Bound for Glenford
In the middle of a late dinner, Heiner entered the dining room. He had washed up after returning from work; a faint dampness still clung to his hair.
Catching sight of Annette, he lifted one eyebrow a fraction. His tone held mild surprise.
"At this hour? How unusual."
Annette answered with nothing more than a slight incline of her head. She had been without appetite all day and only now felt hunger stirring.
As Heiner took his seat, a servant set soup and a glass before him. Annette brought food to her mouth in silence. For a time the only sound that filled the space was the soft clink of cutlery.
"Ansgar Stetter called at the residence."
A pause.
The hand holding Annette's fork went still. She lifted her gaze to Heiner, but his expression remained perfectly ordinary.
The same dish was placed before him—Muscovy duck stuffed with mushrooms and egg, accompanied by bread and mixed garnish.
With a gesture Heiner dismissed every servant from the dining room.
"What did he say to you?"
"You already know everything, don't you?"
"Hearing it from the person herself is different, is it not?"
"…He told me to divorce you and go with him to France. That was all."
"To marry him there?"
A dry smile caught at the corner of Heiner's mouth.
"So the reason you asked me for a divorce was so that you could marry him?"
"I saw Ansgar that day for the first time in four years."
"Who can say? You might have been exchanging letters behind my back. The same way he dug into my past in secret."
Even if she had been in contact with Ansgar, why should that be a matter for Heiner's scrutiny? The question rose as far as her throat, but Annette did not give it voice.
"You will never take that hand."
The definitive voice cut across her hearing.
"And you will never leave this place either."
A dark, insistent gaze settled on Annette's face. She stared blankly at the asparagus she had only half cut and thought.
If Ansgar truly belonged to the royalist restoration faction, of course Heiner would not want to hand her over to them. This was not a matter of emotion.
Perhaps that was also why he refused the divorce. It was easier to keep restrictions in place while they remained legally bound…
But if that's the case, why do Heiner's closest aides disagree with him about the divorce?
No satisfactory answer came. Annette had never considered herself especially clever. Even if she reasoned it out, there was nothing she could actually do.
She stopped thinking. Strength drained from her hand. The fork struck the plate with a sharp ring. Heiner regarded those thin fingers for a moment.
Annette changed into outdoor clothes from early morning. Into her bag she packed a little money, headache powder, and a handkerchief. When she finally drew the black veil attached to her hat down over her face, she was ready.
"I'm going to church. I don't need an escort."
"But, madam—"
"I'm going to pray. I don't want a fuss."
"If you wish to go out alone, you must first obtain the Commander's permission."
Heiner would never grant it. She also wondered why his permission was required in the first place, yet the escort remained inflexible. In the end she gave up and took him with her.
Annette rode by car to a nearby church. She had once been religious, but it had been a long time since she last attended. In that respect she stood in contrast to Heiner, who was not a believer yet still went to services with steady regularity.
On a weekday afternoon the church was empty. Annette dropped money into the offering box and sat in the foremost pew. A crucifix hung above the altar.
She gazed blankly up at the image of the cross and prayed. She did not close her eyes. She did not fold her hands. She simply muttered inwardly.
Forgive my sins. Whatever sins I may have, forgive them all. Absolve me of the remaining price of my guilt. You can do that, can't You? Please—save me.
No answer returned. There were so many people who claimed to have received a reply from God, yet Annette had never once experienced it.
A sense of despair tightened inside her; she clenched her fists hard.
Why won't You forgive me? Why did You cast me into this mire? Why do You make me suffer like this? Why me…
Midway through her litany of reproach, Annette abruptly stopped praying. It felt meaningless.
She rose with her bag. At the entrance she handed a letter to the escort who had been waiting.
"If you go out the back door there will be an old man. Please deliver this to him. He's not in good health, so he may be a little late."
"May I look at the contents?"
"…Do as you like."
The escort opened the letter, read it, decided nothing was amiss, and put it away again.
The moment he left, Annette hurried out of the church. On the road she hailed a hansom cab—a two-wheeled, two-seater hired carriage—and climbed in.
"The railway station, please."
The cab started forward. Annette glanced behind her. No one was following.
There had never been any old man waiting at the back door. She had needed only an excuse to shake off the escort.
The cab gathered speed. Annette leaned into the backrest and closed her eyes. She could feel every beat of her own heart with startling clarity.
A few nights earlier she had seen the sea at Glenford in a dream. She wanted to look at that sea with her own eyes.
