she owed him the truth. She had been married to one man, and raped by another. And the truth that he couldn’t have imagined was that other than the rape, she had been a virgin all her life. She was thirty-one years old, had been married for two years, and had never been made love to by a man, only brutalized for a few minutes on stone steps in the dark. And somehow, it seemed important to Annabelle that he should know it. What she had lived and experienced was part of who she was. And although both stories were upsetting, she had no doubt that he would 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 Pré 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 Bergère. 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-Cotterêts. 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 divorcée, 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 divorcée, 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.

“Everything I’ve just said to you is true,” she said miserably, “from beginning to end. And don’t ever call my daughter a bastard. It’s not her fault that I was raped, nor mine. I could have gotten an abortion, but I was too afraid, so I decided to have her anyway, and cover it as best I could, so people didn’t say about her what you just did. Syphilis may be contagious, but illegitimacy isn’t. You don’t need to worry about your nieces and nephews catching it from her. I can assure you there’s absolutely no risk.”

She was angry now, and hurt by the cruelty of his words.

“I can’t say the same about you!” He spat angrily at her again, his eyes like fire on ice. “How dare you think that you could trick me into marrying you by pretending to be a widow, and failing to mention all this to me. Everything from syphilis to adultery and bastard children. How could you present yourself to my family as something you’re not? And try to convince me now of all these outrageous lies. At least have the guts to admit what you are.” He was in a white rage. He felt as though she had stolen something from him, his faith, his trust, and the sanctity of his family. What she had told him was unthinkable, and he would never believe another word she said, and he certainly didn’t believe the way she was trying to clean it up now.

“And what is it that you think I am, Antoine? A whore? What happened to love and faith in me if you love me? I didn’t have to tell you any of this. You would probably never have found out. But I wanted to tell you the truth because I love you, and you have the right to know everything about me. The bad things that have happened to me were mostly done to me by others, and I’ve paid a high price. I was left by a husband I loved in a marriage that was a fraud, and was then shunned by the only world I knew as a result. I lost everyone I loved and came here alone at twenty-two. I got raped when I was still a virgin. And I had a baby I didn’t want, alone. How much worse does it have to get for you to be a human being and have a little compassion and faith in me?”

“You’re a loose woman, and a liar, Annabelle. It’s written all over you.”

“Then why didn’t you see it before?” she said, crying through her words. They were shouting at each other in the Bois de Boulogne, but there was no one else around.

“I didn’t see it before because you’re a damn good liar. The best I’ve ever known. You had me totally convinced. You’ve contaminated my family and violated everything I hold dear,” he said, looking pompous and sounding cruel. “I have nothing more to say to you,” he said, standing as far away from her as he could get. “I’m going home, and I’m not driving you. Maybe you can pick up a soldier or a sailor, and have a little fun on the way back. I wouldn’t get near you with the toe of my boot.” He turned away from her then and strode off, as she stood and stared at him and shook from head to foot, unable to believe what she’d just heard or what he’d done. A moment later, she heard his car drive off, and she walked slowly out of the Bois de Boulogne. She felt as though her world had ended, and she knew she would never trust anyone again. Not Hortie. Not Antoine. Not anyone she knew. From now on, her secrets were her own, and she and Consuelo didn’t need anyone. She was so devastated she was almost hit by a car when she finally reached the street.

She hailed a cab and gave the driver her address. She was frozen to the bone, and sat sobbing in the back seat. The kindly Russian who was driving her finally asked her if there was anything he could do to help. And all she did was shake her head. Antoine had just proven all her worst fears, that no one would ever believe her innocence, and she would be condemned forever for what everyone else had done. Whatever had been left of her heart was in a million pieces at her feet. He had just proven to her that there was no such thing as love, or forgiveness. And the idea that Consuelo could contaminate anyone’s family, or be accused of it, made her feel sick.

When they reached her house in the sixteenth arrondissement, the gentle old White Russian refused to take the fare from her. He just shook his head and put it back in her hand.

“Nothing can be as bad as that,” he said. He had had hard times of his own in recent years.

“Yes, it is,” she said, choking on a sob. And then she thanked him, and ran into the house.