"Place your hand over your heart, can you feel it? That is called purpose. You're alive for a reason so don't ever give up." Unknown
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Chapter Twelve
The idea of Anne keeping her head down and going unnoticed was quite impossible when she was travelling in her husband's ostentatious, atrociously expensive carriage.
It had been Mr Carne's idea to travel in that carriage. Her whole escape had been because of Mr Carne's careful instruction. He wanted the Countess of Runthorpe to be seen by everyone. The more talking about having seen her travelling in the carriage, the better.
George was under the impression that Anne was travelling to London to see a dressmaker to order a new seasonal wardrobe and peruse the new collections. George was not aware that ladies usually sent away their measurements. He did not bother himself with such frivolous things. Anne simply had to play the sweet, loving, obedient wife for a few days before she asked permission.
And when that did not work, George requested another sort of favour from her.
A few moments of displeasure for a lifetime of freedom was not too high a price for Anne. She had a child in her belly to think about. This child she would protect. She would not fail this child as she did her first.
Anne packed a trunk, the normal sort that a lady would take to London. She packed gowns and gloves, bonnets and boots. She then packed a secondary bag, one filled with every kind of valuable she could get her hands on that would not be noticed.
She had been saving her pennies for years. Even though she was married to a very rich man, she was not rich at all. Her dowry had been paid to her husband upon her marriage. She had never controlled a shilling.
Every so often, George gave her a small stack of coins to spend in the village. Anne had never spent anything, and had instead saved them for a rainy day.
Today, although sunshiny, was pouring.
Anne sat across from Mr Carne in a little pub in a village she did not know the name of somewhere in Hertfordshire, drinking milky, lukewarm tea. She would never be able to thank this man for his kindness towards her. She had thought about naming her child after him if he was a boy. But then she did not quite like the name "Magnus". Second name, she decided.
"Have you changed your mind, milady?" asked Mr Carne. "I can help you in London."
Anne had already refused this offer twice. "No, I cannot accept. If we are seen together in London, then no one will believe our story. You need to return to Leicestershire and sell the tale. You must convince every that I am dead." Anne still could not believe she was saying those words aloud. It did not seem possible. Would people believe that she had died? Well, she was going to try.
Mr Carne sighed. "Alrigh'," he said, defeated. "Have you decided what you will call yourself? Have you decided what you will do or where you will go?"
Anne brought her tea cup to her lips and decided against taking a sip. It was too cold. "I have not decided on what I will call myself. I suppose I could use my maiden name. Rowe. It is common enough, though I could never say that to my parents."
Anne's parents were Gloucestershire nobility, or at least they thought of themselves in that way. They were rich, but untitled, which made the Earl of Runthorpe the perfect candidate for a husband for their daughter. They ignored Anne's early pleas for help. Eventually, Anne abandoned them. She had not written to them in over a year.
"And your Christian name?" prompted Mr Carne.
Anne was not so much concerned with her alias as she was in knowing where to go to birth her child. Her golden wedding band would tell any employer that she was not an unwed mother, but she worried about finding work whilst with child.
"I will think of something," replied Anne.
"We really ough' to get goin', ma'am, if you want to reach London by nightfall. We should reach the cliffs in two or so days."
That was their final destination. The White Cliffs of Dover. Where they would stage Anne's tragic and dramatic death. The story would be that Anne instructed Mr Carne to take her to Kent so that she could see the seaside. Something would spook the horses, and Mr Carne would release them and jump for his life, while Anne would plummet to her death.
"Let us go." Anne paid for their tea, and then was followed by Mr Carne out to the carriage. She really hated the thing. George had covered it in gold filigree detailing. He had spent thousands on it.
Mr Carne opened the carriage door for her and Anne climbed inside. Despite the hideously over the top façade, it was a very comfortable carriage to travel in.
Anne slipped on her white gloves and smoother the silk of her cornflower blue skirt as Mr Carne moved the horses on.
Anne was unsure of how long they had been travelling. She had moved several times in the carriage, lying down and sitting up, reading to try and pass the time. Eventually she just stared out the window at the sparse, yet green surroundings.
There was really nothing to look at. She was looking forward to passing through a village. All she could see was trees and grass and trees and ... what was that?
Anne squinted her eyes and the black figure she could see in the distance. She pressed her face against the glass of the window in order to see the figure. Was it a dead animal?
No! It moved!
Was it a person? What would a person be doing on the side of the road?
Anne knew if she waited any longer, they were going to pass this person. Mr Carne certainly was not halting the horses. Anne found her voice as she cried, "Stop the carriage!"
Mr Carne obeyed her immediately. He pulled hard on the reins and the horses skidded to a stop. The carriage had stopped right beside the black figure.
