I had never seen him look so old, and before I could stop myself I was comparing him with Patrick, remembering every nuance of Patrick’s youth and health and vitality.
He saw me. A great change came over him at once. He straightened his back and quickened his pace, but that cost him an effort. I saw the effort reflected in his face before he erased all telltale expression and gave me one of his polite smiles.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea you were resting or I wouldn’t have disturbed you. I’ll go back to the dressing room.”
He was gone, but I was already on my feet. I followed him into the dressing room just as he lowered himself onto the couch.
“Edward …” I began but found I could go no further.
He stood up, stiff and straight, and waited courteously for me to speak.
I thought of a dozen things to say but rejected every one of them. I was still fumbling desperately for words when he said unevenly, “I suppose you wish to talk about Patrick. I understand from Lomax that he called here this morning.”
“Yes, he did.” I was so nervous that words failed me again, and to my horror he added, still in that same uneven voice, “I saw you walking together in the square, and rather than embarrass you by arriving at an inopportune moment I told Lacy to drive past the house and take me to my club. I hope you said all you needed to say to each other.”
I immediately fell into such a panic that I could only stare at him in fright. My face felt as if it were on fire.
“I noticed how he put his arm around you when you were sitting on the bench,” he said. “I’m sure all the servants enjoyed that too from their grandstand position at the hall window.”
If I had been entirely innocent I could have defended myself very capably from such an insinuation no matter how frightened I was, but my guilty thoughts made me behave as if I had committed some appalling indiscretion.
“Well, I’ve been expecting this to happen for some time,” he said casually, as if he could scarcely have cared less. “After all, what else could I have expected? I’ve no idea whether there has been any gross impropriety between you and Patrick in the past, but that hardly matters. If you haven’t misconducted yourself with Patrick there must surely have been someone else by this time. Very well. I accept it. How could I possibly blame you when I’ve been such an inadequate husband for so long? Of course I could fly into a rage and behave like some monster in a melodrama—and no doubt many men in my position would pride themselves on behaving in exactly that fashion—but I am, I think, a practical man and I hope I’m not so dishonest or so proud that I can’t admit the failure is mine and not yours. I’m sorry. I should never have married you. It’s not right to expect a young girl to remain happy long with a man my age, and I can see now that I was expecting too much of you. Well, so be it. You’ve given me six years of the most perfect happiness, and it would be a poor reward indeed if I now proceeded to bring you nothing but misery and dissatisfaction. Turn elsewhere if you must, but …” He stopped. He was no longer looking at me. He was still composed, but he had to look away. “But not to my son,” he said quickly. “Don’t turn to him. I’ll try not to mind about anyone else. I love you and I want you to be happy. Nothing else matters except that.”
And nothing else did matter. Patrick no longer mattered, younger men no longer mattered, no other man on earth mattered any more. I said, laughing through my tears, “Oh, you silly, silly man!” and then I kissed him, slipping my arms around his neck and clasping him to me with every ounce of strength I possessed. I think he cried too, but I was determined not to see because men are so peculiar about tears and Englishmen are the most peculiar of all. I said, “So long as you love me I don’t care. There hasn’t been anyone else, and there never will be so long as you really and truly love me.”
“I love you,” he said.
“Then everything’s well.”
“Everything?”
“Oh good heavens,” I said, “isn’t there more to loving someone than merely romping around in a double bed?”
He laughed. I had not seen him laugh for such a long time, and I felt as if I had met him afresh after some painful absence. All constraint died between us. Our fingers touched, our hands clasped, and soon I had all I wanted and so did he until our isolation on the dark borders of estrangement was no more than a dead memory.
He awoke before I did. When I opened my eyes he was watching the sunlight stream through a gap in the drapes, and his brows were drawn together again in a frown.
“What’s the matter?” I said at once.
He quickly wiped the expression from his face. “It’s nothing. My leg has been giving me some pain lately. This morning I saw the doctor again, but although I took a dose of the new medicine he gave me it doesn’t seem to have done much good.”
“So that was what you were doing in the dressing room earlier! I heard the medicine being poured from the bottle.” I kissed him and eyed his leg anxiously. “How long has it been troubling you?” I asked, and suddenly I understood everything, his past difficulties in bed, his uncharacteristic reluctance to travel, his preoccupation, his moods of ill-humor. I was so horrified that I sat bolt upright in bed. “Edward, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve had this trouble ever since—”
“The pain’s spasmodic,” he said. “It doesn’t trouble me all the time. I saw no need to tell you about it.”
“But, Edward, you know how I detest martyrs!” I felt both angry and upset. “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me from the beginning?”
“I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“But why?”
“Because I didn’t want to seem old to you,” he said and added with wry humor to take the edge from his bitterness, “When I was young I hated old people who constantly moaned about their aches and pains.”
