by Anna Small
The doctor shook his head slightly at her but looked interested when the patient lifted his head. After a long moment, he nodded. She pulled up a chair beside him and resumed stroking his grimy hand, the unwashed skin like dry paper beneath her fingers.
“How did you lose your leg?”
“My cart had an upset. I was pinned.” He stared at her intently. “When I woke up, the doctor told me he had to take it.” Two large, glistening tears slipped down his hollow cheeks, darkening his unshaven face in matching trails. “They don’t believe me,” his voice dropped to a whisper for Jane’s ears only, “but I still feel it.” He looked scared, as if she would think him insane. She nodded encouragingly. He took an unsteady breath, his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. “I can feel it sometimes. It hurts.” He looked at the doctor, almost defiantly. “It’s there, sir. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there.”
“Those feelings are very real.” Jane squeezed his hand. “But they will gradually go away, lessen a bit.”
“How do you know?” His gaze flickered at her form, taking in both sets of her limbs.
“My…my husband lost his hand in the war.” She kept her tone soft. A sudden, sharp image of Frederick, writhing in unconscious agony, came to her mind. She choked back a sob, startling the doctor and Mrs. Wilson, but Joseph gave her an encouraging nod. “He feels it, too. Sometimes it hurts, very badly, and sometimes, he imagines it is still a part of him. He feels his fingers—his fingernails—everything.”
“How does he cope?” Joseph asked.
“He takes laudanum. And spirits, too, I’m afraid.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, surprised to feel her cheek damp with tears. “He used it to dull the pain, but it didn’t help.”
“What does help?” His eyes strained in the firelight to see her clearly.
Mrs. Wilson stood beside her, wringing her hands in her apron. Jane took the woman’s hand and placed it gently over her husband’s.
“Time, and…love.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jane found her mother in the kitchen garden, a basket tucked over one arm, into which she dropped various sprigs of aromatic herbs. “Come to help me, have you?” she asked, her voice brisk. She handed Jane a pair of shears. “My back aches from stooping. You cut, and I’ll hold the basket.”
Jane worked beside her, grateful there was no need for conversation. Her mother had been silent on the subject of Frederick, which, at first, had struck Jane as curious, but she was relieved not to dwell on the past. She could barely breathe from the constant ache in her chest, but the anticipation of her baby’s arrival took up the majority of her thoughts.
“Trevor! Mind the honeybee, or he’ll sting you good and proper.”
Jane caught the cook’s little grandson before he tumbled to the ground, his legs tangled in some trailing ivy. As she freed him, she caught a whiff of raspberries on his breath and held his plump hand a moment longer than she needed to. He pulled away and skipped toward a more interesting patch of raspberries, which he immediately tucked into with great relish.
A rare smile touched Jane’s lips, and for the first time since arriving in Hartleigh two weeks before, she did not frown it away. Mamma noticed and nudged her arm.
“Do not hope for a boy, Jane. Boys are a handful. I was blessed with all girls.”
Even with the passing of so many years, Mamma carefully avoided looking at the ivy-covered grave of her only son, who’d died in infancy. Instinctively, Jane pressed a light hand to her middle, her fingers working the fabric of her dress. The thrumming movements had increased of late, especially at night, when she lay awake, wide-eyed and staring at the moon outside her window.
“I wonder if it’s a boy or girl,” she said, her voice so quiet Mamma leaned closer. Her mother squeezed her hand.
“You will find out soon enough.” She straightened and regarded Jane with an almost amused look. “Fancy you turning out to be the stubborn one.” She shook her head slowly, a smile broadening her face. “I am proud of you, Jane.”
Jane had to prevent her jaw from dropping open. “You are proud of me?”
She nodded. “I sent you away in hopes you’d spread your wings a little—not be so prim and fussy.” She laughed, though her humor quickly faded. “I wanted you to be more like Amelia and Rosalind. Enjoying balls and having fun. I never wanted you to be so serious, though your father will indulge all of his daughters’ whims and provide books instead of ribbons and dancing lessons.”
