by Sharon Page
“No. In battle, there were so many men I couldn’t save. And I couldn’t save our son. But I will take care of you.”
She was about to protest again, but then she did the worst thing possible—she sniffled and sneezed.
* * *
Nigel picked Zoe up into his arms, against her protests, and carried her back toward the house. She felt so light in his arms. She’d lost weight. She had been so slender before; she’d had no weight to lose. It was proof the loss had hurt her, and she did need his protection and care.
The day had been cloudy after rain, and the small amount of sunlight was fading. The dampness in the air shot through his skin. It must be freezing her.
Zoe. Darling Zoe.
He’d dreamed of a good Christmas—his first Christmas with Zoe, looking forward to the birth of their baby. He’d pictured taking her caroling, walking at her side and singing. He’d imagined rolling up his shirtsleeves to help fetch the Yule log. He’d imagined Christmas Eve with the tree twinkling and a roaring blaze in the fireplace and Zoe in his arms. Both of them talking of the things their child would grow to enjoy—the excitement of gifts, crackers, sweets.
This was pain like he had never known. The only way he could survive it was to think of Zoe—to help her, take care of her.
Now when he looked at the tree, the decorations, he felt stabbing grief.
He had been afraid to touch her—she’d looked so ill after the miscarriage. He had been afraid to kiss her, because she had to be so heartbroken. He had wanted to both leave her alone and give her privacy, but also hover over her and give her everything she needed.
He loved holding her in his arms. Cradling her.
She was determined to push herself—she’d told him she had to grasp life to survive grief.
But she wasn’t ready yet. He was sure of it.
“Nigel, I don’t need to be carried right up to my bed,” she argued as they crossed the threshold into the house.
He did not answer. He just took her there. She was his responsibility.
He tucked her into bed in her shift so she could warm up, rang for her maid and summoned tea to be brought to her room, taking leave of her so she could rest. As he reached the foyer, Nigel saw the glitter of the tree, the sparkle of the electric lights on the tinsel garlands. Zoe had orchestrated its decoration—it glowed and sparkled as if it had been made by angels.
Close to him hung one of his favorite ornaments—a sugar mouse of icing sugar and egg white, colored pink, with a yarn tail. He’d loved them as a young boy and he knew his son would have adored them, too.
His heart wrenched so hard in his chest he staggered.
“Nigel, oh, my dear, you look terrible.” The soft voice belonged to his mother. She came forward into the salon.
She looked frail—Zoe had been thin and pale, but he saw now the inner strength that Zoe exuded. Even downtrodden, Zoe fairly sparkled with verve.
“It is very hard, isn’t it?” Mama said.
“Yes.” It came out gruff, choked.
“For Isobel, I had to take great care, Nigel. I had to lie in bed for my last three months with my feet elevated. I was afraid I would lose her. I lost three children. You were away at Eton when those losses happened.” She sighed. “Zoe is so spirited. I wonder if that is what happened.”
“You think Zoe lost the baby because she is spirited? I don’t understand.”
His mother’s sad green eyes gazed at him. “Well, I just mean that Zoe may be one of those women who must take care and do absolutely nothing while she is expecting a child.” Gently, his mother said, “You will try again. For another baby.”
He hadn’t even thought about that. He was wrapped up in the loss. “Yes. Eventually.”
“You must take great care then. To make certain she does not lose another baby.”
He nodded. He would do whatever it took to take care of Zoe.
* * *
The Daimler drove up the driveway and pulled up at the front door. Zoe looked out from a window. Nigel had forbidden her from going outside merely because last evening she had sneezed and he was sure she was too delicate to take any risks.
Nigel was outside to greet her mother, as was his mother and Julia, Bartlet and Mrs. Hall, the housekeeper. Mother rushed out, draped in furs. Annabelle Gifford blew kisses to everyone and embraced Nigel’s mother, then Nigel.
