Tangled (24 page)

He felt bruised and battered after less than two weeks away. The doctor had been unable to give them either the reassurances or the cure he had hoped for. It appeared that Rebecca was almost certain to lose her child again. The thought was an agony to him. He felt a fierce longing for this child, the only really personal link between them, the only remnant of an intimacy they had shared all too briefly.

And he felt an even more fierce longing to see Rebecca happy. He could not forget how her eyes had looked when she had told him that she wanted a child more than anything else in the world.

He felt a huge relief to be away from London and the dreadful unease it had brought. To have encountered George Scherer of all people! Just one sight of the man's face had brought it all flooding back. He had remem-

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bered the last sight he had had of that face. And Cynthia Scherer with whom Julian had amused himself in Rebecca's absence!

It had been ghastly. He had hoped never to set eyes on them again.

He supposed now that he had always been aware of the possibility that their paths would cross. But if he ever had considered it, he had assumed that Scherer would be as reluctant as he to have any memories dredged to the surface again. The man had to live with the memory that his wife had been unfaithful to him.

Yet Scherer had seemed anything but reluctant. It had become quickly obvious to David that the man's motive in inviting him and Rebecca to dinner was to humiliate and punish his wife. If he did feel deep gratitude, it had been somehow swallowed up in something else once he had met Rebecca and learned of her relationship to Julian. It was clear too that Cynthia Scherer had not been spared the truth as Rebecca had. She knew that he had killed her lover and saved her husband's life. She was being punished with him too during that ghastly evening.

He and Rebecca had not referred to it since.

They fell gratefully back into the pattern their days had followed at Stedwell since their marriage, except that he would no longer allow Rebecca to go about as much— and soon she would not be able to go about at all or rise from her bed for longer than a few minutes at a time. He intended to be adamant about that, though he did not believe that he would have to be. Although they did not speak about it, he knew that they were both determined to do everything possible to save their child.

"I am going to have to find something with which to occupy my hands and my mind," she told him at luncheon one day after she had been lamenting the fact that she had had to watch the cook's assistant set out with food baskets for four of the cottages during the morning before retiring to bed herself. "I feel very useless and restless, David.

Would it be a good idea to make curtains for the schoolroom, do you think? It looks very stark and bare as it is. I could do that, couldn't I?"

"Yes," he said, "until it comes time to lie down completely. '' He was pleased that she was not willing to give in to boredom, though he wondered how she would cope

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with a whole month spent in bed—if the whole month proved necessary. He did not want to pursue that thought. There were numerous neighbors, of course, who would be only too pleased to come and keep her company. They all soon knew of her condition.

And so she sent for material and set about her task with a will. But it did not stop there.

"David," she said to him at tea about a week later after he had arrived home to find Lady Sharp and Stephanie about to leave and had escorted them downstairs and seen them on their way, "I have had an idea. I think it will work and it will solve several problems. It will involve a little expenditure, though."

Rebecca always seemed to hate broaching the subject of money, just as if she believed them to be paupers after the rental reductions and the raise in wages.

"Is the tea cold?" he asked, pouring himself a cup. "What is the idea?"

"Probably not cold, but thoroughly stewed," she said, looking with distaste at the dark brown liquid in his cup. "I shall ring for more, David."

But he held up a hand when she would have got to her feet. "What expenditure?" he asked, helping himself to sugar.

"I thought," she said, "that I could gradually start replacing some of the shabbier curtains in the house. They will not cost so much if I make them myself. Though they will cost a little more if I employ a few of the women and girls to help. Miriam Phelps, for example. She is always bemoaning the fact that there is no employment for women in these parts, David, except for the few jobs at the house here. So many of the girls end up in towns where there are factories. It is a dreadful life for them. I could keep a few more of them employed at the house here for a long time, and they would be learning a skill."

He thought for a moment but could find no flaw with her plan.

"And I would enjoy the company," she said, "just as I have enjoyed my evenings with the knitting group. Just for a few mornings a week, David?''

"Afternoons," he said. "You have heard my opinion on your being up and about in the mornings."

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"For a few afternoons, then," she said. "Perhaps I could begin with the smaller windows upstairs."

"That," he said, "is your domain. I shall leave all the plans in your hands. The new cottages are almost finished—in good time before winter. They look remarkably cozy. I must have three more put up next year, I think."

He sat down with his cool, overstrong tea and they settled into a familiar and thoroughly comfortable pattern of conversation. If he could just keep his thoughts under control, he could consider himself quite contented, even happy.

But thoughts, of course, cannot be so easily controlled. He wondered unwillingly how she and Julian must have behaved together during her two pregnancies. They had never behaved any differently than usual in public, of course. They had both been too well-bred for that, especially Rebecca. But in private they must have shared their dreams and hopes for the child that would be theirs.

They must have shared their fears the second time. Their love must have been deepened by their knowledge of her condition.

Except that Julian had slept with other women during Rebecca's pregnancies—as the doctor had hinted that he, David, might do. He felt a flash of the old fury against Julian.

Nothing was changed between him and Rebecca. He wanted to talk about the baby, about the excitement but he could not dare give rein to it. He wanted to hear about the fears he knew she had bottled up inside her unfailingly calm exterior. He wanted to hold her and comfort her even if there was no real comfort to give. He wanted them to share the hopes and the agonies.

But all they could talk about was the building of new cottages and the sewing of new curtains.

"David," she said, "that tea must taste quite dreadful. You should have let me order more."