Jane waited for her mother to continue, fascinated with their conversation. It was perhaps the most they had ever spoken to each other. Mamma fanned her face with a bunch of basil, their cool green scent floating on the air.
“You spread your wings, all right. You caught yourself a husband.” She patted Jane’s cheek. “I don’t care what happened between you and…and the colonel, Jane. But I do know you will be all right, whatever happens.”
She turned away abruptly, calling to Trevor to watch his step before he tumbled headfirst into a hole the gardener had dug. Jane wanted to thank her for saying what she had, but Mamma had effectively ended the conversation. Her heart a little lighter, Jane knelt to pick some sweet woodruff for her father’s tea.
His boots were suddenly in front of her, and she smiled up at him. Her smile faded at his stricken look. He clutched a letter and held it out to her wordlessly. Frozen, although she knew not why she should be terrified, she waited for her mother, who hurried over.
“What is it, Mr. Brooke? What has made you hold your tongue?” Her hands flew to her mouth, and she gasped from between her fingers. “Is it Amelia? Has Amelia…?”
“No, no, my dear,” he said quickly. “The girls are all well. It’s about…Colonel Blakeney.”
Since she’d come home, her parents had referred to Frederick with his old army rank. As if saying his lordship was too painful a reminder of the life Jane had lost.
“Mr. Shelbourne sends distressing news from London.” His voice cracked, and he gave a half-turn away from her, shielding his eyes with one hand.
A low roaring sound filled Jane’s ears. Frederick was dead. He had died alone, of a terrible illness, and she had not been there. Her knees buckled, and her mother pulled her into her arms. She felt her hands on her head and back, but there was no comfort to be found. It was as if she had ceased to exist, that the sun on her face a moment ago had vanished forever.
“Good heavens, Mr. Brooke,” Mamma whispered fiercely. “Loosen your tongue. What is the news? Will you wait until a tree grows beneath your feet and leaves sprout from your ears?”
His arms shaking, he held the paper between both hands, as if it would fly away on the next breath of wind. “He’s gone and married another.”
“Who has married another? What are you talking about?”
Jane closed her eyes, lulled by the rapid rise and fall of her mother’s bosom. Her spirit seemed to abandon her body and hover over the garden. She was aware of the overbearing sweetness of her mother’s sachet and the buzz of bees near the raspberries. She imagined she was walking through a field of flowers, trailing her fingers above the puffy heads of mustard and Queen Anne’s lace, while the sun beat down on her head.
Her father cleared his throat before reading from the letter. “‘F. Blakeney married Alice, the dowager Countess of Falconbury, two weeks ago.’”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jane sat on the bank of the pond, throwing pieces of stale bread at the ducks in a haphazard manner. Three ducks swam away, and a sense of loss and misery overcame her. She swiped a tear off her grimy cheek and stared at the smudge left behind on her fingers.
Had she bathed the day before? She was too tired to think. She leaned her head forward onto her bent knees, her long hair falling freely into her face. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed it. Mamma had offered to help but had given up when Jane ordered her away.
Two weeks had passed since her brother-in-law’s letter came. Rosa
lind had written a tear-streaked letter to Jane, but she hadn’t read it. There had been no contact from Frederick, save a trunk of her clothes and other possessions, which had arrived without a message or letter of any kind. She hadn’t even bothered to open it, afraid the sight of her wedding clothes, items he had personally chosen for her, would bring on another fit of exhausting tears. The housemaid had discreetly moved it into a closet at her mother’s insistence. She half expected a letter from his solicitor notifying her of the dissolution of their marriage, but nothing was forthcoming.
Doctor Adams had visited, but she had refused to see him. She’d heard her father’s and the doctor’s low voices downstairs but took no interest in anything they had to say.
She covered her dry eyes with the ends of her shawl. She’d cried so much the past few days she had no tears left. Deep inside her foggy mind lay the idea she had to rouse herself from her melancholia.
Another life depended on her.