Oh, no, she was not ready for Mother. Tallulah Bankhead had nothing on Mother for theatrics. She didn’t have long before her mother found her, of course.
She was in the morning room, which tradition dictated was not supposed to be used in the afternoon. But Zoe had said, “Damn that,” and she ordered a fire in it every day because she preferred it to the parlor.
Mother burst into the room like a twister. “Zoe! Zoe, my darling, how you have suffered!” Of course, Mother did not stop there. She went on, “The duke must be disappointed.”
Tears welled. If Zoe stayed angry and cool and sarcastic, she didn’t cry. “Disappointed? Mother, it’s broken his heart. It’s broken mine.”
“Well, what you must do is become pregnant again. As quickly as you can.”
“Pregnant again?”
“Yes. Give the duke an heir and he will surely forget this—”
“How can you say that? I can’t replace my son. I can’t erase him either.” Fury and pain swamped her. Zoe grabbed her cigarette case and pulled one out. She lit it with shaking fingers—she rarely smoked. But she wanted to break something, so a cigarette would have to do.
“I didn’t break a vase, Mother, and can’t go and buy another. I don’t want to! And Nigel certainly doesn’t touch me. Unless you can have an audience with God and suggest an immaculate conception, I am not going to have another pregnancy for quite a while. And it’s been only a month. Maybe you think that’s enough time before I plot how I’m going to conceive another heir, but I don’t.”
She spoke coldly, but she hurt inside. Duty. Position. Brinkmanship. She didn’t care about any of that. She wanted a child because she wanted a child. Not a future duke, not insurance for her position, not someone that Mother could show off.
“Zoe, this is coming between you and the duke.”
“Everything is always coming between Nigel and me.” The War. His nightmares. His refusal to tell her anything. His desire to order her around. This loss...
“He doesn’t have any reason to—to blame you, Zoe? You did eat properly, didn’t you? You weren’t trying to stay too thin? You didn’t drink too much? Or behave too wildly?”
“I was being the perfect duchess, Mother. I didn’t do anything wrong.” But she had gone flying, driving. And she had barely eaten for the first three months. Had she done things wrong?
Mother embraced her. “I am not being heartless when I tell you to have another child. Your heart is broken, and there is nothing that helps heal a broken heart as having a child to love.”
“You—you aren’t suggesting it because I’m supposed to produce an heir—because you just want a grandchild to be a duke?” At her mother’s expression, Zoe ached with guilt. “I’m so sorry. That was what I thought. That you were worried about social position—” She broke off. Her throat seemed to be closing shut, filled with tears. “Oh, Mother, I don’t know. I am afraid. What if I try again and the same thing happens?” she asked desperately.
“It won’t, Zoe. Of course it won’t.”
Christmas Day
Callie came into her room with a silver tray—with tea and something that smelled spicy, rich and delicious. “Cook sent up mince pies this morning, Your Grace. She said it was a hearty treat for Christmas.”
“You have it, Callie. I can’t face more than a cup of tea.” Zoe hadn’t thought Christmas Day would hurt so much. It was supposed to be a time of joy—
&nbs
p; But so many people faced it with sorrow in their hearts. And they survived.
Zoe knew she could survive. But she hated the pain.
Callie popped a small mince pie in her mouth—the entire thing. Zoe poured tea, cupped it with both hands and sipped it. Not a ladylike way to drink it. She shivered. “The room is freezing. I should have insisted upon installing central heating as well as the telephone and electric light.”
“This house is dreadful cold, Your Grace,” Callie agreed. “The servants insist that in January I’ll have to crack the ice of your washing basins in the morning. That can’t be true!”
Ice coated her windowpanes, water ran down the inside, and every small movement put her skin in contact with sheets cold despite her body’s warmth.
This was one of the reasons she wanted to share a bed. She should be waking on Christmas morning curled up in a bed made warm by Nigel.
She closed her eyes and thought of doing that, with a baby still inside her, with his hand caressing the bump of the baby beneath her nightdress.
