“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.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“One hundred percent. So you see why I’d prefer to avoid them. We’ll have more fun out here alone anyway,” she says with a false smile. “Who needs them?”
“Right.” I give her a sad smile.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she snaps suddenly with more venom than usual.
“I’m not,” I insist, my smile fading away at once. “I was actually just thinking about my own parents.”
“Oh.” She softens. “Same boat?”