Her baby moved within her, the merest butterfly kicks and bubbles deep inside her belly that announced his or her presence. Already, her breasts had swelled. Her limbs were heavy, and it was hard to get out of bed in the morning, but she did it because she must. Just as she ate at meals and put one foot before the other when she walked downstairs, although it took all her strength and force of will to do so.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind her. With a heavy sigh, her father sat beside her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. She looked up briefly, knowing he studied her to gauge the depth of her misery. His already lined face looked older from the recent stress in their lives. A twinge of guilt flattened her sensitive nerves.
It was her fault. All of it. Frederick’s leaving, her parents’ sick looks of worry…
She swallowed a painful lump of silent sobs lodged deeply in her throat. Her father indicated the pond with a nod.
“How many ducklings are left?”
Her lip trembled, but she steadied it, grateful he could discuss something as mundane as ducks. “Five. The fox must’ve taken another one last night.” It was the most she’d spoken in a week.
He shook his head. “Cursed creature! But it is only nature.” They sat in silence for a moment, and he squeezed her arm again. “Lady Simpson invited us to tea tomorrow. You always liked her. Perhaps we can ride over there.”
His voice rose in an encouraging tone, but she couldn’t match his enthusiasm.
“I don’t think so, Papa,” she murmured. The mother duck pushed her babies along, settling them in their nest of reeds. One got away, and the mother squawked at it until it returned.
“That Mr. Wilson you helped a few weeks ago—he sent a basket of eggs and a note.” He continued as if she hung on his words. “Very polite and thankful for your help. He is getting about, he says, and it’s because of you.”
“How kind.” The ducks disappeared behind the thick curtain of green rushes, and the pond was still.
“You need to get away from here, my dear. Find some…amusement.” He cleared his throat, and the pressure of his arm around her shoulders increased. “Besides, you need to keep up your strength, and your spirits.”
“What for?” But she already knew what for. Her baby was the only reason she opened her eyes in the morning.
“You must get on with life, my girl. Read some new books—and not those stuffy biographies of the saints, but poetry and novels. Play the pianoforte again. Rosalind sent that lovely one for you last week, and you’ve not so much as looked at it.”
The sudden appearance of the shining new Broadwood had taken them all by surprise. It had arrived without a note, but it could have been lost. She hadn’t bothered with it, despite her mother’s pleas.
Her eyes stung with fresh tears at her sister’s kind act. “I don’t…” She shook her head and tears slid down her face, vanishing into her shawl. “I don’t want to play anymore. I can’t…”
“Nonsense. You will, and you must. I’ve watched you waste away these past few weeks. I won’t let you give up. Mamma, bless her, refuses to let you give up. You’ve just got to face the facts, Jane.”
“What facts?”
“He is…he is not coming back,” her father whispered, clasping her tightly while she sobbed uncontrollably on his shoulder.
She pressed her face against the rough wool coat that smelled of old pipe smoke and freshly turned earth. How many times had his calm, sensible manner and practical advice helped her and her sisters as they encountered one defeat after another, whether in love or at play? She should listen to him now, especially now, but every instinct within her rebelled. She gave in to her grief, relieved at last to share her deepest emotions with the parent who knew her best.
“I thought he loved me.”
“I know.” He cleared his throat. “We must send word to him about the baby, Jane. I’m sure if he knew…”
He shook his head again, his mouth tightening against an unspoken stream of words she thought he wanted to say but wouldn’t. Papa had never lost his temper in front of his daughters, and he meant to keep it that way.
“He can at least provide for you and the little one. He can’t be all heartless, the blackguard…”
“Oh no, Papa! The blame rests entirely on me. Frederick did nothing to destroy our marriage. Promise you won’t hate him.” She wiped away the last of her tears. “And promise you won’t write and tell him about…about the baby. I do not want his pity.”
“His pity? Dear child, you are carrying his heir. Surely, that must mean…”
“It will mean nothing to him, Papa. He doesn’t want…”
Susanna’s flirtatious smile and shining hair, like spun gold, filled her mind. But he had protested Susanna was not his mistress. He must have loved Alice all along, to marry her so suddenly. But why would he not have married Susanna? Unless Alice’s scheming went even deeper than she could have possibly imagined.