God, it hurt.
“I suspect it is true, Callie.” She finished her tea, slipped out of the chilly bed. The cold of the floor seeped into her feet even though she stood on a rug. But she suspected most of the cold she felt was on the inside.
She dressed quickly in a skirt and long-sleeved blouse, slipped on a cardigan and went downstairs.
Nigel was there, in front of the Christmas tree. They had no houseguests besides Mother—Nigel had insisted that no additional relatives or friends come while she was recovering. He stood immediately.
She wished she could run to him and kiss him.
“Good morning,” he said, very stiffly.
“Merry Christmas, Nigel.” Her greeting sounded just as awkward.
“Merry Christmas, Zoe.”
“I wanted—I so wanted to be thinking of a future with a child today,” she whispered. “A child who would be so excited by Christmas—”
“Zoe, don’t. Please. We should not do this today—not today of all days.”
She needed to talk about it—it was like a live thing inside her, this pain. He looked haunted and vulnerable. She smiled at him. It was a forced smile, but she tried. “After breakfast, we exchange gifts, I think. That’s what Julia told me. I have the perfect gift for you, you know.”
Good Lord, Nigel’s eyes looked haunted.
“If you didn’t get a gift for me, it doesn’t matter,” she said lightly. “You look so worried. But I am just so excited for you to see what I got you.”
“Zoe—I am sorry. This is not going to be a very happy Christmas for you. I cannot do that—I cannot forget about the loss. I cannot grasp this day as you can.”
“Try,” she said. “We can’t change things.” She wanted to speak to him of having another child. Mother was right—she did have room in her heart to share grief and joy.
But she knew she had to wait. He looked as if pain was strangling him.
“Merry Christmas, my darling,” a voice gushed, and the scent of gardenias whirled around both her and Nigel.
It was Mother. Mother put a small amount of food on her plate and secured a chair beside Nigel. Mother wore a slim-fitting long skirt of satin and an intricate velvet top, along with jewels around her neck. She wished Nigel a merry Christmas, then said to him, “The best tonic for your sorrow would be to bring joy into your life. You must try for another.”
Zoe gaped. “Mother!”
“This is what I must do? Thank you, Mrs. Gifford, for giving me so painful a direct order.” With that, Nigel stood, bowed and left.
“Mother.” Zoe glared. “Don’t push him.”
But watching him go, she realized she did want another baby. His baby. She wanted one dearly. Intensely. Just like the way she wanted to fly—it was a yearning in her soul.
She had to make Nigel see it was what they needed to do.
After breakfast, the family grouped in the drawing room: herself and Nigel; the dowager; Nigel’s mother, Maria; Julia; and Isobel. The huge Yule log burned in the enormous fireplace. Zoe was about to suggest they open presents—anything so she wouldn’t think about Nigel’s sorrow and their loss.
But the dowager set down her tea. With a sigh. “This is the first Christmas I have ever had without Sebastian. Of course, I had four without you, Nigel, but you were at war.”
Oh, golly, she didn’t want him to think about the War today. “Let’s open gifts,” Zoe declared. She grasped one from under the tree. It was Nigel’s gift from her. She handed it to him and watched as he opened it. He lifted the leather flying helmet, then the goggles.
“There’s more,” she said.
He lifted up a photograph and frowned at it. “It’s a picture of an aeroplane.”
Zoe met his blue gaze. “I’m going to buy you that airplane and teach you how to fly.”
“No, you are not,” Nigel said shortly. “You are supposed to take care of yourself.”
“I have done. Now I am ready to do things again.”
“I forbid it.”
Zoe’s stomach felt as if it had dropped away. Julia, his mother, his grandmother and Mother stared back and forth between them.
“Flying again would make me happy.”
“The thought of you flying does not make me happy, Zoe.” He looked at her, and the autocratic expression vanished. His eyes softened. “Please.”
