It was right. It was beautiful. It was meant to be. I felt no shame. I knew that the world would consider me an amoral woman. I knew that I was going against all my moral training, all my religious convictions, but they meant nothing in the face of my love for Jeffrey Mowrey. I loved him with a rapturous intensity that filled my very soul with shimmering, magical beauty, and Jeffrey loved me, too. It would have to end, I realized that. I realized he would eventually have to abandon me, would eventually marry someone like Lucinda Carrington and take his proper place in society, but I was heedless of the future. There would be pain. There would be heartbreak. I was still sensible enough to know that, but this marvelous now was all that mattered. The future would take care of itself.
And so the weeks passed, weeks of unbelievable beauty, each day filled with delicious anticipation, each night swollen with bliss, and it grew cooler outside and the skies turned a slate gray, filled with threatening clouds that never seemed to disappear. The wind howled across the moors, whistling around the corners of the house, and below the cliff waves slashed angrily against the rocks. The cold outside merely intensified the warmth within and somehow seemed to augment the secret joy that filled my heart.
And then the morning came when I was in the nursery with Douglas, trying to get him to concentrate on his geography. I felt a bit tired, a bit queasy, but I had had very little sleep the night before and I had foolishly eaten kipper for breakfast. Douglas refused to pay attention to the map spread out on the table before us. He wanted to hear about cannibals.
“Do they really eat Englishmen?” he asked eagerly.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Douglas. Pay attention.”
“They do. I know all about it. They put ’em in big pots and sprinkle ’em with salt and pepper and then light the fire. They wear beads and colored feathers and dance around the pot waving spears.”
“I don’t know who has been telling you such tales, but I’m sure they’re highly exaggerated. This part over here, the section colored pink, is called Egypt. Many great pharoahs built their—”
“There’re lions, too!” he interrupted, paying not the slightest attention to the map. “They always eat Englishmen, gobble ’em right up and crunch on their bones—”
He cut himself short, staring at me with wide gray eyes full of frightened concern. I gasped, trying to control the wave of nausea that swept over me, and I knew my face must have been the color of chalk. My knees seemed to go weak. I gripped the edge of the table, certain I would have fallen had I been on my feet.
“Is—is somethin’ wrong, Honora?” he asked in an anxious voice. “You look real—real funny.”
“Something,” I corrected. My own voice was sharp. “How many times have I told you about those final ‘g’s,’ Douglas? Now I—I want you to take this uncolored map here and take this box of colors and—”
I closed my eyes, unable to continue. Everything seemed to go black, and when I opened my eyes Douglas was standing beside me, stroking my cheek, those beautiful gray eyes welling with tears.
“I’ll go get Mrs. Rawson,” he said.
“No. No, don’t do that. I’ll be all right in—in just a few minutes. I need—I just need a breath of fresh air. You stay here and color the map, Douglas. I’ll take a quick turn in the garden and be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” he insisted.
I shook my head and stood up, my legs unsteady. I wondered if I would be able to walk. Douglas held on to my skirt, peering up at me with a large tear spilling down his cheek. I patted that unruly blond hair and tried to smile a reassuring smile.
“It’s that wretched kipper I had for breakfast,” I told him. “I’ll be perfectly all right as soon as I’ve had some fresh air.”
“I could use some fresh air myself. We could get some together.”
“No more nonsense, Douglas! Color your map.”
He turned sulky then and slouched back into his chair and reached for the box of colors. I left the room and somehow made it down the back stairs and into the wide back hall. I paused there, leaning against the wall and staring at the row of windows that looked out over the back lawn. My knees were still weak. My palms were damp. My heart was palpitating now, and I could feel panic spreading. How long? How long had it been? Immersed in my love, going through each day in a kind of blissful trance, I had paid no attention to that monthly cycle.
Straightening my shoulders, bracing myself, I moved across the hall and stepped outside. It was cool, much too cool to be out without a cloak, but I barely noticed the chill. Folding my arms around my waist, I walked slowly over the lawn. The wind whipped my skirts and lifted my hair, strands of it blowing across my cheeks. It had been six weeks, at least six weeks. I tried desperately to remember. Not this month. Last month? I seemed to recall being late and paying it no mind. Walking beneath the sodden gray skies, I was certain now: I was going to have Jeffrey’s child.
