Chapter 45 - Forty Five
The heavy door of the drawing room slammed shut behind Anne, but she didn’t flinch. She continued her slow, deliberate march down the grand staircase, the half-empty bottle of wine clutched in her hand like a weapon. Each step was a defiance against her mother, against her fate.
"Anne!"
She heard George’s voice call her name from the entrance hall where he must have been lingering, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even turn around. He was the cause of all this, a weak, useless man whose indecision had cost her everything. She walked right past him, pushed open the French doors, and stepped out into the cool, dark garden.
He followed her, his footsteps hesitant on the stone path. She led him to a small, white pavilion nestled amongst the rose bushes, a delicate, latticework structure where her mother often held tea parties with other noblewomen. In the moonlight, it looked like a beautiful, ghostly cage.
Anne dropped the bottle and the single wine glass onto the small iron table with a thud that echoed in the quiet night. The sound was angry and final. She pulled out one of the ornate chairs with a screech of metal on stone and sat down, immediately pouring herself a glass of the deep red wine.
George sat opposite her, his expression a mixture of worry and confusion. "Anne, this is about Eric Carson, right?" he asked, his voice soft.
She didn’t answer him. She just took a long gulp of the wine, the bitter liquid doing little to numb the pain in her heart.
"I’ll talk to Delia about it," he offered, his words sounding foolish and naive even to his own ears. "I’m sure she’s not thinking clearly. She must have thought about it too, by now, how she’s mistreating her own sister."
A short, tired, humorless laugh escaped Anne’s lips. His stupidity was almost impressive. She shook her head, still not gracing him with a response, and just poured herself another glass, her hand slightly unsteady.