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Anne had spent her life constantly in motion. It was all she’d ever known. Forever pressing forward and never looking back.
Or trying to—for as much as she’d tried how could she have forgotten Mariana’s smiling face, the quirk of her eyebrows, the press of her fingers, the taste of the mouth that should have been hers and hers alone?
She’d moved from one lover to the next, desperately searching for that elusive feeling of stability and familiarity that she has craved for so long, that any man could take for granted when he turned his attentions upon a woman, a feeling that he doubtless rarely appreciated.
Mariana had told her, with a touch of regret and a softness that she had not been accustomed to for some years, that she didn’t think there was a person out there who could be the person that she needed, someone who would stand by her side and make that holy commitment.
Anne had refused to believe that, had returned doggedly to her lifestyle of seducing and enthralling, but there had been that fear in the deep recesses of her mind, which had been allowed to manifest on that last night in the softness of Ann’s room, when she had broken down in her arms and confessed that she understood the reasons why Ann couldn’t commit to her.
But, in the end, fragile Miss Walker, whom everyone underestimated and ignored, had stood up and stayed firm. Had taken charge of her own life.
Had found her courage.
Sometimes it still doesn’t feel real, that she finally has the wife she’s longed for. Someone who loves her who wakes up beside her each day, someone she loves who she can spend the evening hours with.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Anne is happy to stay static for a while. With new eyes she sees the beauty of Shibden, of Halifax. The wild moors and the rustic quaintness of Yorkshire.
When she gets the itch to travel again, it won’t be to flee her heartbreak. Next time, she will have her wife by her side, to share in the wonders of the world.
Anne finds her wife down in the sitting room, studiously working at her easel. Marian sits beside the fire reading, while her aunt and uncle doze.
Ignoring her sister, Anne strides across the room to her wife’s side. “Ah, there you are.” She bends down and bumps her jaw against Ann’s cheekbone, brisk and detached, the most affectionate she dare be even in front of the family who has never judged her. Even that action makes Ann blush prettily, a smile instantly brightening the features that had been scrunched in concentration a few seconds before.
“Have you finished?” she asks brightly, setting down her paintbrush. There’s a smudge of paint on her cheek, and the sight of it makes Anne’s heart contract in her chest.
“I have,” she affirms. “I thought we might take a walk out to the chaumière this afternoon, check on the work that Pickles has done on the borders.”
“That sounds like a lovely idea,” Ann agrees. “Just give me a moment to freshen up. I’ll ring for Eugenie—”
“No need. I can help you with that. It’ll be quicker than waiting for Eugenie to drag herself upstairs, you know how useless she is.”
In the background, Marian heaves a pointed, unamused sigh, as if she sees right through Anne’s chivalrous offer. Anne ignores her and congratulates herself on the difficult feat. Making a theatrical bow, she invites Ann to walk in front of her. With a smile Ann does so, and together they head for the staircase, Ann delicately lifting her skirts in order to prevent herself tripping over the hem.
Once in their bedroom, Anne presses her wife up against the door, smothering Ann’s surprised giggle with her mouth.
“That’s better,” she declares. “That’s the greeting we ought to have.”
Ann’s fingers move to catch her chin. “You’ve got paint on your face now!”
Anne wrinkles her nose. “Have I? Perhaps you can assist me in getting rid of it, then.”
“I’d be happy to,” Ann murmurs, and leans in for another kiss.
Suitably presentable, the two of them make their way out of Shibden. Anne breathes in deeply, relishing the brisk breeze on her face.
It can be a trial slowing her pace—she resents having to do it for John, who huffs and puffs if he has to trail behind her anywhere—but she doesn’t mind doing it for Ann. It gives her the opportunity to appreciate the landscape in a way that she doesn’t usually have time to do when she is rushing from one meeting to the next. So it is that they amble leisurely through Shibden’s fine grounds. Ann delights in the new blooms, the vibrant colours, the sounds of nature all around them, and Anne delights in her wife’s delight.
When they enter the wood that leads them to the chaumière, Anne risks letting her fingers brush against Ann’s, keeping her gaze trained straight ahead all the while. It always feels like they are entering another world when they walk into this copse, and it can be difficult to remember that their harsh, cruel world is still there, waiting for the chance to sink its claws in, to try once again to tear them apart. They will never, ever be able to love each other openly. These stolen moments, the furtive graze of their hands, is all they can ever have out in the open, and even that is dangerous.
