“Do you love him?” Elizabeth asked curiously.
“To death and beyond, I suspect,” said Ruby honestly. Her face changed, became defiant, but Elizabeth fancied that her eyes held pain.
“But my loving him wouldn’t make a marriage with him work, even if I wasn’t a glorified tart, which I am. You’ve been raised properly to be a wife. I wasn’t brought up, I was dragged up. To be Alexander’s mistress is more than I expected out of my life, so I’m happy. Very happy.”
We are at exactly opposite ends, thought Elizabeth with newfound wisdom; I am his wife and would be free of him if I could, whereas she is his mistress and would be tied closer to him if she could. It isn’t fair.
“We’d better go down,” she said with a sigh.
“Provided that we can find a sofa for two. I want to know all about you, Elizabeth. Are you well, for instance?”
“Quite well, though my feet and legs are swollen.”
“Are they? Here, let me look.” Down went Ruby on her knees at the top of the staircase to lift Elizabeth’s hem and probe the puffy flesh that bulged above her shoes. “You’re very dropsical, sweetheart. Hasn’t he had a doctor to see you? Not that old Doc Burton in Kinross is any expert—a typical country quack. You need a specialist from Sydney.”
They proceeded downward. “I’ll ask Alexander.”
“No, I’ll tell Alexander,” Ruby said with a dragonish snort.
Elizabeth giggled. “I’d love to see it,” she said.
“It would offend your lovely little shell ears. I’m on my very best behavior tonight,” Ruby announced as they walked into the drawing room. “Under ordinary circumstances I have what’s called a salty tongue. Happens when you run a whorehouse.”
“I was so disgusted when I found that out.”
“But not so disgusted now, eh?”
“Definitely not so disgusted. Actually I’m dying of curiosity—how does one run a whorehouse?”
“With a bloody sight more efficiency than a government runs a country. A horsewhip helps.”
They settled together on a sofa, oblivious to the stares of the lady visitors; Mrs. Euphronia Wilkins, wife of the Reverend Peter Wilkins of Kinross’s Church of England, had seized the opportunity offered by their absence to acquaint Lady Robinson, Mrs. Robertson and others with Ruby’s past and present history. These made Mrs. Robertson feel faint enough to ask for smelling salts, whereas Lady Robinson was highly intrigued and amused.
Burdened with a very dreary woman who was espoused to a cabinet minister, Constance Dewy eyed the pair with envy. Who could ever have predicted this? she asked herself, nodding and smiling at the litany of woes beside her. Elizabeth and Ruby have decided to be bosom chums, and oh, won’t that make dear Alexander hopping mad? Serves him right, isolating that poor child up here without companionship!
When the men arrived from the dining room surrounded by a miasma of cigar smoke and vintage port, Elizabeth rose to her feet, some small corner of her mind wondering why Alexander looked so smug, and Premier Robertson so put out.
“I’ve heard, Ruby, that you play and sing beautifully,” she said. “Would you honor us tonight?”
“Certainly,” said Ruby, displaying none of the obligatory bashful modesty. “How about Beethoven and some Gluck arias, then Stephen Foster for dessert?”
Elizabeth led her to the grand piano and drew up a chair for herself beside it.
Eyes hooded, Alexander chose a seat next to Constance, who had ejected the dreary lady when the men came in. Charles sat on Constance’s other side.
“They have taken to each other like ducks to water,” said Constance rather loudly as Ruby launched into the “Appassionata.” “Fortunate that Elizabeth’s so obviously with child, Alexander—otherwise people might think you were running a ménage à trois.”
“Constance!” Charles squeaked, horrified.
“Sssssssh!” hissed Constance.
Alexander flashed Constance an appreciative smile, his eyes twinkling, and settled to hear the bravura performance, enhanced for him by the stunned looks on some of the women’s faces. They would hear no better musician in London or Paris.
Sonata and arias ended, Ruby began to play and sing popular songs, while Elizabeth sat raptly watching and listening. How grossly unfair are the accidents of fate! she was thinking. This woman ought to be a duchess at least. How often I have thought about an eleven-year-old girl raped by her own brother, and been distressed by it despite my bigotry. But now I truly understand how cruel life can be. Oh, Ruby, I am so sorry!
