Together, they ate dinner in the vast dining room, which still seemed to Katherine to be rather ridiculous, given that they were only two.
For their first few meals together the footmen had tried to place her at the opposite end of the dining table to her husband, so they were six feet apart, but Katherine had soon put a stop to that.
"Duke and duchess, we might be," she had said firmly to Michael one evening, "But we are still husband and wife, and I will not go hoarse trying to converse about our days."
From then on, they had sat close together, and enjoyed intimate chats over their lavishly prepared meals.
This evening, however, Katherine did not feel much like talking, for the Coquilles St-Jacques that the cook had prepared were sending shivers of revulsion through Katherine's body.
The scallops, which were cooked in their shells, looked to Katherine's eye to have congealed in their sauce of white wine and gruyère cheese. They appeared so nauseating, that she was afraid she would cast up her accounts there and then.
"Is everything alright?" Michael queried, glancing at her with concern.
"I am afraid that my stomach is sickly," Katherine replied, trying her best not to gag. It was so unusual for her to be in anyway ill that she felt close to tears, which was also unusual for her. She had never been one for displaying heightened emotion, yet the very sight of the scallops made her want to weep.
"Lud, you've grown pale," Michael pushed his chair back and stood up. "Come, I will escort you to your chambers. Should I call a physician?"
"Heavens, no," Katherine protested, trying to sound more forceful as she caught his doubtful look, "Honestly, it is just a stomach ague, that's all. Though I will retire for the night, I think."
She allowed Michael to walk her up to her chambers, trying not to feel too despondent that their quiet night in together had taken such a sour turn.
Bessie filled a bath for her, adding a few scented herbs, which she swore would calm Katherine's rolling stomach. Indeed, once she had relaxed for a few minutes in the warm water, Katherine's nausea subsided and she felt much better.
"Perhaps 'tis a feminine matter, your Grace," Bessie said a while later, as she helped Katherine into her night rail. "They can make one feel terrible, sometimes. I have washed your belt and left some clean rags on the dresser, should you need them."
The relationship between a lady and her maid was almost as intimate as that of man and wife, Katherine reflected. Bessie washed and dressed Katherine daily, and knew her so well that she could anticipate when Katherine's courses were due.
Katherine frowned a little, as she tried to recall just when she had last had them. It was before the wedding, if she remembered correctly, but that would be impossible, for the wedding was more than a month ago.
An idea struck her, but it was so preposterous that she pushed it aside. There was no possible way that she could be with child, was there?
Katherine's mind whirred as she scrambled into bed, pulling the counterpane over her and snuggling beneath it. She thought of her nausea, her aversion to the sight and smell of food, and wondered...
Her musings were pushed aside by the arrival of her husband.
"I simply wished to check on you," he said, standing in the doorway.
"I feel much better," Katherine sat up and smiled at him, to demonstrate her wellness.
"Good," Michael looked relieved, and she was touched to realise that he had been so concerned. "I shall leave you to get some rest."
"No," she called shyly, "Stay. I would like some company for the evening. Perhaps we might read together?"
"Are you sure?" Michael looked hesitant, considerate as always of her needs.
"I could not think of anything nicer," Katherine answered. It was true; a night spent cosying with her husband under the covers would be perfect...and a perfect distraction from her troubled mind.
A week later, when her monthly courses had still not arrived, Katherine allowed herself give in to the excitement she had tried so hard to fight against. The nausea which had plagued her was still present—so much so, that she could only manage to keep down ginger biscuits—and her body had taken on a life of its own.
"Ouch," she groused, without thinking, as Bessie buttoned her into her stays. The rigid bodice, which was pressed against her chest, was unusually painful, for her breasts were tender and sore.
"Apologies, your Grace," the maid replied, her eyes dancing as she gave a none too subtle glance to the dresser, where the belt and rags she had left for Katherine the week before still lay.
Katherine sighed; she had not wanted to share with anyone her belief that she might be with child. But while hiding such a thing was relatively easy with Michael, hiding it from another female—especially one as close to her as Bessie—was not.
"Promise me you will not breathe a word to anyone," Katherine beseeched of the maid, feeling suddenly vulnerable. For years, she had thought herself barren and now that she miraculously carried a child within her, she was afraid that she might curse her luck by speaking it aloud.
"Are you?" Bessie whispered, her eyes wide and excited, "I thought you might be, but then I thought perhaps I was wrong, because I thought you could not—"
Bessie clapped her hand over her mouth to halt the stream of consciousness which was bubbling from it. She had rather overstepped the bounds of propriety between mistress and maid, but Katherine could not find it within herself to care. Bessie was as confused as she by the news, having also believed her mistress barren.
"I think that I am," Katherine replied softly, gesturing for the girl to begin helping her in to her petticoats, "But I am not certain. I know that you are a good girl, Bessie, and that you will not tell anyone. For if I am mistaken, I could not bear—I could not bear—"
Katherine was unable to finish the sentence, but understanding gleamed in the young girl's eyes. Bessie, for her young years, seemed to know what Katherine was feeling. She could not tolerate the thought of the servants—or even Michael—feeling sorry for her, or clucking about how foolish she had been to get her hopes up.