“I can’t imagine you moaning about anything. Don’t be so silly! Anyway, what’s so shameful about a few aches and pains? I could understand your secrecy if you suffered from some embarrassing disease common among elderly gentlemen, but—”
“It’s not simply ‘a few aches and pains,’” he said. “It’s arthritis. You remember that painful fever I had not long after Katherine’s wedding?”
“Yes, but … you recovered from that.”
“I was better for a time, but then the pains began to recur.” He paused before saying, “The doctor says little can be done,” and something in his voice made me feel cold.
After a pause I said firmly, “Well, you don’t die of arthritis, do you?”
“No,” he said, “not as far as I know.” But when I realized he was thinking of the living death that life in a wheelchair would mean for him I felt very frightened. My fear must have shown in my face, for at once he said cheerfully, “For the moment it’s just an inconvenience, and there’s no reason why it should soon become radically worse. Dr. Ives was optimistic when I saw him this morning.”
“Why did you go to him? He should have come to you!” I exclaimed, and then, understanding: “If only you hadn’t been so secretive!”
“Yes, I can see now that was a mistake.” He watched me dress, but when he made no effort to leave the bed I knew he was waiting for me to leave the room so that he could take as much time as his stiffness demanded. I was just struggling into my top petticoat when he said unexpectedly, “What did Patrick have to say for himself? You may as well tell me.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’d clean forgotten.” I was amazed that all thought of Patrick should have slipped from my mind. “Edward, he’s destitute and unhappy and he wants very much to be forgiven. He promises passionately to turn over a new leaf—”
“Yes, he’s very inclined to make passionate promises of that nature. Go on.”
“He says he’ll do anything you want.”
“That’s all very well, but I’ve no idea what I want to do with him. I suppose he had better live quietly at Woodhammer until I can buy him a commission in the Army. At least he’s not li
kely to get into debt at Woodhammer.”
“But, Edward … do you truly think Patrick is suited to a career in the Army?”
“What else can I do with him? He must have some sort of occupation. I disapprove of young men leading idle, useless lives.”
“Perhaps if you made him responsible for some of your property he might become interested in estate management.”
“The time will never come,” said Edward bitterly, “when Patrick is interested in estate management.”
I was putting up my hair. Concentrating hard on pushing the pins into the right places, I said carefully, “I’m sure all will be well eventually with Patrick, Edward, because he’s at heart a very …” I could not think of the appropriate word. “I mean, I know he’s been wild, but don’t all young men have to sow their wild oats? And Patrick is young, Edward, young and … immature.” I had pinned my hair incorrectly. The chignon collapsed beneath its hairnet and I had to start again. “Patrick’s a very peaceful person at heart,” I said suddenly. “Peaceful—that was the word I wanted. I think he would like nothing better than to be responsible for an estate like Woodhammer and live there quietly with his wife and children. Yes—think how good Patrick is with children! Thomas and David adore him. He’s certain to want children of his own one day, and once he marries and settles down …” I had pinned my hair well this time, by some miracle. Now that chignons were no longer worn low on the neck it was harder to dress one’s hair even if one had been accustomed to doing so. If the conversation had been less private I would have summoned my maid. “Patrick must get married,” I was saying. “Not immediately, of course, because he’s still so young, but in a year or two. Yes, that’s it. Patrick must marry a nice pretty girl who knows her own mind and can care for him while keeping him well organized. Patrick needs to be cared for and organized. I know exactly the sort of girl he should marry—”
“Marguerite!” said Edward sternly, but when I spun around in fright I saw that he was smiling. “When are you going to learn not to meddle in other people’s lives?”
“But I have such good intentions!” I pleaded, laughing with him, and ran across the room into his arms.
Later he said to me, “You may well be right about Patrick. Certainly nothing would please me more than if he settled down and took an interest in the estates.” He hesitated but managed to add indistinctly, “I’m sorry … what I said earlier … very stupid of me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I love you very much and I know now that you love me. But, Edward, in the future tell me whenever you’re in pain from the arthritis. Don’t keep it to yourself and be noble, because how can I help you when you refuse to let yourself be helped?”
“Very well,” he said, smiling at me. “I shall complain from time to time. I’d promise you anything, Marguerite, even that.”
We parted. Feeling more lighthearted, I ran joyously upstairs to the nursery, and it was not until I looked into the dressing room later and saw the medicine bottle by the ewer that I felt the coldness come upon me again. I tried to dismiss it by leaving the room at once, but for the rest of that day I was haunted by that word “arthritis” and fancied we stood on the brink of a darkness which stretched as far as the eye could see.