She was quite right. He set down the half-empty cup and got to his feet. "Time for your rest," he said.

"It is always time for my rest." She smiled at him.

She stood up and took his arm. It had become a daily ritual for him to escort her to the door of her room after

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tea. He wondered suddenly how she would react if he stooped down and lifted her into his arms to carry her upstairs. He would take her right into the bedchamber and set her down on the bed—the bed where his child had been conceived. And he would draw the covers over her and kiss her warmly on the lips before leaving her to her sleep.

He walked quietly up the stairs, her arm through his, and opened the door into the master bedchamber for her. He closed it behind her, just as he always did.

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Rebecca awaited the coming of the end of November with dread.

She would be going into her fourth month. And she could no longer even begin to pretend that it did not matter greatly to her, that she would not be able to mourn too deeply a life that had never existed independently of her body.

The fact was that it did exist. Inside her. Dependent upon her.

Deeply, deeply loved. It took on more reality as the dreaded fourth month approached. There was movement, and her stomach and abdomen became soft and a little flabby. She had not lost her figure the other two times, but this time she was beginning to feel and look pregnant already. Her breasts were larger and tender to touch. She tried not to imagine what it must feel like to have a baby suckling them.

She took the unprecedented step of leaving off the tight stays beneath her dresses and hoping that the fact would not be too noticeable. Soon it would not matter. Soon she would be in bed and would not need to dress.

Her need for David's arms became a physical torment. But the more she felt it, the more resolutely she kept herself from giving him any sign. He had married her so that she would help him, and she had married him on that understanding. She had wanted to be needed, not to need. She drew comfort from the fact that he was even more insistent than she thought necessary that she rest. She drew comfort from being obedient to his every command even when it meant leaving her girls and women to work alone on the bedroom curtains twice a week while she worked with them and directed them on two other

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afternoons. If he considered that even sewing was too much of an exertion for her, then she would not sew.

But she dreaded the fourth month. She dreaded those first signs and the growing certainty and the birth that was not a birth but only its opposite. She dreaded the death of her child. She wondered how far along into the fourth month it would be before it happened.

Would fate tease her and withhold it until almost the end?

She was not sure she would not be able to go through the month without revealing her need for comforting arms. She wondered how he would react if she crumbled.

Please, dear God, let me not crumble.

Please, God. Oh, please. Just this once. Just this once. Please.

When she came downstairs at her usual late hour one morning, the butler directed her to the study, where his lordship was waiting to have a word with her.

"Louisa is coming," he told her after he had seated her. He handed her a letter from the desk. "I was not sure her own condition would allow her to travel, but I asked anyway. Papa is bringing her tomorrow. They will stay for a few weeks, perhaps until Christmas."

"You asked her to come?" she said, looking up at him in wonder.

"You are going to need company," he said. "Someone you feel comfortable with and can confide in. Someone who can be at the house all the time. You and she were close friends. You must stay in bed soon, Rebecca. Starting the day after tomorrow, in fact."

"Yes," she said. She held the letter against her bosom. "Thank you, David. You are very kind."

He looked at her, a frown on his face. He looked as if he was about to say something, but he changed his mind. He walked over to the desk and busied himself with the papers on it, his back to her.

"Louisa will be company for you," he said.

Yes, she would. Rebecca felt a rush of longing for the next day to come quickly. It would be wonderful to see her friend again. To have someone to talk to, not just about business matters.

She would scarcely see David during the coming month, she thought suddenly. He never came into the

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master bedroom. She gazed at his back as she got to her feet to leave the study. Just a few months ago she had dreaded seeing him again. She had found it hard to stop herself from wishing that it had been he who was dead rather than Julian. Just a few months ago she had disliked him and thought it would be quite impossible to marry him and live the rest of her life with him.

It seemed a long time since she had felt that way. She could never love him, of course. She could never feel the bliss of married love that she had felt with Julian. But she would not reverse her decision now if she could. She liked being married to David. If only it were a real marriage. If only he had thought of giving her his own company instead of Louisa's.

But she felt gratitude nonetheless. He was not completely insensitive to her emotional needs.

"You will be happy to see your father again, David," she said.

He turned to look at her. "Yes," he said. "I want to show off all that we have accomplished in three months, Rebecca. Clean chimneys and new curtains in several of the bedrooms." He gave her one of his rare smiles.

A smile that left her feeling unexpectedly happy as she went to consult the cook about a special menu for tomorrow's dinner.

Stedwell, Winter, 1856

Rebecca did not know quite what she would have done without Louisa in the coming weeks. The month of her confinement to bed coincided with a return of energy, the tiredness of the early months having quite passed into history. It was akin to torture to lie in bed all day long and then all night long.

Louisa was seven months pregnant when she arrived at Stedwell with the earl. Although she insisted on walking outside for at least half an hour each day, leaning heavily on her husband's arm, she assured Rebecca that she felt heavy and lethargic and that it was no sacrifice at all to spend hours of each day sitting in the latter's bedroom. She busied herself with various needlework projects while she did so.

At Louisa's suggestion the women and girls who were working on the new draperies brought their work to the bedroom on a few occasions. Rebecca read aloud to them while they sewed, something she had done occasionally downstairs after discovering that they were eager to listen to stories. The arrangement worked well after Rebecca's initial embarrassment at being seen in bed by the woman had passed together with their giggling self-consciousness. Her knitting group also appeared on occasion, bringing with them a shawl for her they had all helped knit, and some little cakes Mrs. Shaw had baked.