Anne released the latch on the window and it dropped down into the door. As soon as she did this, the figure, the man, lifted his head ever so slightly. He was a man, and he was alive, but barely.
Oh, good God. What had happened to him? Was he injured?
Anne opened the carriage door and she climbed out. As quickly as her skirts would let her, she rushed towards the man and knelt down beside him.
Anne had never seen a more tragic sight. This man was barely alive. His skin was sunken, pale, and grey. His skin looked thin, and it clung to his bones as there was not muscle. He was emaciated. He looked like he was starving.
He was lying face down in the dirt, and though he had fallen from weakness. He could barely move, but he made every effort to look up at her, to keep her gaze.
This man's body was failing him, but she could see him in his dark, almost black eyes. There was such desperation in his eyes. But there was no malice in his eyes, nor anger. Just desperation. He wanted to live. He had something to live for.
Anne knew the exact feeling.
Mr Carne interrupted her appraisal when he grunted, "Don' touch 'im, ma'am. You don' know what crawlers he's carryin'."
Anne glared at him angrily. How could he be so dismissive? "Oh hush," she said in a warning tone. "Can you not see that this poor man needs my help?" Carefully, she placed her hand on the man's cheek. Even though she wore gloves, she could still feel how cold his skin was. She could see that he was willing himself to keep his eyes open. He refused to leave her gaze. He was strong. Determined. "Oh, you poor thing," Anne said sadly. "What must have happened to you?" How could he have ended up on the side of the road? She needed to help him. He deserved to live. She could feel it. "Mr Carne," she said, turning back towards him, "fetch me the water from inside." And food. He needed food, too. "I have some biscuits, too. Bring them."
Mr Carne did as he was told, and Anne did her best to prop the man. Even though he was emaciated, he was still tall and relatively heavy. She was only a small person, herself.
"Here, drink," she instructed, just as soon as Mr Carne had handed her the silver flask.
The man drank gratefully, and ran his now moistened tongue over his bloodied and chapped lips. How long had it been since he had had a drink of water?
Mr Carne removed the lid from her tin of biscuits and she began to feed him. She prayed this would help him. He ate gratefully, but weakly. He struggled to chew, as if it pained him.
"We need to go, ma'am," urged Mr Carne.
"One minute," Anne insisted. "He needs to eat."
"Ma'am, he's just an urchin. Ain't nothin' you can do for 'im. He's half dead already. Just look at 'im!"
Anne pursed her lips together angrily. How could Mr Carne have such concern for her and none for this poor stranger? Could he not see the decency masked by desperation in his eyes? This man needed her. "He is not just an urchin, Mr Carne," Anne insisted. "He is important to somebody." She pushed some of his dark, matted, curly hair away from his forehead, his eyes never leaving her. She smiled down at his reassuringly. "And I am familiar with the feeling of desperation." The child inside of her was the evidence. She was faking her death to save him or her. Desperation could not begin to describe how she felt. "What is your name? I can write to your family if you wish." He wanted to live, she could see it in his eyes, which meant that he probably had people somewhere who cared about him.
The water had helped the man find his voice. "No family, ma'am, and my name is Cassian. Cassian Kensington."
That made her even sadder for him. He had no one but he was desperate to live. He could be something, she just knew it. He had the determination and the heart, but had been dealt the wrong lot in life.
Perhaps they were meant to meet.
"I am glad we met, Mr Kensington," Anne said sincerely. "My name is –"
"Ma'am, we need to go!" Mr Carne urged, interrupting her. Mr Carne was watching the sun, concerned about reaching London on time.
Anne regretfully nodded. "I am afraid Mr Carne is right, Mr Kensington. It is essential for me to reach my destination by sundown." Anne could not leave him here with nothing. How could she do that? She needed to help him. Anne looked down at the flask in her hands and she knew exactly what to do. "This," she said, holding up the flask, "is made of silver. You will fetch a fine price for it." Anne reached into her pocket and pulled out her coin purse. In it was nearly everything she had saved during her marriage. She could not stop herself from giving him the money. Everything inside of her was telling her it was the right thing to do.
She still had possessions to sell, but she could not hold on to this money. It was meant for better things. She just knew it.
"Take this as well," Anne insisted.
She could see that Cassian was struggling with the weight of the purse. He had little strength.
"Ma'am, no," he said weakly.
"Yes," she insisted. "You will take this." Cassian would do good with the money. Anne knew exactly what else Cassian could make good with. She removed her glove on her right hand and stared down at the ring that George had presented her with upon their engagement. At the time she had been happy, excited to be receiving such a beautiful ring, unaware of just how miserable she would be. That is what the ring now was. A symbol of misery. "And this," she decided, removing the ring and placing it inside the coin purse for safe keeping. "You will take this, too." She hoped something good would happen when Cassian used the money from the ring.