The wind rattled the leaves of the vines still clinging to the trellises. I stopped beside one of them, drawing my arms more tightly about my waist as if to protect the life already growing inside me, and the beautiful dream evaporated—shimmering, softly diffused colors torn and tattered by the cold wind of reality. Jeffrey’s child, a new life created by the two of us, the product of our love … and to the world, a bastard, the product of a shameful, illicit liaison, a child to be pointed at and mocked, a child forced to go through life carrying a dreadful stigma.
Jeffrey would try to do the right thing, to make some kind of arrangement, but the secret would out and his future would be destroyed. Lord Robert would turn on him viciously. The society to which he belonged would laugh at him behind his back and derive much amusement from his little folly, and doors would be closed to him. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t. I stood beside the trellis and shivered, and the panic continued to grow.
I saw Mrs. Rawson approaching, moving rapidly across the lawn with garnet skirts flapping and girlish gray curls bouncing madly. The wind caught her white lace cap and ripped it off and sent it sailing away, but she paid no heed to it. Her plump face was creased with concern, her eyes full of alarm, and she was puffing as she hurried toward me. I seemed to see her through a haze. She might have been an apparition. Out of breath, cheeks flushed, she reached me and drew me into her arms and hugged me tightly, knowing already, comforting me with her strength and warmth and goodness. For several moments she rocked me in her arms, and then she released me and studied my face with troubled, anxious eyes.
“It’s going to be all right, luv. It’s going to be all right.”
“No. No. It’s—”
“Now, now, luv, don’t fret. Don’t fret. It ain’t the end of the world. Here, let’s go back inside. You’re freezin’. I happened to be glancin’ out th’ window and I saw you walkin’ out here, saw th’ look on your face, an’ then Dougie came runnin’ downstairs an’ told me you were sick.”
“I—I must get back to the nursery—”
“Dougie’s with Mary, luv. She’s givin’ him milk an’ cookies, and they’re goin’ to color maps or somethin’ together. You don’t worry about him.”
“He’s my responsibility. Lord Robert—”
“Lord Bobbie an’ Master Jeffrey are both at the factory and are likely to be there most of th’ day. No one’s goin’ to accuse you of neglectin’ your responsibility. Come along now, luv. No arguin’.”
She took my hand and squeezed it tightly and led me back inside the house, making clucking, comforting noises as we climbed the back stairs. I moved as though in a stupor. The nausea had passed now. The palpitations were gone, too, but the panic remained. Mrs. Rawson took me into her cozy sitting room and cleared merry clutter from the sofa and helped me sit down. I looked about me in a kind of bewilderment, not really certain where I was, and the wonderful old housekeeper shook her head and fussed over me and left the room for a few minutes, returning with a clattering tray.
“Here now, a cuppa tea’s what you need,
luv. A cuppa tea always helps. Just settle back. Let me arrange those pillows. There. I’m going to light the fire and then we’re goin’ to have our tea and everything’ll look better, you’ll see.”
She put another log in the fireplace and fumbled around with poker and bellows and soon a small fire was crackling merrily. She straightened up and sighed and arched her back and then poured the tea, handing me a cup. I took it and gazed at it as though I had never seen a cup of tea before. Mrs. Rawson patted my shoulder and settled down in the overstuffed chair facing the sofa.
“Drink it, luv. Do as I say.”
I drank the tea. It did indeed seem to help. The chill left me, and some of the numbness disappeared. A lump formed in my throat. A tremulous feeling welled up inside, growing stronger and stronger until I was trembling violently. Mrs. Rawson jumped up and took my arms and held them tightly. The tears came, and she gathered me to her as I sobbed. Several minutes passed before I was able to control myself. I dabbed at my eyes with the handkerchief she handed me. I drank another cup of tea, the cup clattering in the saucer as I set it down.
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give way like that. I—”
“I understand, luv. Besides, a nice good cry’s good for you.”