It weighs on them so heavily sometimes; sometimes she fears that it will crush Ann, who still has occasional lapses of self-doubt and self-flagellation. But, for this fleeting moment in time, there is only the exhilarating promise of being carefree, of having nothing to worry about but the birds in the trees witnessing their affection. These moments are few and far between, and Anne is determined to treasure every single second while she can, for reality will do its cruel best to muscle its way into their happiness.
At last the chaumière comes into view, its little thatched roof and tiny windows looking like something from a fairy tale. For the most part Anne prides herself on being practical and pragmatic, with little use of grand, sweeping gestures of romance unless it’s in her own best interest. She had not had it built consciously with Ann in mind, wanting to do something that would elevate Shibden’s status from shabby and old, which has always galled her, but as her friendship with Miss Walker had deepened, she had started to fantasise about bringing her here to see it in all of its glory, had started to picture the charmed delight on her face, of bringing her inside to show her the cosy interior…
Well. Anne bites her lip to keep her grin in check. In good time all of it had become reality.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Ann tilts her head, face scrunched with curiosity under her bonnet. She looks so charmingly innocent that it makes her want to grin all the harder.
“Nothing,” she says, but Ann must hear the laughter in her voice.
“You must tell me!” Ann insists, and Anne marvels at how eager she always is to be included in her joy. Mariana had never shown such interest, clearly often bored by her espousing of subjects dear to her heart. Ann, by contrast, clings to her every word. It makes her feel powerful.
She lowers her voice to a rasp.
“I’m just remembering the first time we came here together. The delightful day we had. Do you remember it?”
Ann goes the pleasing colour of rose, lowering her own voice. “As if you need to ask. I remember everything about it. I don’t think I shall ever forget.” Her gaze darts away, that deliciously pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. How endearing that even after all this time, it’s still so easy to make her shy.
How wonderful, that even after all this time, she still has such vivid memories of the good times they’ve shared.
It’s nowhere close to the two decades of history that she has with Mariana. But the memories of the good times they’d shared don’t come as easily to her as they had at one time. It’s the bad ones that are always prevalent, that rear their ugly heads whenever they’re together. Blackstone Edge. Scarborough. They dredge through them like battle-weary soldiers in the mud, assigning blame as easily as commanding officers certain of their own righteousness. Tallying points, each one determined that they have been wronged the most.
But Ann only ever seems to remember the good. When they argue, she doesn’t constantly dredge up the old hurts, seeing which sharp jibe can inflict the most injury.
Anne hopes that they never get to such a stage. That they have many long, joyful years ahead of them.
“I don’t think I shall ever forget, either,” she says now as she leads them up to the front door, turning the large iron key in the lock. “You were so very beautiful that day, my dear.”
“Are you saying I’m not beautiful now?” Ann plays at a pout.
She pretends to be giving it some serious consideration, scrunching up her nose. “You’re still tolerably pretty, I suppose.”
Ann bursts out laughing. “You are horrible!”
“People have been saying that for years. Your tribe has reminded you of it at every opportunity. You can’t pretend to plead innocence now.”
Ann drops all pretence, shaking her head. “I’m sorry that they still treat you that way.”
Anne shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me.” It does, sometimes, but she’s spent her entire life ignoring the opinions of small-minded and insignificant people. Ann’s stupid relations are more of an annoyance than a real threat, made manageable because Ann doesn’t give their ill-will any consideration at all. “What matters to me is your opinion. I consider it a fair trade as long as you still like me.”
Ann tuts. “Of course I like you. More than like you.”
I love you. It’s a secret pressed to her skin in the darkness of night, expressed in the day only through soft looks of understanding and quiet support for all of her endeavours. A kiss hidden from view if they can manage it. Forever something to be hidden from society. It makes Anne angry that they must live their lives this way.
But she’d rather this than nothing at all. And time and time again Ann has proven to have strength that no one has given her credit for.
They’re together and happy, and however much she wishes that they could be open about it, having this is the greatest achievement of her life. The one thing she’s always wanted, finally hers. A woman who loves her, who is prepared to stand by her side through everything. A woman she loves in turn, to share her quiet evening hours with after a long day of grappling with irritating, ridiculous men.