Having noticed that Elizabeth was in considerable pain from those swollen feet inside pinching shoes, Ruby suddenly stopped.
“I need a cheroot,” she said, and lit up.
Gasps from a dozen pairs of female lungs accompanied this, yet, noted a tickled Constance, Ruby somehow managed to make a woman’s smoking a little black cigar look absolutely the done thing. Ruby, I have to know you better! No more avoiding you at Apocalypse receptions.
An imperious gesture of the cheroot brought Alexander to the piano, his expression informing the guests that every man’s wife and mistress ought to be on the best of terms with each other.
“Time Elizabeth was in bed, Alexander,” said Ruby. “Take her upstairs and tuck her in.”
Elizabeth leaned to kiss Ruby’s cheek, then left the room on her husband’s arm while Ruby resumed her recital.
“Why didn’t you tell me how nice she is?”
“Would you have believed me, Elizabeth?”
“No.”
Jade and Pearl were waiting, but Elizabeth detained him with a hand on his coat. “Once my baby is born, Alexander, I shall go into Kinross whenever I feel like it,” she said, chin up. “And I intend to see a lot of Ruby.”
He looked bored. “Whatever you wish, my dear. Go to bed.”
Five
Motherhood
THE OBSTETRICAL specialist from Sydney examined Elizabeth thoroughly, then summoned Alexander into the bedroom.
“You should both hear what I have to say,” he began, manner grave but not ponderously so. “Mrs. Kinross, you are suffering from pre-eclampsia, a very dangerous malady.”
“Very dangerous?” asked Alexander, looking shocked.
“Yes. I see no point in deprecating its seriousness either to my patient or her husband,” said Sir Edward Wyler bluntly. “If I had been able to bring my more delicate apparatus with me, I could be slightly more certain—it would, for instance, be useful to ascertain your blood velocity with my rheometer, Mrs. Kinross. However, I can say that your condition can lead to fully fledged eclampsia, which is usually fatal.” The patient, he noted, assimilated this without change of expression, whereas her husband’s eyes were filled with horror. “As far as we know,” he went on, “eclampsia is a disorder of the kidneys seen only in pregnancy, commonly the first pregnancy.”
“What exactly do the kidneys do?” Alexander asked, face pale.
“They filter bodily fluids and excrete toxic elements via the urine. Therefore one must assume that there is a lack of harmony between Mrs. Kinross and the child in her womb. That, it may be, she isn’t managing to eliminate the child’s noxious wastes, which in consequence are poisoning her.”
“What is fully fledged eclampsia?” Alexander asked, starting to pace the room. “How do we know if it develops?”
“Oh, you will know, sir. It is heralded by severe headaches, abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting. These are succeeded by strong convulsions that, if unremitting, cause the patient to lapse into a coma from which recovery is quite impossible.”
“But all Elizabeth has are swollen feet and legs!”
“That is not what she tells me, Mr. Kinross. There have been episodes of headache, abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting over the past three weeks. In your wife’s case, the edema—swelling—is dropsical in nature, not postural,” said Sir Edward firmly.
Elizabeth lay, wide-eyed, listening to the dispassionate voice telling Alexander t
hat there was every likelihood that she would die. A part of her didn’t mind this news; death was one way out of her predicament. The part that protested at this verdict was the part that wanted badly to bear a living, healthy baby and have someone to love. What might have happened if she hadn’t mentioned her puffy feet and legs to Ruby? When she had asked Mrs. Summers about them two weeks ago, the housekeeper had assured her that all was fine, she mustn’t worry her head about a little swelling. But Mrs. Summers was barren. Did that mean Mrs. Summers was envious enough to wish her dead?
“What must I do, Sir Edward?” she asked.
“First of all, retire permanently to bed, Mrs. Kinross. As much as possible, lie on your left side—that assists your heart and kidneys—”
“Limit the amount she drinks,” Alexander interrupted.
