Satin Princess(13)

But my peaceful garden gazing is cut short when a bout of nausea hits me sideways.

“Oh no.”

I rush to the bathroom and just barely make it before my stomach empties. It rips through me ruthlessly. When there’s nothing left to come out, I release my iron grip on the toilet bowl and get to my feet. I wash my mouth out three times over and decide to soak in the clawfoot tub until the feeling passes.

All I can think about is how well Anton took care of me when I fell sick on the job. A man who brings a woman freshly made lemonade can’t be completely evil, can he?

On second thought, maybe I better not answer that question.

I soak until my fingers turn pruny, wishing I could disappear beneath the soapy water and escape my thoughts. Then I get out of the tub and dry myself off. There’s a full-length mirror on the opposite wall of the bathroom, so I drop my towel and go to stand in front of it.

I definitely don’t look pregnant. My stomach, while lacking in definition, is extremely flat. Even my breasts don’t look much bigger than normal.

I run my fingers over my nipples and draw in a sharp breath. They’re sensitive. That’s new.

Though Anton had the unique ability to draw new sensations out of me. I circle my hand over my skin, letting myself imagine him for just a moment.

Then I freeze.

“Goddammit.” I exhale sharply and turn away from the mirror.

I’m here to move on. I have to move on.

I rifle through my suitcase and pick out jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and one of my favorite beige cardigans. Once I’m dressed, I head downstairs to look for Freya.

I find her in the kitchen, sitting in front of a table laden with scones, jams and pastries.

“Hey,” she says when I enter. “Did you sleep well?”

I decide that telling her about my nightmare would be pointless. “I slept fine. Overslept, in fact.”

“Well, you need the rest. So does your baby.”

I nod, eyeing her as subtly as I can. Rubbing my pregnancy in her face is the last thing I want to do. I know she won’t take it that way, but I also don’t know what her triggers are. Traumatic loss has a funny way of erupting again at the tiniest little inclination.

She deserves better than that.

“What can I get you?” she asks, gesturing to the table.

“I think my stomach needs to settle a little,” I say. “Feeling a bit nauseous.”

“Oh, morning sickness? The worst. That’s definitely something I didn’t enjoy about pregnancy,” she says. She seems placid enough. Maybe I’m overthinking the sensitivity-to-her-loss thing.

“Maybe I’ll have a scone later.”

She nods. “They’re homemade. Marge is an amazing pastry chef.”

I glance around to the portly older woman busying herself in the back of the kitchen. She has poodle-like curly hair and an expression that reminds me of a stern middle school teacher.

“But it’s important you get something into your system,” Freya continues. “Marge has this amazing nausea remedy. She made it for my mother when she was pregnant with me.”

I glance at Marge. She’s stirring a drink with a yellowish tint. It’s definitely not lemonade, though.

I wonder briefly how Freya knew I was having morning sickness. She just asked me if I was feeling okay but her maid-slash-chef is already whipping up a cure? Weird.

I put the thought out of my head as soon as it arises. I’m not in Anton’s thrall anymore. Not everything is a conspiracy.

“It tastes a bit funky,” Freya warns. “But it’ll settle your stomach.”

When Marge brings over the drink, I accept it with a smile. But the older woman barely looks at me. Apparently, British hospitality isn’t the warmest.

I take a sip of the drink. It actually tastes okay. “It’s sweet.”

Freya nods. “Yeah, it can be.”

I take a bigger sip, and I realize that the sweetness is more of a distraction, to hide the distinctly sour taste just underneath. But Freya is right: it does settle my stomach, so I end up finishing most of my glass in a few gulps.

“Do your parents know we’re here?” I ask when I’m done.

“They do. I called them ahead of time to let them know we’d be staying at the manor for at least a few weeks.”

“Will they be coming down any time soon?”

Her mouth twists. I don’t know if it’s irritation or hurt or something else entirely. “Um, no, actually. They have a few events to attend this month, so they can’t spare the time.”

“We could go down to London to see them,” I suggest.

“Not necessary,” she says quickly. “Honestly, I’d rather just avoid them.”

“Things are still strained between you guys, then?”

She sighs and bites into a jam-filled scone. “They didn’t believe me,” she says. “When I told them about my ex and what he was doing to me. They just… they made excuses for him.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “How could they possibly not believe you?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing for-fucking-ever. But every time I went to them, they’d tell me how lucky I was. They said he was a perfect match for me, that I just needed to figure out how to ‘handle’ him.”