Laura Kinsale (31 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was the most violent fit Elizabeth had ever had. She had rejected every overture; nothing Zenia could do seemed to appease her, not even the toys or the songs that she loved. It seemed to go on forever—just as Zenia would get her calmed, stroking the hot little forehead, Elizabeth would realize that she was falling asleep and burst into frenzied cries against it. The worst was when the door opened to let the nurse in or out: Elizabeth lunged for it, and once fell so hard against the rail of the crib that she shrieked with pain. Both Zenia and the nurse tried to pick her up and walk with her, but she would twist and shove so angrily that it was impossible.

The nurse said tentatively, “If you would leave her to herself, ma’am, perhaps—”

Zenia turned on her. “I would not leave her!” she snapped. “Go and fetch some cool water! And then don’t open the door again!”

The woman turned as red as Elizabeth. She lowered her face and curtsied. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, barely audible over Elizabeth’s screams.

Zenia glanced out the window. She had lost track of time. It seemed as if the fit had gone on all day, but it was still bright, the sun high. As the door opened, Elizabeth’s head turned toward it. She began to shriek so frantically that she stopped breathing, her face going from red to blue, her mouth open wide and her body arched back, so that Zenia was terrified she was going to choke herself.

She tried again to pick her up, but Elizabeth’s rigid limbs fought, her body rolling away. Elizabeth drew a strangled breath and screamed again, the sound ringing in Zenia’s ears. Zenia tried again to sing to her, but her voice failed. Tears filled her eyes.

“Oh baby,” she whispered, leaning over Elizabeth’s frantic form, “oh baby, please baby. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

She was vaguely aware that the door still stood open; she didn’t look up, but wiped angrily at the tears that dripped off her nose as she turned to close it.

Lord Winter stood in the doorway. His daughter arched and screamed, oblivious to everything now but her hysteria. And suddenly, before Zenia knew what he was about, he strode across the room and lifted Elizabeth from the bed.

She writhed, her eyes closed, her howl increasing to a pitch Zenia had not known it could reach. She fought for an instant, but he hoisted her easily in spite of it—and then suddenly she opened her eyes. She was swinging upward, her small mouth open. Before she could draw breath for another scream, she was perched atop his shoulders. He turned to the door, ducked through, and walked away down the hall.

Zenia hastened after. Elizabeth was crying, but softly now, more hiccups than weeping. He went down the stairs with Zenia at his heels. By the time they reached the first floor, Elizabeth had ceased even her hiccups. She was silently clinging to her father’s hair as he deliberately tilted her to one side and then the other, walking down the long hall.

At the great staircase, he descended in bouncing steps that had Elizabeth bumping up and down like an india rubber ball. She began to giggle.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning to look up at Zenia. Elizabeth’s tearstained face was wreathed in smiles. “Do you want her back now?” he asked coolly.

Zenia took a step down, reaching for her. Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Pink flooded her face as she drew a breath to scream.

Zenia dropped her hands. She sat down on the staircase and put her forehead down on her knees. The absence of Elizabeth’s screams was such a relief that she could not bear them to start again.

Arden looked at her huddled on the stairs. He set his foot on the lowest step and leaned over, catching her hand, exerting a pull. “Come. Let’s take a walk.”

She lifted her face, resisting. “I don’t want her to go outside,” she said quickly.

“We won’t go outside.”

She let him draw her to her feet. Elizabeth made a pleased sound. He walked across the echoing hall to an alabaster statue of a draped shepherdess. His daughter reached out and touched the marble fingers, making a surprised “Guh!”

“Yes,” Lord Winter said. “That is a girl.”

Zenia could have informed him that everything was “guh,” if it was not “mama” or “pa” or “g’dow.” But she did not. She felt as if she were resting in a calm after the storm. She actually felt—rather grateful.

Lord Winter walked through the great house, pausing at anything that drew Elizabeth’s attention. He let her touch things that Zenia would not have dared to touch herself: silver urns and Chinese porcelains, gilt-and-enamel clocks. When Elizabeth tried to pick up a crystal vase, Zenia hurried forward to pluck it out of her hand.

Elizabeth drew a threatening breath. Her lips quivered for a moment, but Zenia said firmly, “No,” and put the vase down as Lord Winter moved out of reach.

“If you let her touch, I fear she’ll break something,” she said, following him in anxious haste.

“It’s just a lot of pretty rubbish,” he said casually.

Zenia glanced around at the grandeur of tall pediments and draped windows, the polish of inlaid marble tabletops and silver candelabra. It came sharply home to her, for the first time, that he had been brought up to this. It was so familiar to him that he thought nothing of letting a baby play with a golden box from the carved mantelpiece—though he did move suddenly to catch it in his palm as Elizabeth let go.

He had appeared so stiff and distant here, so unlike the easy friend and protector he had been in the desert—he had not seemed to belong to the place.

And yet it was his. These were his possessions, his family’s house that would belong to him after his father. Zenia caught a silver candlestick before Elizabeth could overturn it, amazed at his indifference. She would not have brought Elizabeth into these rooms if her life depended on it. She had let Lady Belmaine guide her in how to act and what to wear, learning to sit gracefully and straight, to pour tea and accept a cup. But he walked through the house with the negligent ease of ownership, introducing his daughter to Swanmere.