“No, no!” cried Sir Edward. “On the contrary, it is vital to keep the kidneys functioning, which means plenty of plain water in, and plenty of urine out. I’ll bleed her to lessen the volume of blood her vascular system has to cope with. A pint today, and thenceforward half a pint a week. If we can get her to labor without the prior onset of convulsions, she has a good chance of getting through the birth process.” Sir Edward turned to the bed. “You are, I would say, Mrs. Kinross, in about your thirtieth week. Ten more weeks to go. I cannot emphasize too strongly that they must be spent in bed. The only time you may get up is to evacuate your bowels—for urine, use a bedpan. Eat plenty of vegetables, fruit and brown bread, and drink copious amounts of water. I’ll send a nurse from Sydney to teach a number of local women how to take care of you.”
“Mrs. Summers will be ideal,” said Alexander quickly.
“No!” Elizabeth cried, sitting bolt upright. “Alexander, I beg you, no! Not Mrs. Summers, please. She has too much to do already. I would prefer Jade, Pearl and Silken Flower.”
“They’re silly girls, not mature women,” Alexander objected.
“So am I a silly girl. Humor me, please!”
FACE DRAWN, Alexander accompanied Sir Edward out. “If my wife should develop eclampsia, what will happen to the child? Is there any chance for the child?”
“If she goes to term and then suffers a status epilepticus proceeding to irreversible coma, then the child can be removed by Caesarean section before she expires. That will not guarantee its survival, but it represents the only chance.”
“Can’t that be done while she has a chance to live?”
“No woman has ever survived Caesarean section, Mr. Kinross.”
“Julius Caesar’s mother did,” said Alexander.
“She cannot have. She lived to be seventy years old.”
“Then why is it called a Caesarean section?”
“There were many Caesars after Julius,” said Sir Edward, “so perhaps it was a different Caesar born that way. One whose mama died at his birth. For the mother must die—must!”
“You’ll return for the confinement?”
“Alas, no, I cannot. This trip was hard enough to fit in. I have a very busy practice.”
“The child is due around New Year. Come up after Christmas and stay until it is born—bring your wife, your own children, whomever you like! Think of it as a holiday in a delightfully cool environment—no stupefying heat and humidity up here, Sir Edward,” Alexander cajoled.
“No, Mr. Kinross. Truly, I cannot.”
But by the time Sir Edward Wyler boarded the train, he had agreed to return after Christmas. The price negotiated for his services was one of Alexander’s two Byzantine icons—a curio, not a fee. Sir Edward was a collector of icons.
ALEXANDER COULDN’T face Elizabeth, couldn’t look at that sweet wee face, so young, so vulnerable. Seventeen last September, and, it seemed, unlikely to live to turn eighteen.
It hasn’t gone well, he admitted to himself. Something about me revolted her from the beginning—no, no, not that idiotic business of the devilish beard! What did I do wrong? I was kind to her, generous to her, set her up in a style she would never have known in Scotland. Jewels, clothes, extreme comfort, no drudgery of any kind. But I have never come at the core of her, drawn a single spark from those still sapphire pools of eyes, felt her heart leap at my touch, heard her breath catch. She’s harder to grasp than a will-o’-the-wisp, her spirit is in a coma already. My Elizabeth who is not my Elizabeth. And now this terrible and unexpected illness that threatens my wife and my child. There is nothing I can do beyond put my trust in Sir Edward Wyler—how can I be sure he knows what he’s doing?
“How can I be sure?” he cried to Ruby, tormented.
“You can’t,” she said bluntly, wiping her eyes. “Oh, what a pisser! I tell you what I will do, Alexander—ask old Father Flannery to say mass for her, light a pound’s worth of candles every day, and hire the poor old bloke a decent housekeeper.”
Alexander gaped at her, aghast. “Ruby Costevan! Don’t tell me you’re a Papist!”
She blew a rude noise. “No, I’m a nothing, just like you. But I swear, Alexander, that those Catholics have the inside running with God when it comes to miracles. Lourdes?”
Only his extreme misery prevented laughter. “Superstition, then? Or listening to too many Irish drunks at the bar?”
“More listening to my cousin Isaac Robinson—I asked Sir Hercules if they were related, by the way, and he said not, with a face puckered up like a cat’s freckle. A few years with the Franciscans in China converted him to Papism, and I never met a more bigoted C of E lot than the Robinsons.”
“You’re trying to cheer me up.”
“Yep,” she said jauntily. “Now go away, Alexander, and mine another ton or two of gold. Keep busy, man!”