“I love him, Mrs. Rawson.”
“’Course you do, luv. An’ he loves you, too. I seen it at once. I know, luv. I know all about it. Who do-ya think’s been changin’ them bedclothes in the east wing? Who do you think’s been settin’ out fresh candles and keepin’ things tidy?”
“I—I never thought about it.”
“Nor did Master Jeffrey. Folks in love don’t bother with such details. Room’ud be in quite a mess if I hadn’t been tendin’ to things, wudn’t it? I guess I should know about such matters, luv. Lord knows I’ve been in a lotta rooms in my day.”
“I—I think I’m—” I paused, each word an effort.
“You’re in an interestin’ condition, luv. Ain’t much question about it. I know the signs. I also take care of your underthings, and there ain’t been a speck-a red in over two months.”
“Two months?”
“Give or take a week or so. Master Jeffrey’s an angel and I’d walk over hot coals for him any day, but I could wring his neck for not takin’ necessary precautions. He knows about them little sheaths, all right. I found a packet of ’em in his room years ago. There’s other ways, too. Kinda clumsy and uncomfortable pullin’ it out just then, but—” She shrugged and poured herself another cup of tea. “What’s done is done.”
“I can’t have this child,” I said quietly.
“Dudn’t look like you’ve got much choice, luv.”
“He loves me, but I—I know he could never marry me. I’m a governess. He’s an aristocrat. It—it would ruin his life. I don’t want to—to cause him any trouble.”
“Bound to be trouble of some kind, luv. It ain’t likely he’ll marry you, I admit, but Master Jeffrey’s got honor. He’ll see that right’s done, that’s the kind of man he is.”
“But—”
“You ain’t the first humble lass carryin’ an aristocrat’s bairn, luv, an’ you won’t be the last, I fancy. A lot of men, they’d turn a lass out in the cold, wash their hands of her, but not Master Jeffrey. He’ll find a place for you to stay where no one knows you, see that you get th’ proper care, give you enough money for you and the bairn to—”
“He mustn’t know,” I said.
“He’s gotta know,” she protested.
“There—there must be another way. I’ve heard of women who—” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Some women manage to—they go for bumpy carriage rides and take hot baths and—and mix some kind of powder in their drink. I understand there are midwives who—who aren’t really mid-wives at all, who know how to—”
“You ain’t talkin’ sense, luv,” she said gently. “You’re upset, rightly so, but you ain’t thinkin’ properly. Them things you’re talkin’ about are dangerous, mighty dangerous.”
“You’ve got to help me, Mrs. Rawson.”
“’Course I’ll help you. ’Course I will, luv.”
“I don’t want him to know. He’ll—I don’t want him to worry.”
“I can understand that. You really do love him, I reckon. I reckon you love him like they love in one of them books. Never loved like that myself, always took it a bit more lightly. Easier on the heart that way.”
“Do you know one of—one of those midwives, Mrs. Rawson?”
“There’s Granny Cookson. She lives in a cottage on the other side of the village. Folks say she’s a witch—wouldn’t know myself. She’s always dryin’ herbs an’ brewin’ potions, has a cat, too. I’ve heard tell of lasses who went to her for a bit of help.”
“Could you get in touch with her for me?”
Mrs. Rawson frowned. Her eyes were dark with worry, and her small red lips were pursed as she toyed with the hem of her apron, silent, thinking about my question. After a few moments she sighed and climbed wearily to her feet, still lost in thought. I got up, too, stronger now, the panic replaced by a hard, tight knot inside. Mrs. Rawson sighed again and looked at me with brow still creased.
“Are you all right now?” she asked.
“I think so. I—I’d better get back to Douglas.”
The plump housekeeper studied me with those worried eyes, and then she took my hand and patted it.
“You got a bit of color back in your cheeks now. Don’t look so peaked. Tea did that, I reckon. You go back to the nursery, luv, and try not to worry. Everything’s goin’ to be all right.”
“You—you’ll help?”
“I’ll do what I can, luv. I promise.”