Ann tilts her face up to take the chaumière in in full, expression alive with fondness.
“I remember the first time I saw it,” she sighs. “I thought it looked like something from a fairy tale. It looked like somewhere we could hide away and forget about the rest of the world and just live together with nothing but love to sustain us.”
“What a pleasant thought,” Anne purrs. “I could certainly endorse such a notion. I think we’d have enough love to last us a hundred years.”
“A thousand,” Ann contradicts firmly.
“Whatever you say, my dear. I submit to your wisdom.”
“That makes a change!” Ann says cheekily, then laughs as Anne sputters with mock indignation.
“I think you’ll find that it’s me who can’t seem to resist any demand you make!” she says. “You get your own way far too often, wife.”
“That’s because I’m always right,” Ann giggles.
The light streams through the canopy of trees overhead, dappling her face in speckles of sunbeams, making her look like some fey creature from Williams Shakespeare or Blake. She is enchanting.
“You know, I think we ought to try living that dream for an hour or two,” she says bashfully.
“Well,” says Anne, raising her eyebrows. “What is it you’re suggesting, Miss Walker?”
Ann giggles, biting at her lower lip. She doesn’t say another word, but reaches out to take her hand, tugging her inside and pushing her smaller body up against her as soon as the door is closed behind them.
As her mouth finds hers with eager insistence, Anne thinks she knows exactly what her wife is suggesting.
She is more than happy to indulge.
The sun has passed its zenith by the time they re-emerge from the chaumière, perhaps a little more dishevelled than they had been when they’d entered, a hundred times more content. Anne straightens her cravat as they make the return journey to society. For the time being, whilst they are still far from the beaten path, Ann slips her hand into her arm, walking at her side like a proper lady. They chat easily as they go, their spirits as light and free as the birds that soar overhead.
Halfway back to Shibden, however, Ann pulls away from her.
“Oh, look!” she says, and lifts her skirts to dart off the path.
“What on earth are you doing?” Anne asks, but her wife ignores her, bending to kneel amongst the fallen leaves and soil. By the time Anne reaches her side, she has pulled free a pretty pink bloom, and holds it up for her to inspect with a beaming smile, as if it’s the most precious thing she has ever held before.
“It’s a red campion,” she explains in response to the bemused look that Anne shoots at her.
“Don’t you mean pink campion?”
“No, I mean red. That’s its name.”
“How ridiculous. The flower is pink.”
Ann shrugs. “Is its name really that important?”
“When it’s that silly? Yes! What if I went around declaring that the sky was green and the grass was blue?”
“I’d say you’d taken leave of your senses and Doctor Kenny must be sent for at once,” Ann giggles. “I have a feeling you’d be right as rain with the threat of having him back at Shibden.”
Anne narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Ann says innocently.
Anne shakes her head dramatically. “I have a terrible wife. She mistreats me so.”
“I would feel sorry for you,” Ann replies with an air of disappointment, “if you weren’t so oblivious when it comes to the beauty of nature. You know a lot of things, and it pains me that you know so little about the small beauties God made for us to admire.”
For all of her constant talk about improving the estate and her grand plans for spectacular gardens, she has to admit that she knows very little about plants other foliage beyond whether it’s pleasing on the eye. That, it seems, is her wife’s area of expertise—her own gardens back at Crow Nest had been rather remarkable, it had to be said.
“It’s been around for a very long time,” Ann says. “They say its name comes from Greek. And it has its own sense of the mystique because it’s said that it keeps faeries safe from discovery.” Her eyes dance with childish delight at the story, the factual and the fiction all tangled up in one.
It pleases her to see her wife so animated and happy, come alive with a passion of her own. She thinks she could get used to listening to her talking with such zeal, imagining herself as rapt as Ann always is when she listens to something she has to say.
“Well, it’s very pretty, I suppose,” Anne says. She makes a mental note to flick through one of Ann’s books on flora later, so that next time she is equipped to impress her with her knowledge of all things foliage, to at least be able to add something of her own to the conversation.
Ann stands. There’s soil smeared across the front of her dress, and when she reaches up to push an errant curl away from her face, she gets a streak of dirt across her cheek.