She feared he would do this every time she wished to do something. But her heart lurched at the look in his eyes. It was love. Despite their loss, he still did love her. “All right.”
“Open your gift,” he said.
He gave her a slim gold-covered box. She opened it. A necklace of sapphires glittered. “I had no idea what to get you,” he said awkwardly. “My jeweler suggested this piece.”
“It’s lovely.” But if he didn’t know, why hadn’t he asked her? The necklace was beautiful, she had to admit. He’d wanted to surprise her and it was very sweet.
Mother came over to her side and gushed, of course.
But she would have wanted something he’d thought over himself. Had he not been able to do that because he was so filled with pain?
She wanted to feel close to him again—like the time they’d danced to the gramophone, the wonderful times when they’d made love. She knew now what she truly wanted for Christmas—
The rest of the presents were torn open in a flurry. Zoe had bought Isobel a book on anatomy. The dowager took one look and had to be restored with sherry. She’d got the dowager a diamond brooch of an owl, for the dowager reminded her of an owl, sitting erect on a branch, blinking, turning its head around to watch. The dowager had bought her silk handkerchiefs and a tweed suit with a much longer skirt. Zoe held it up. “It will be perfect when I’ve had it shortened a few inches,” she said teasingly.
She had bought her mother-in-law perfume, sent from Paris. The room was strewn with bright colored paper and ribbon—
A child would love to play in it all.
Then two footmen entered, carrying a miniature house on a board. The house looked like a country cottage with tiny windows and an open door. Figures represented a village scene. There was a small pond with ice-skaters that were barely taller than her thumbnail.
“It’s a snow house,” Julia said. “It’s one of our traditions. Nigel, why don’t you tell Zoe what it is?”
“It’s a cardboard house, filled with silly little gifts and made to look as if it’s covered in snow.”
Nigel took the roof off the house. Zoe reached in and drew out a small silver charm of a pixie. She had to swallow tears.
Nigel pulled out a kazoo and Zoe insisted he try to play a tune. That made everyone laugh.
She touched his hand and he didn’t pull away. They shared a look, a poignan
t one.
She needed this. To touch him.
Later in the afternoon, Dr. Drury and Reverend and Mrs. Wesley arrived. To Nigel, she whispered, “I heard it was tradition and I didn’t want them to be hurt or think I’d snubbed them. So I extended invitations.”
“I had said no guests.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you discuss it with me?”
“What would you have said? A flat-out no?”
Footmen came in then, so Nigel couldn’t argue more. On silver trays sat small, hot sausage rolls. Glasses of sherry were served and everyone toasted Christmas.
Zoe lifted her glass to her lips just as the gong summoned them to the dining room. Nigel led her in, without saying a word. She smiled—a wobbly smile—at the sight of the table. Candles stood in a display of holly as the centerpiece. Christmas crackers—tubes of colored crepe paper—sat by every place.
Zoe pulled crackers with Reverend Wesley, and she put on her paper hat. Nigel set his beside his plate. Then the dishes came out: a first course of smoked salmon, followed by parsnip soup. Then turkeys—three of them—expertly carved, beautifully browned. Chestnut stuffing spilled out. Potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, baked parsnips, gravy.
Finally a Christmas pudding came out, flaming, with a sprig of holly upon it.
Exhausted and full, everyone else went to bed early. Zoe caught Nigel in the foyer. He stood by the tree, illuminated by the twinkling electric lights. He held an ornament of a tiny angel, stroking it thoughtfully with his thumb.
Their little angel...now in heaven...
The sherry and the wine at dinner made it much easier to walk right up to him and say, “Nigel. You’ve kept away from my bedroom because of...because of the bleeding. But I believe it is finally done. It has been a few days. Please come back to my bed. At night, I feel so alone.”
He let go of the angel and it swung slightly on its gold cord. “If it has been only a month, I do not think we should.”
“Oh, why not? We could think of having another child. I would like that. Perhaps my mother is right. Some of this pain would go away if we have another child to love.”