She gave me a hug, and I clung to her for a moment, holding her tightly and fighting back the tears that threatened to reappear. Mrs. Rawson shook her head and clacked her tongue and gently unloosened my arms. She gave me a smile and pointed me toward the door, and I started back to the nursery, still shaken but much calmer than before. I had no idea what was going to happen, but of one thing I was certain—Jeffrey wasn’t going to be hurt. I was not going to let this destroy his future. I loved him far too much to let that happen.
9
The gray had gone, at least temporarily, and this afternoon the sky was a pure pale blue washed with silver sunlight and stretching overhead like a translucent canopy. It was warmer, too, and I wore no cloak over my faded pink cotton frock, a simple, once lovely garment that was not too snug at bosom and waist. The full, carefully mended skirt billowed up over my petticoats as I moved slowly down the narrow, rocky slope that led to the beach below. The ocean surged mightily, restless, relentless, splattering with great foamy spumes against the jagged black rocks. There was a misty violet line on the horizon, and in the sunlight the constantly shifting water must have been a dozen different shades of blue, one melting into another. Gulls circled overhead, squawking loudly as I made my way down the treacherous slope.
I had begun going for long walks every day this past week while Douglas took his afternoon nap, hoping the walks would help combat the terrible depression that had settled over me ever since I had discovered I was with child. I had walked to the outskirts of the village, had explored all the surrounding countryside, and once I had crossed the moors and climbed the sloping hillside to wander through the Roman ruins, remembering, tears in my eyes as I touched the crumbling gray stones of the ruin where Jeffrey and I had retreated from the storm, where, in all likelihood, this child inside me had been conceived. That had been a very bad afternoon indeed, yet I had lingered among the ruins, reliving that first splendor, unable to regret a moment of it even though it had led to my present grief. The walks helped, for I found that if I was very tired I could better conceal my depression when I met Jeffrey in the east wing.
I had never climbed down the cliff before, had never walked along the rocky beach, and as I made my way down the slope I paused, staring down at the great black rocks that rose from the beach like missha
pen, prehistoric creatures awash with sprays of foam. Mrs. Rawson had made no reference to our conversation in her sitting room, had carefully skirted the subject whenever I met her. Was she going to help? Was she going to make an arrangement with Granny Cookson? Day after day I waited, and the housekeeper was bright and cheery and kept assuring me that everything was going to be fine, luv, now don’t you worry. I knew that she disapproved of the idea of my going to see the witch, and I was leery of it myself, but what else was I to do?
As I stood there halfway up the slope, as the waves crashed, as the gulls circled against the pale blue sky like swirling scraps of white paper, my depression seemed to come to a head, and everything was gray, gray, bleaker by the second. The mental anguish became unbearable, and I stared down at the rocks, thinking how easy it would be to hurl myself down. One single step, one moment of shattering pain, and it would all be over, the anguish, the uncertainty. It would be deemed an accident, and Jeffrey would undoubtedly grieve, but he would be spared another kind of grief. The idea took terrible hold of me as though it were a living thing, urging me, beckoning me, compelling me to take that single step. For several moments I stood in a trance, longing to obey that diabolical summons, and then there was a tiny movement inside me, a sharp, distinct jab in my womb.
I fell back against the rocky wall, closing my eyes, panting. Already the child was a part of me, so much a part that it seemed able to read my thoughts, to protest vehemently, and I knew that I could never, never take that step, could never destroy this life within me. Now, as I brushed my hand across my brow and tried to control my breathing, I was filled with a horrible repulsion at the mere idea. I opened my eyes and gazed at the sky, and by degrees the depression lifted, replaced at once by a new strength and resolution.
I moved on down the slope, carefully now, each step cautious, relieved when I finally reached the bottom. I walked past the gigantic rocks and was soon on a smooth stretch of beach, the cliff looming up at my right, the blue, blue ocean to my left. Waves swooshed over the sand, leaving foamy trails behind as they receded. The sunlight seemed to take on a new brilliance, spangling the water with glittering sunbursts, and the salty air was invigorating, blowing away the last gray vestiges of that terrible depression.
Once More, Miranda Page 10