Anne feels another unexpected tug of desire at the sight. She’s so used to seeing Ann prim and proper, a delicate lady. She think she understands now what it’s like for Ann when she sees her hot and dirty and sweaty from working out on the estate with her men—she’s rarely given the opportunity to wash before Ann drags her off to bed.
“And I like the legend behind it,” she adds. “It makes sense why you like it so much now. You are a faery, my dear, a great beauty fashioned by God. I am exceedingly lucky that you were brave enough to leave behind the sanctuary of your forest home.”
Ann giggles, rolling her eyes. “You’re so silly sometimes.”
“I would argue romantic. Isn’t that what poets like to write about? Love and nature and magic? I’d title it, ‘An Ode to My Adney’.”
“You can stop mocking me now,” she pouts, fixing the flower into her hair.
“I’m never anything but serious when it comes to you, my dear. It would be an epic to rival The Iliad.”
“Oh, shush.” Ann bends to pluck another flower from the soil, then picks her way back through the long grass to her side. Beaming, she presents it to her as if it was the most precious of treasures—and, Anne decides silently, it is. “Here. This is for you, so you can remember our day.”
“I’ll press it into my journal,” she promises. “But I don’t need a flower to do that.”
“I know, I know, I’m sure you’ll write about it,” she teases. “But it’s a sentimental reminder, is it not? And sometimes that’s better than mere words.”
“There’s very little better than the written word,” Anne objects. “But I will concede that sometimes just seeing a memento can bring back a whole host of memories of very happy days in a way that reliving it through the written word cannot.”
“I suppose painting is different,” says Ann. “It’s not quite as literal. When I paint, I’m trying to grasp hold of a feeling, to pour myself into a scene.”
“And will you paint about today?”
“I might,” she says coyly. “Fields of green drenched in sunshine and flowers of pink and purple, and two unknowable figures embracing in the background, protected by nature.”
“I look forward to seeing it. It will be another masterpiece, I’m sure of it.”
“You flatter me.”
“Do I have any cause to flatter you now that you’re my wife? I speak the truth.”
“Are you saying that you used to flatter me?” Ann giggles.
“Don’t pretend that you didn’t enjoy it.”
They set back off on their journey to Shibden, bickering light-heartedly as they go, walking so closely that their sleeves brush, and it’s so hard to resist the temptation to grasp hold of her hand, but they’re emerging back onto the open road now and she must. She settles instead for the comfort of Ann’s tinkling laughter as they go. She’d never thought they could be this happy.
This love isn’t all heated, explosive passion. They have plenty of those moments, of course they do, but it doesn’t colour every single interaction, they’re not constantly butting heads and making up again, the sweetness gone sour. They can exist together in their own quiet bubble, interrupted only be the scratch of Anne’s quill against the page of her diary, or the whisper of Ann’s brush against her canvas, living harmoniously in their own creative outlets, making their own brands of magic. She isn’t just being obsequious when she remarks upon Ann’s skill at drawing and painting; her wife has the exquisite ability to capture sweeping pain or glorious joy with a few deft strokes of the paintbrush, and she can bring life to anything. She’d even stuck to her promise of painting Anne; in the dark, commanding presence of Shiben’s sitting room, she regal in the brooding finery; a much more intimate, tender drawing in the privacy of their shared room, candlelight softening her sharp features, hair down, dressed only in her night things, reclining suggestively on the bed. There had been a few distinctly shaky lines on that particular drawing, which had only made Anne admire it more, for it meant that her hold over her wife was so absolute that she could barely concentrate to draw as prettily as she usually did. The heart and soul and love she’d put into that etching had taken her breath away, made her feel that she could be beautiful through her wife’s eyes. She’s never thought it much for herself. It’s a worthless accolade, to be beautiful. She values it in other women, of course—who doesn’t enjoy a pretty face?—but for herself, it’s always been far more important to be clever and cunning and courageous. But seeing that finished drawing, so respectfully composed in her wife’s loving hand, had made a lump rise in her throat, she, who prided herself on not being sentimental over silly little things.
They’d enjoyed an afternoon tucked away in Anne’s room for that, an inevitable, wonderful reward, and for the first time in a long time, Anne had been content with being lazy and peaceful, putting her responsibilities to one side just this once in favour of delirious happiness.