"Why?" Cassian struggled to ask.
Anne could tell that he was asking her why she was helping him. The disbelieving tone in his raspy voice told her that not many people had offered him the helping hand that she had. No one had seen the decent person that he was underneath his poor appearance.
Anne slipped her glove back on and smiled down at him. "I have good intuition about people, Mr Kensington." She wished she had developed this intuition before she had married George. "You are a good man who just needs a little help. You will take this money and you will make something of yourself. I have faith in you."
"How can I ever thank you?" he rasped. He looked so grateful.
How could he thank her? "Thank me by living a better life," she said sincerely. Anne placed her hand on his cheek once again. She knew in her heart this was the right decision. She had faith. "I know what it is to be desperate, but yours is a far greater need than mine." Anne would survive. She and her baby would be just fine. Anne climbed to her feet and brushed the dirt off of her skirt. About a half mile back, she remembered seeing a road that led into a village. "There is a village that way, not a half mile. Rest a little, and when you have your strength, you will find a bed and a meal there." Anne did not want to leave him, but she had done everything she could in that moment. She needed to be in London by tonight so that they could reach the cliffs on time.
Anne Pendleton was on a tight schedule to die.
"May I have your name, ma'am?" he asked.
Her name? She turned back to look at him once more. She had been spreading her real name about, just as Mr Carne had instructed, to ensure that it was known that Anne Pendleton, the Countess of Runthorpe, was passing through in her fine carriage.
But it did not seem right to use Cassian as another tool in her ruse. And then suddenly, she knew the right Christian name to use going forth. "I suppose you may call me Faith." She smiled. "Good luck, Mr Kensington. May we meet again."
***
Faith stared at the ring in Cassian's hand. She never thought she would see that symbol of misery again. George had given her that ring years ago, and it came to represent every toxic second of her wretched marriage.
But Cassian had asked her something, and just as soon as he had brought out the ring, she had not heard anything. "Forgive me, what did you say?" she asked Cassian.
Faith could see just how vulnerable Cassian looked. His eyes read like books. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was fixed on her.
"I ... I asked you to marry me, Faith."
Faith sucked in a tight breath. Where on earth had he got an idea like that? Why on earth would he want to marry her?
Faith was not the sort of wife that Cassian deserved. She was difficult. Nothing about her was clear or honest. She had a child. Did Cassian understand what that entailed?
Not to mention she was already the wife of another man in Leicestershire.
But Faith had never meant to give Cassian any ideas of affection. That would not be fair. Faith was not blind; she thought Cassian was incredibly dashing and handsome. But she had never led Cassian to believe that she felt more for him than friendship.
Or had she?
Faith began to question everything. It was not normal to have tea parties in one's master's study, was it? Was that an indication of his affection for her? Had she really not noticed?
Oh, no. What had she done? Faith had ruined everything. She had ruined everything! She had managed to stay hidden, go unnoticed, for three years! Nobody knew who she really was. Anne Pendleton was dead, and long forgotten about. But with that came a price. It meant that she could never remarry. Love was out of the question.
Love was out of the question. She had been treading on dangerous ground with Cassian and she had not even realised. Faith cared deeply for Cassian. She had since the moment she had laid eyes on him. But did she love him?
"Faith?" prompted Cassian.
"What?" she replied quickly.
Cassian laughed nervously. "I have asked you to marry me twice now and you have said nothing."
Cassian had proposed marriage. He wanted to marry her. He wanted Faith to be his wife. Cassian wanted Faith. Lord knows why, but he did. But he could not have Faith, because she did not exist.
"Cassian ... I," Faith began, but she did not know where to begin. She had been meaning to tell him the truth for nearly a fortnight, but every time she came to it, she could not find the words. Still, her tongue betrayed her.
Even without words, Cassian knew that Faith was refusing him. She watched as his eyes, his shoulders, his heart, sank. Faith was breaking his heart, and it felt like a knife right through hers.
Cassian truly cared about her. How could she have let this happen?
"Cassian ..." Faith tried again, but Cassian held his hand up to stop her.
"You do not need to say a word, Faith. I understand." He put the ring away in his pocket and nodded his head stiffly. Cassian was trying to compose himself but Faith could tell she had truly wounded him.
No, no, she had never meant for this to happen.
"Will you be alright to walk home? Perhaps ask the reverend to escort you," Cassian said emotionlessly. "I need ... I need to go." Cassian marched from the church cursing himself, and Faith fell to the floor in a sobbing heap.