In the slow procession of high-ceilinged rooms and luxurious color, of footmen who opened doors and closed them silently, Elizabeth’s eyes began at last to droop. In the long gallery she fell asleep, her cheek resting on Lord Winter’s black hair.

He walked on a little way, and then turned his head. Her plump fingers hung against his cheek, small and pink on the hard angle of his face. “It pains me to tell you, Lady Winter,” he said, with a sideways smile that creased the tanned skin beneath her hand, “that your daughter snores.”

Zenia reached for her, but he eased down in a window alcove. Elizabeth woke a little, only to make a faint complaint and cling to his neck as he lifted her down onto his shoulder.

“I’ll take her upstairs,” Zenia whispered, leaning to reach for her.

He caught her elbow. “Sit down,” he said.

She hesitated. He looked at her steadily, such blue eyes—surprising color, like the blue beads that fell in the dusky caravan tracks, broken from a thousand years of camels’ woven fringes. His lashes were black as kohl.

“Sit down,” he said again.

Elizabeth snuffled at the soft, deep vibration of his voice. With a hiccup, she nestled into his neckcloth.

Zenia gazed at them a moment. There was still the jealous, upset part of her that wanted to snatch Elizabeth away. She swallowed, looking at her daughter resting against him so trustingly. Zenia had slept that way once–next to him. Knowing he was there. Knowing she was safe.

She perched on the edge of the window seat. “I had not realized you were clever with children,” she said awkwardly.

He gave a short, dry laugh. “I don’t know a bloody thing about children.”

Zenia entwined her hands, looking down at them. “She has these—fits. Sometimes, I don’t know how to stop them. But you—” Her voice trailed off.

“Don’t care for female blubbering,” he supplied. “Next time I’ll just turn her upside down and shake her.”

Zenia looked up quickly, but he had that crooked smile, and she could see that he didn’t mean it.

“I’m sorry that I frightened you this morning,” he said. “Zenia.”

He pronounced her name carefully, as if it were difficult for him to use.

“I’m sorry that I—said what I said.” Zenia pressed her lips together. “But you must not take her outside.”

“I won’t forget the cap next time, you may be sure.”

“No! No, I truly mean it, you must not take her out of the heated rooms. It is much too cold and damp. Even here there is a draft. I hope she may not take ill from her exposure today.”

He scowled. “Is she inclined to take ill?”

“Oh no, she enjoys perfect health,” Zenia said, allowing herself a touch of pride. “I take every precaution.”

“So I’m told.” As he looked at her over Elizabeth’s head, there was a faint gleam of mockery in his eyes. “My father thinks you the model parent.”

“Does he?” She felt a gratified surprise.

Lord Winter toyed with the lace on Elizabeth’s pinafore, smoothing it with his finger. Then he said, “The two of you have similar opinions on the care of children.”

“He hasn’t spoken of it to me. I’m glad if—if he doesn’t disapprove of me.”

“Never fear. You’re the apple of your father-in-law’s eye.”

And what do you think of me?
she wanted desperately to ask, but it was impossible. She was not certain of English ways in this. In the desert, a man could put away his wife by sending her back to her family—many did it frequently, taking a new bride when they tired of an old one. Especially if she had not borne a son. A wife could do the same, take refuge from her husband in any tent, and from pride he would not come to seek her as long as her family paid back the bride-price if she would not return to him. Her sons would never go with her, but her daughters might if she wanted them.

A Christian marriage allowed of no such easy divorce. The earl and countess were powerful evidence of that. There was not a Mohammedan husband alive who would have suffered to keep only Lady Belmaine when she gave him but one son, and he so urgently desired others. But Zenia and Lord Winter had made no Christian marriage. There was no sheik or emir to listen and judge among his own people. There were volumes of law books that lined the shelves of her father’s study; there were courts and inns and temples—Chancery and Doctors’ Commons; Arches and Common Pleas—their names had whisked through conversations between her father and Mr. Jocelyn; there were registers and church weddings and advocates and barristers. She had written to her father to advise her, for she did not trust what anyone else might say.

She wished to do things in the English way. But she was afraid Lord Winter did not want her for his wife. She was afraid he wanted Elizabeth alone. And she could not bear that. She would not. She would take Elizabeth away to her father first, or farther, as far away as she had to go to keep her daughter, even if it was to the desert itself.

But she looked at Lord Winter, with Elizabeth’s hair curling softly against his jaw and her small nose pressed up against the folds of his neckcloth in her exhausted sleep, and Zenia did not want to go. She wanted to stay here, behind English walls of such sovereign height that nothing could penetrate them.

As if he read her thoughts, he said, “Zenia—I mean to remain here.” He frowned slightly, looking away from her out the window. “You know that we must come to some... settlement between us.”

Her breathing seemed to grow difficult. “I will not leave without Elizabeth!” she exclaimed.

The frown became a black scowl. “I have not said—I had no such thing in my mind.” His eyes flicked to hers, a keen look. “I don’t know why you mention it.”

Zenia sat silently, clasping her hands hard together, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth’s hair.

“Do you have some thought of leaving with her?” he asked tautly.

“Not at present,” she said in a careful tone.

She was very still, her head bowed a little. To Arden, she appeared composed; entirely feminine and remote, that delicacy that awed and drew and baffled him. He had meant to place the thing before her in a simple, temperate manner. To say that a marriage between them would be the best—the only—course, for Beth’s sake. It was so obvious; he did not see that she could form any reasonable objection, living already as Lady Winter in name.