Those moments happened much more frequently now that the two of them were wed. Ann was still quiet and demure, but she was growing in confidence to express her own wants, domestic or personal.
It’s Ann’s voice that breaks her out of her musings now, high and sweet as birdsong. “We ought to hurry. We’ll be late for lunch if we don’t.”
“Father and Aunt Anne won’t mind too much, it’s Marian who’s the pain in my side,” Anne grumbles, but allows herself to be swayed by Ann’s reasoning. She never bothers with lunch but Ann usually likes a little bit of something, and Anne doesn’t want her missing meals and wasting away. No doubt she will be hungry, and the last thing she wants is to endure a whole afternoon of Marian’s shrill indignation that they dared to be late.
Ann giggles, slipping her right hand into her left, her thumb sweeping consolingly over the smooth, warm metal of the wedding band that she’d placed there herself, and kissed, and promised to honour for the rest of their lives. “She’s not that bad.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t account for your taste.”
“Anne!” she scolds, but the admonishment is rather lost in her giggle. “You really are horrible sometimes. Besides, my taste can’t be that bad, otherwise I wouldn’t love you.”
“Mm, that’s true,” she concedes. “I do hope you do prefer me to my sister, though, otherwise we might have to rethink this arrangement…”
“You are beastly sometimes, you know.”
“Ah, but you love me anyway.”
“But I love you anyway,” Ann sighs, and that’s all Anne needs to hear to step closer to her, to check their deserted surroundings, to pull her into the thick trees off the lane and kiss her beneath the hidden canopy, as if they are in another world, another life entirely. Ann’s mouth curves into a smile beneath her own, the ridge of her teeth nipping cheekily at her bottom lip before pulling away.
“If you don’t stop that we’ll never make it back to Shibden,” she chides without feeling. “We shall end back at the chaumière and then Marian will launch a search party for us.”
“The search party would consist of John and George, and I doubt either of them could find their way out of a paper bag,” Anne says. Ann’s snort of laughter is most unladylike, and Anne adores it. It’s not always easy for them, and her wife’s proneness to melancholy hasn’t miraculously dissipated with their union, and that makes Anne all the more determined to make her wife as happy as she can, whether that it through dry humour or little acts of kindness.
“I mean it, Anne, I won’t have your family thinking badly of me!”
Anne rolls her eyes. “They think you’re an angel. I assure you, if we were late I’m the only one who would be held accountable. I don’t think they think you can do any wrong.”
Ann beams. Despite the slight twinge of annoyance she’d felt at how well Ann gets along with Marian, Anne’s heart does rejoice with the ease that her wife has been accepted into the Lister family fold. Their…arrangement will never be openly acknowledged by anyone, but her family has known for a long time that her inclinations have never been traditional; no doubt Marian has heard a few of the whispers that dog her wherever she goes. In that respect, she is grateful for her family, for although it’s in everyone’s interests for them to pretend not to know of Anne’s preferences, the fact that they have never once judged her for it, or used it as a weapon against her means a great deal to her. She has been so fortunate in that regard. There’s little wonder that Ann has struggled so miserably with the feelings she has when she has people like the Rawsons and the Priestleys breathing down her neck.
“Let’s go home,” Ann says, moving to press one last kiss to her cheek, and Anne could never articulate the emotion she feels at hearing Ann call Shibden her home.
“Very well,” she says. “I’m right behind you.”
As Ann leads the way back onto the lane, the pretty pink flower still tucked into her flaxen locks, her fingers secure and certain around her own, Anne is struck once more by a wave of gratefulness to her, to this wonderful, strong woman she is lucky enough to call her wife in private, her particular friend in public. The only woman who has ever been brave enough to stand up with her, to not bend or break like brittle twigs in the face of the rules of society. Many might sniff at the thought of Miss Walker ever being considered strong, but they are small-minded people who cannot see beyond Ann’s delicate, porcelain features, mistake her gentleness for weakness. Light dapples against her curls and the back of her neck, and Anne is blanketed once more by a sense of peace that has long since eluded her.
She fingers the soft petals of the flower that Ann had pressed into her hand and knows that she is the luckiest woman in the whole world.