Faith was not entirely certain how she returned to Cassian's house. She had somehow managed to take Lucy back whilst drenching her sleeves with her tears. Lucy constantly wondered aloud why her mother was crying, and Faith did not really have an answer for her.
She managed to compose herself for the rest of the day, whilst still feeling like a terrible person on the inside. Faith went about her responsibilities, whilst Mr Wade dutifully watched his new favourite person in Lucy.
It did not escape Faith's attention though that Cassian had not returned home. He had missed luncheon. Several hours passed, tea time came and went, and Cassian had still not returned.
Faith had started to worry hours ago. Now she was feeling physically ill. Where was he? Had something happened to him? He was on foot. He did not even have a carriage. What if he was set upon by thugs in the night?
The servants began to retire at about nine o'clock. Faith had long since put Lucy to bed. She could not bring herself to go to bed when Cassian was not home. The others did not know what had transpired. They would not understand.
Faith pretended to retire, but had snuck downstairs to the foyer carrying a lamp. She sat down on the bottom step and turned down the light so as not to alert anyone she was not in bed.
The foyer clock chimed ten o'clock, and then eleven, and then twelve. Faith leaned against the banister of the stairs and stared at the front door, willing it to open.
She needed to apologise. She needed to do something to make things right.
Shortly after the clock chimed one, there was a loud bang on the door. Faith nearly jumped out of her skin. She immediately turned up the flame in her lamp which illuminated the foyer.
There were a few more successive bangs before the door opened and a large figure fell through. He laughed at himself and clumsily climbed to his feet.
It was Cassian, and Faith could smell the stench of whiskey from where she was sitting. He was drunk. She had driven him to drink.
"Cassian," she said quietly, alerting him to her presence.
Cassian looked up and smiled dopily. "Faith," he slurred. "My housemaid and not my fiancée." He laughed at himself, but Faith winced at his words. He was hurting.
Faith stood up from her step and stretched her legs. She had been sitting for three hours. She walked over to him slowly, bringing the light from her lamp with her. As she approached him, Cassian's face and clothing became clearer.
His clothing was dishevelled, and his face was covered in red smudges. Faith frowned as she peered at him more closely, until she saw a clear mark on the collar of his shirt. It was red lip paint. Only two types of people wore red lip paint. Actors and prostitutes. Something told Faith that Cassian was not just in a theatre establishment.
The red smudges all over his face made sense. She knew exactly where he had been, and just whom he had been with. Cassian must not have been hurting that much after all.
Faith had rejected him, and Cassian had run right into the arms of another women, a prostitute. Faith felt her heart sink and bile rise in her throat. She felt the urge to punch something, and Cassian's idiotic grin seemed like the perfect target. She felt like she was already the recipient of a punch, a punch right in the gut which had knocked the wind out of her.
It was a betrayal. It felt like a betrayal. She wanted to scream at him. He had proposed marriage to her and had jumped right into the arms of another woman. What kind of husband would that make him?
Faith could not find any calm words. All she could think of to say was, "You really ought to launder your shirt, Mr Kensington. You seem to have gotten a little tart on it."
Faith turned on her heel and tried to control her breathing as she marched up the stairs. The new tears that fell from her eyes were different. She was not feeling sadness for hurting Cassian. She was feeling sorry for herself. She felt betrayed because Cassian's affections were not one-sided. The enormity of that realisation made her heart ache.
And it had taken Cassian betraying Faith for her to realise just how she felt.
---
Yesterday we received the news that one of my brother's best mates had taken his own life. This boy was 20 years old, had just gotten a wonderful new job, and was going places. But we didn't know he was suffering from depression. I heard this statistic yesterday. 1 in 8 men will experience depression. That is far too many and it breaks my heart.
I have lost three people in my life to suicide. I nearly lost another, and I stopped her just in time.
Check on your friends and family. In Australia, we have an "RU OK?" Day which is all about checking on the mental health of your loved ones. Ask your loved ones if they are okay. You never know what's going on.
I apologise for the sombre tone of this Author's Note, as I usually like to entertain you guys, but I felt like this needs to be said.
I love you all. I sincerely mean that. And I would not want any of you to experience the pain of suicide loss. It's a different kind of loss. And I am sure I am not alone in having lost loved ones to the horrible condition that is depression.
"Are you okay?". Three little words. Ask one person. Save a life.
The person I saved four years ago? She has nearly completed her second Bachelor's Degree. She's working full time in a serious, amazing job. She's in a healthy relationship. She's happily involved in a volunteer organisation. She's okay. I hope there can be more outcomes like this.
Xxxxxx