"Upon my honour, your Grace," Bessie blessed herself for good measure, "I shall not tell a soul."
"Not even Elsmore," Katherine cautioned.
Her husband had professed an indifference—nay, a complete aversion—to the prospect of siring children. Brats, he had called them. Indeed, whenever she mentioned Caroline's impending arrival, Michael had gone out of his way to declare how much he disliked babies and children.
Katherine's love for her husband knew no bounds, but as she stroked her still flat stomach, she wondered if she would be forced to choose between loving her husband and loving her child.
Once she was dressed, in a charming walking dress of white sarsnet worn under a pink, velvet Spencer jacket, which was cut high at the waist, Katherine set forth with Bessie in tow.
She had spotted the name of the physician she intended to visit amongst the advertisements in the newspapers; a Dr Albert Fitzgerald, who kept rooms in Harley Street.
Mindful of the chattering tongues of servants, Katherine instructed the driver to leave her and Bessie on Bond Street, to give the impression that they were off for a spot of shopping.
"'Tis like something out of a book, your Grace," Bessie giggled, as they traipsed across Cavendish Square.
"I'm probably being silly," Katherine replied, keeping her head down lest someone spotted the Duchess of Elsmore out walking. Ladies of her station did not walk anywhere and if she was spotted, she was certain that the news would reach Michael's ear.
At last, they arrived at the building which housed Dr Fitzgerald. Katherine knocked upon the door, which was promptly answered by a dark-suited young chap, who announced himself as the doctor's assistant.
"This way, your Grace," he said, leading her up a flight of stairs to the doctor's rooms.
The physician was a kindly gentleman, of advanced years, who looked at Katherine over the rim of his spectacles as she told
him her tale.
"You were married to your late husband for how long?" Dr Fitzgerald queried gently.
"Ten years."
"And there were no children born of the union?"
"Not by me," Katherine replied, flushing slightly to have to admit such a thing.
"I see," Dr Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows, "Well, let me take a look at you."
The doctor carried out a quick examination of Katherine, feeling her stomach, before holding an instrument against it, to try and hear a heartbeat.
"It is still very early," he concluded, sitting back down at his desk, "But from what you have told me, and from what I can see, it would seem that you are indeed with child."
"Oh," Katherine could not stop herself from clapping her hands together with glee, but her excitement was short lived as she saw the doctor's grave expression.
"Given that you never conceived with your late husband, who—as you say—had proved himself capable of siring a child, I would advise great caution."
Katherine's heart stilled a little, as fear began to creep over her.
"I would advise you to cease any strenuous activities; walking, riding, your marital duties to your husband. Do not exert yourself at all, where possible, your Grace, for your womb is delicate and inhospitable."
Katherine bristled a little, at the term "inhospitable". She longed to home the child growing within her and would do everything in her power to ensure its safety.
"When can I tell my husband?" she asked, her hand absently going to her belly.
"In a few weeks, when we are more certain," the doctor said, "We wouldn't want to dash his hopes now, would we?"
Katherine nodded, though she thought Fitzgerald's concern for her husband rather misplaced. Michael had no hopes for a child, because he did not want one. She, on the other hand...
Her heart was brimming over with joy as she and Bessie made their way back to Bond Street, to where their carriage was waiting. For years, she had told herself that she did not mind her barren state, but now that life grew within her, she allowed all her hopes and wishes spring forth.
Would it be a boy or a girl she wondered, on the journey home. If it was a girl, she would like to name it for her mother, and if it was a boy, it would only be right to name it for Philip.
Silly thoughts about bassinets and christening gowns filtered through Katherine's mind, as she took a light supper with Michael. Her husband, as attentive as ever, frowned across the table as he noted her silence.
"Are you feeling ill again?" he asked sympathetically, for Katherine had not touched her bouillabaisse.
"No," she spooned some of the delicious broth into her mouth, as proof that she was well, "I am just a little fatigued, that is all."
"Perhaps you should take a nap before we leave for Lady Jersey's?"
Katherine started; she had clear forgot about their invitation to Lady Jersey's ball later that evening. As one of Almack's venerable hostesses, the ball was sure to be a crush, and Katherine instantly worried what the jostling crowd might do to the baby within her. She would be pushed and shoved this way and that, by every manner of drunken lord.
"I think," she said slowly, unable to meet Michael's eye, "That I shall cry off, tonight. You go ahead without me; it would not do for the two of us not to attend."
"I doubt anyone will notice if we both are not there," Michael replied with a smile, "I shall stay at home with you. I can't think of anything better than another night's reading in bed with you."
Fear seized Katherine; Dr Fitzgerald had warned her against undertaking her marital duties—not that Katherine felt they were a duty. How could she explain to Michael that she no longer wished to share her bed, without revealing the truth of her condition.
She eyed him warily, suddenly nervous of him. If she told him of the child, would he be angry? Her first instinct was always to confide in him, but when she was so unsure of his reaction, she found that she could not. She could not bear cold words or insults, not from Michael.