There was still a good while before her train departed; the earlier one had been fully booked. Annette sat idly on a waiting bench and watched the people streaming past.
Everyone moved with such urgency. She tilted her head as she watched a boy straining under a trunk nearly as large as himself.
Where is everyone going, and for what?
What goal makes them hurry so hard?
It was only natural that every person possessed a life of their own, yet the thought struck her as strangely fresh. It was equally astonishing that none of them seemed lost—that each of them was finding a path.
The world beyond Annette spun at high speed. She alone stood still, stagnant.
Only after a considerable wait did the train pull into the station. Ticket in hand, Annette wandered a little in front of the carriages.
D200, G-12…
It had been so long since she last rode a train, and she had always been guided to a first-class seat by a conductor; finding her own place was new.
In the end she asked a conductor for help.
"I'm sorry—could you check my ticket? I don't know where to board…"
"One moment. Ah—next car over. The seat numbers are posted above; just find yours and sit."
Once aboard, Annette located her place without further trouble. The seats faced one another in sets of four and felt cramped and uncomfortable.
Passengers throughout the car held newspapers up like shields. Annette tugged her hat lower for no particular reason. She was afraid her own name might appear in one of those pages.
The journey to Glenford would take roughly seven hours. After staring out the window for a while she could no longer bear the monotony and bought a magazine from the train vendor. Even that she soon closed; reading made her head ache.
"Miss."
An elderly man in the seat opposite spoke up abruptly.
"Yes?"
"Are you finished with that, by any chance?"
"Ah… not quite, but I was going to stop. Would you like to read it?"
"I'd be grateful."
The old man nodded and took the magazine. Annette observed him without seeming to. His clothes were shabby; he looked thin and poor.
After a moment of hesitation she bought a sandwich and an orange juice from the vendor. The sandwich, wrapped in paper, was already cut in half.
She lifted her veil a little and took a bite. The dry bread crumbled in her mouth. It was the worst sandwich she had ever eaten.
The old man reading the magazine glanced up at her. Annette rewrapped the half she had bitten into.
Soon he set the magazine down. Annette, fidgeting with her hands, asked in a gentle voice,
"Would you like this, by any chance?"
"…Didn't you buy it to eat yourself?"
"I meant to, but my stomach isn't feeling well."
The old man hesitated a little, then muttered his thanks and accepted the sandwich. Annette added hastily,
"Ah—but one half is the one I started, so perhaps the other—"
"It's fine."
Without concern the old man took a large bite of the half Annette had already tasted. Chewing slowly, he opened a conversation.
"Where are you headed, miss?"
Annette could not hide her pleasure as she answered at once.
"I'm going to Glenford."
"A trip?"
"Well… something like that. I wanted to see the sea."
The sea at Glenford was famous for its beauty. Long ago Annette had visited once for a holiday.
"Alone? Not with a sweetheart?"
"I'm married."
"Ah, a married lady. Leaving the husband behind, then?"
"My husband and I don't get along. We've even spoken of divorce."
"Any children?"
"No, none."
"No children—then that's that. Young people divorce a lot these days. It's hardly a stain anymore."
"Is that true?"
"True enough. When I was young a divorced woman was marked, but the times have changed a great deal. Women live a little better, there are no more lordly aristocrats, and life is still hard, of course, but…"
Annette's mouth twitched. She found it difficult to reply. Did this old man also hate the nobility? It would be stranger if he did not.
When she remained silent for some time, the old man, having swallowed the sandwich, asked,
"Why don't you and your husband get along?"
"…Simply… my husband and everyone around him dislike me. And I no longer want to live with him either."
"No fondness left from the years together?"
"I don't know. He would probably… feel nothing at all even if I died."
"I know that feeling. Realizing someone hates you is harder to bear than you might think."
The old man lowered the sandwich for a moment and spoke in a serious tone.
"But you can't be loved by everyone. That truly can't be helped. All you can do is hold close the people who do love you and keep living."
His voice sounded somehow lonely. Annette sat blankly, then gave a small nod. Her mouth tasted bitter.
The people who loved me are all dead. So what am I supposed to do?
I don't ask to be loved by everyone. I only don't want to be hated by everyone. If all that remains for me is the right to be hated—then what am I supposed to do?
The thoughts slowly faded. The train jolted and swayed. Outside the window a golden wheat field stretched away.
The old man rustled the paper open and took out the remaining half of the sandwich. Watching those wrinkled fingertips, Annette held out the orange juice to him.