“He does not want my child, Papa. He mustn’t know. Please, promise me you will not send word to him. I will sell my ring.” The band was cool on her finger. She’d never removed it, not even when the hideous news of his marriage had arrived. She gulped hard. “I do not want us to be burdens on you.”
“It is not about the money.” He picked up her hand, and they both stared at her ring. Sunlight reflected brilliantly off the diamond’s many facets, dazzling her. “We have enough to support you, so you need never worry again. I just think if he knew…”
“He will not take me back, Papa. I did…” She had to face the shameful truth eventually. “I did a horrible thing, Papa. He will not want me back. You mustn’t tell him.” She drew a breath and composed herself. “And don’t tell my sisters. Not just yet.” Her father’s brow furrowed deeply, making him look ten years older. She forced a smile, knowing from his startled look it was too much. “Tomorrow, we can visit Lady Simpson.”
Her father pinched her cheek out of habit. It was something he’d done while she was a little girl, and, for the first time in weeks, the possibility she just might survive revealed itself.
“I’ll send word for her to expect us.” He pushed to his feet and extended his hand to her. She took it, rising on wobbly legs, her father’s hand strong around hers. “And, if you like, I will walk with you to this Joseph Wilson’s house. He sounded eager to see you.”
She took a deep breath. The scent of roses lingered in the air. A little bit of her mood began to lift. Life would go on.
And so must she.
Her father kissed her on the forehead, relieved her tears had ceased. “It will be all right, Jane,” he said. “Life always has a funny way of working out.”
Her mother waited for them at the house, her hands twisting in her apron. Her father called out a cheery greeting, and she ran unsteadily toward them on her little feet and enfolded Jane in her embrace, relieved laughter mixing with her tears.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The house was quiet except for the old clock in the hallway
, ticking the world away. Jane lay in bed, running her fingers lightly over her tight abdomen.
Can you hear my thoughts? She closed her eyes to better concentrate. Are you a boy or a girl? I can’t wait to see you, to hold you…
Tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks, soaking into her hair.
Will you look like…your papa? Or have light hair, like Amelia’s children? Will you be as clever as Rosalind, or love music like your papa?
A sob tore from her clamped lips.
I love you so much, so much…
“Oh, Frederick.” Her broken sob echoed in the room, but there was no one to hear.
How had a once-true love gone so wrong? She’d wrestled with the question daily and still could not find an answer. Despite Alice’s wicked lies, she knew she was partly to blame. She’d doubted Frederick’s love from the start, even though his attachment was obvious. Lucinda’s telling her he would never love again might have been the seed of her initial doubt, but she could have trusted him more. Trusted Alice less.
Although she now knew the truth, she still wondered how such a man like Frederick would ever look twice at her. She didn’t see his injury, but his warm eyes and incredible talent. He had something to offer a woman. What did she have?
Her skin tingled as if she were being poked with pins. He’d always remained faithful, yet what had she done? Thrown his love back in his face. It was easier to believe Alice’s lies and follow her ridiculous advice than consider the impossible. Even if it meant taking a lover of her own.
A lover.
As if she would hunger for another man’s kisses after knowing Frederick. She had never even looked at men before except to admire an accomplishment or intellect. And, thanks to Rosalind and Amelia’s generous financial support, she need never look for a husband, unless she wanted one.
And she’d wanted him.
She wearily closed her eyes, caught between the haze of restless sleep and flickering shadows of a dream. Grateful for sleep, she succumbed to the gentle ramblings of her mind. Never had a dream seemed so vivid, so real. It was the same dream she’d had every night for the past few weeks, where Frederick came to her, murmuring words of love as he took her in his arms. In the midst of such wonderful dreams, she was positive that this time, this night, the dream was real and he was truly there. Only when she’d awaken to find her arms empty would she realize the cruel reality and despair would return.