"I rather think a night by myself might be more restful," Katherine yawned theatrically, to try to soften her rejection of his offer. "Honestly, you go out without me."
Michael was not a man who ever wore his heart on his sleeve, but he was unable to conceal the flash of hurt which crossed his face. Katherine tried to quell the guilt she felt, for she was not trying to harm him, she was trying to protect their child.
"I think that I shall retire," she said, placing her spoon down and pushing back her chair. "Goodnight, Michael."
She withdrew from the room without a backward glance to her husband, and as she climbed the stairs, she reflected sadly that the baby within her might cause a return to the distance between she and Michael.
Chapter Twelve
For a man who had been blissfully happy just a few weeks ago, Michael was now a cantankerous wretch. His former contentment was replaced by an irritable awareness that something was missing.
Katherine.
His wife had withdrawn her affections and Michael wondered mulishly if it would have been better had she not granted them to him at all in the first place. For if she had not allowed him in, he would not know what it was he was now missing.
It was not just the sharing of Katherine's bed which he mourned, but the sharing of herself. True intimacy had been something of a revelation to Michael, and now that it was gone, he felt its loss keenly.
He had become too accustomed to soft whispers, tender touches, and gentle love. He had, he realised, become completely reliant upon Katherine for his happiness, and now that she had withdrawn, back behind the gates of her heart, he felt bereft.
Bereft and a little put out.
Had he not done everything within his power to try to make her feel safe, loved and secure? He wracked his brains to think of something that he might have said, or done, to cause such a change in her, but he could think of nothing. The injustice of it rankled, though his rational mind cautioned him against stewing in self pity.
He had known, had he not, just how wounded Katherine was. He had sworn to try to find a way to help her heal, and even if she had returned to her previous state of wariness, he could have hope that this was just a bump in the road. For, because he had broken through her barriers before, he had hope that he might be able to do it again.
His cantankerous disposition did not go unnoticed, especially by those closest to him.
"Is it Lord Bereford's droning that has you in such a state of disquiet, or is something else amiss?" Lord Deverell queried in a whisper.
The two men were in their customary seat in the House of Lords, on one of the benches closest to the back. Their position allowed them to converse quietly, though Michael had merely been mumbling a series of curses under his breath, as Lord Bereford had made his way through his hour long speech.
"There's nothing amiss, except that my backside is numb," Michael replied dourly, "Will this flibbertigibbet ever cease wittering?"
"At some stage, he will have to attend to his bodily functions," Deverell replied, glancing down at the newspaper in his lap, which he had been reading for the duration of Bereford's speech.
Thankfully, Deverell was correct, and the loquacious lord eventually finished speaking.
"White's?" Michael queried as the recess was called, and the members began to stream from the benches towards the doors.
"Not today, I'm afraid," Jack wore a slightly shifty look, "I have an appointment elsewhere."
It was not like Deverell to hold back, quite the opposite in fact, for he was wont to share information one hadn't even asked for. His evasive manner piqued Michael's interest and he raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I don't want to tell you where it is that I am going," Jack mumbled, "For I know that you will just mock me."
"I am your oldest friend," Michael protested, "When have I ever mocked you?"
"Just this morning you told me my waistcoat made me look like a puffed up popinjay," Deverell was obviously still disg
runtled.
"Well, it does," Michael snorted, "I don't know how your valet managed to convince you that yellow was a suitable colour for any male."
"It's medallion," Deverell huffed, though his annoyance was contrived for show. "Though you're right, the more I look at it, the more I think it resembles your oriental carpet that Shufflebotham cast his accounts up upon."
"So, where is it that you're going?" Michael continued, aware that his friend was trying to distract him.
"Can a man have no secrets?" Deverell sighed. "Very well, I am off to the Seven Dials. I have an appointment with a gentleman who claims to be the seventh son of a seventh son."
"Are you going to ask him to try and divine the winners at Ascot?" Michael asked, perplexed by Deverell's plans.
"I hadn't thought of that, I might ask him to give it a go while I'm there—but, I digress. This man is said to have the power to ensure a safe birth for one's wife."
"And how much does invoking this power cost?" Michael queried dryly, giving a low whistle when Deverell divulged the amount.
He tried to check the scorn he instinctively felt for Deverell's plan, for he knew just how nervous his friend was about the baby's impending arrival.
"It's said that he spits on your palm and his magic casts a protective charm over those that you love dear," Deverell continued cheerfully, encouraged by Michael's silence.
"Spits on your palm?" Michael could not restrain himself, "Lud, man. I would do that for free."
"You are not the seventh son of a seventh son, though, are you?" Deverell drew himself up in indignation, "So I thank you kindly for the offer, Elsmore, but I have no wish for you to spit on my palm."
The marquess had raised his voice slightly and Lord Bereford, who was slow to leave the chambers, shook his head in alarm.
"You young men," he tutted, his jowls quivering violently as he shook his head.
Michael and Jack looked at each other for a moment, before they both descended into gales of laughter.
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