The moment he had gone, Ruby burst into tears. “However,” she said to herself later, putting on hat and gloves, “I don’t see what harm a few masses and candles can do.” She paused at the door, face thoughtful. “And maybe,” she continued to herself, “I ought to hector Alexander into giving the Presbyterians land in Kinross. Why offend anybody’s idea of God?”
ON THE MORROW she descended upon Elizabeth’s sickbed, armed with a huge bunch of gladiolus, snapdragons and larkspur from the absent Theodora Jenkins’s garden.
Elizabeth’s face lit up. “Oh, Ruby, how good to see you! Did Alexander tell you what’s wrong with me?”
“Of course.” The flowers were thrust at a stiffly disapproving Mrs. Summers. “Here, Maggie, find a vase for these—and take that look off your mug, you remind me of a caterpillar.”
“A caterpillar?” Elizabeth asked as Mrs. Summers stalked off.
“I was really thinking of a slug, but enough’s enough. You have to live with the woman.”
“She terrifies me.”
“Don’t let her. Maggie Summers is sour, but she’d not do anything active against you, she’s too much under her husband’s thumb. And he’s under Alexander’s thumb.”
“She’s jealous of the baby.”
“That I can understand.” Ruby settled in a chair like a fabulously gorgeous bird upon a roost and smiled at Elizabeth, dimples denting her cheeks, eyes glowing. “Now come on, pussycat, no doldrums! I’ve sent telegrams to Sydney for books I know you’ll love to read—the spicier, the better—and I’ve brought a pack of cards to teach you how to play poker and gin rummy.”
“I don’t think Presbyterians are allowed to play cards,” said Elizabeth provocatively.
“Well, at the moment I’m trying to stay on the right side of God, but I’m buggered if I’ll put up with that sort of rot!” said Ruby roundly. “Alexander says you have ten weeks of lying here doing nothing except drinking at one end and peeing at the other, so if cards can help to pass the time, we play cards.”
“Let’s talk first,” said Elizabeth, heart full. “I want to know all about you. You have a son, Jade says.”
“Lee.” Ruby’s voice softened, so did her face. “The light of my life, Elizabeth. My jade kitten. Oh, I miss him!”
“He’s eleven now?”
“Yes. I ha
ven’t seen him for two and a half years.”
“Have you a photograph of him?”
“No,” said Ruby harshly. “Too much torment. I just close my eyes and picture him. Such a gorgeous little bloke! Sunny.”
“Jade says that he’s amazingly clever.”
“Picks up languages like a parrot, but according to Alexander he’s not cut out for Greats at Oxford, which was what I wanted. He’s more likely to study sciences at Cambridge, it seems.”
This subject, Elizabeth saw, was very painful for Ruby, so she changed her tack. “Who,” she asked, “is Honoria Brown?”
The green eyes widened. “You too? I have no idea who she is, except that Alexander considers her a paragon of all the female virtues. I am a nothing compared to Honoria Brown.”
“His opinion of you to me was somewhat different. He told me that he admired you even more than he did Honoria Brown. Are you sure you don’t know her?”
“Positive.”
“How can we find out?”
“Ask,” said Ruby.
“He won’t tell us, he’ll be enigmatic.”
“Bloody secretive bastard!” was Ruby’s rejoinder.
THE WEEKS went by with surprising swiftness thanks to Ruby, books, poker—and Constance Dewy, who arrived to stay for the last five of them. Elizabeth’s condition remained much the same; the constant bloodletting rendered her a little languorous, but the swelling went down a trifle, and the attacks of abdominal pain and vomiting ceased to occur. The nurse from Sydney was a brisk, no-nonsense Florence Nightingale–trained woman who drilled the three Chinese girls like a sergeant-major his worst troops, then departed to inform dear Sir Edward that Mrs. Kinross would be looked after at least as well as she would be in Sydney.
It was Alexander who suffered the most, shut out of his wife’s daily life first by Ruby, then by Ruby and Constance, a formidable alliance. However, their company did keep Elizabeth’s spirits up; gales of laughter erupted from her bedroom whenever he passed it by. As pass it by he did—scuttling, he told himself disgustedly, like a whipped cur avoiding its master. His only solace was work; the Westinghouse air brakes had finally arrived, so he had something interesting to do by installing them.
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