Chapter Five
I
IT GAVE ME A great shock when I realized I was pregnant. It was true that I had been obliged to risk pregnancy several times since Edward had discarded the means that prevented conception, but I had always escaped unscathed, and I suppose I had assumed irrationally that my luck would last forever. Also after our reconciliation I had been so concerned that he should no longer suffer from impotence that my concern had left me little room to worry about anything else. I still knew next to nothing about the forbidden subject of anticonception and saw no way I could find out more, for no reputable doctor would have discussed such a subject with me without my husband’s permission, and none of my friends seemed to be any wiser than I was. So I had merely continued to hope for the best; but the best had eluded me at last, and now there was nothing to do except resign myself to the inevitable.
It was hard. David’s birth had left a deep scar on my memory, and the thought of facing such an ordeal again was terrifying to me. It might have been easier to scrape up some courage if I had longed for another child, but I was perfectly content with my two boys.
My spirits sank to a very low ebb.
I did not keep my condition a secret from Edward but told him as soon as I suspected what had happened. I thought it would cheer him by making him feel more youthful, and sure enough he seemed delighted and said it would be pleasant for me to have another baby now that Thomas and David were almost ready for the schoolroom.
I smiled and said yes. I had no intention of betraying my true feelings because I knew it would upset him if he thought I was angry. I did not want him to be upset. It was very important to our married life that he should not know I had no wish to bear him any more children, because he might think that I did not love him enough and then our troubles would begin afresh.
However, I was not nearly so clever at being a secret martyr as he was, and when one day he found me crying in my room I broke down and poured out my heart to him unmercifully.
“Well, I did wonder if you were truly pleased,” he said at last in such a sensible voice that I immediately felt better. “I knew you were never anxious for another child. But, Marguerite, does David’s birth necessarily mean that you’re certain to have another unpleasant confinement? What does Dr. Ives say?”
“He says that I was unlucky with David and that there’s no reason why I should be unlucky again.”
“In that case—”
“But I don’t believe a word he says!” I wept.
“That’s easily solved,” said Edward, still supremely sensible. “See another doctor and, if you like, a third. Get other opinions and perhaps you’ll feel more confident.”
I wept a little more, but he had really left me nothing to weep about. I dried my eyes on his handkerchief and made a great effort to be calm.
“That’s an excellent idea,” I said firmly. “Why didn’t I think of that myself? How stupid I’ve been!” But I felt my eyes fill with tears again. Clenching the handkerchief into a tight ball, I tried to will the tears away. “I’m sure I shall love the baby very much when he comes,” I sobbed, and despite all my efforts at self-control I burst into floods of tears.
“We must think of a name for him at once,” said Edward with cunning. “You know how you always said you liked to think of Thomas and David as people long before they were born. If you could think of the new baby as a person it might be easier for you.”
“Oh yes,” I said, dabbing my eyes uselessly with his sodden handkerchief. “A name. Oh dear, I can’t think of any at all! Think of a name, Edward.”
He offered me a second handkerchief. “Perhaps Richard?” he suggested. “That was the name of the uncle who left me Woodhammer Hall, the uncle who had such an influence on me when I was growing up. If you like the name—”
“Richard. Yes. Yes, I do like it very much,” I said rapidly, and somehow after that I did find it easier to resign myself to my ordeal.
II
Of course it was a girl.
I had an easy delivery. It was all over in three hours. Dazed, I said to Dr. Ives, “There must be a mistake. It can’t be born already.” But Dr. Ives merely smiled the supercilious smile that made me want to slap him, the infant wailed plaintively and the midwife, bored that the birth had been so uninteresting, said tartly, “You’ve got a daughter at last, my lady.”
My heart sank like a stone. It was an instinctive reaction, for I had never stopped to analyze why I had no desire for a daughter, and I did not understand why I should feel so dismayed.
“It can’t be a girl,” I said desperately. “It’s a boy. We’ve chosen the name. It’s Richard.”
“There, there, my lady,” said Dr. Ives soothingly. “We all have our little disapp
ointments. Try to rest and recover your strength.”
I did sleep, but when I awoke my relief that my ordeal was over was immediately soured by the knowledge that Richard was a girl. I lay clutching the sheet, my eyes staring at the ceiling, my senses hardly aware of my physical discomfort, and racked my brains to decide what I should say to Edward. Later when the nurse returned to the room to give me another glimpse of the baby my spirits sank even lower. The infant was unremittingly plain. She had a bright red complexion, a large bald head and a puny body.
“Ah yes,” I said, hiding my despair as best I could. “Very nice. Thank you, Nurse.”
The baby had just been returned to the cradle when Edward came in, and the nurse withdrew so that we could be alone together.
After we had embraced he said, smiling, “So all was well?”
“Oh yes!” I said with an attempt at gaiety. “Dr. Ives is the most aggravating man, but I’ve no doubt he’s very clever. I never dreamt that the birth would be so easy.”
“Thank God for that,” he said, kissing me again.
“Thank God,” I agreed, holding his hands tightly.
There was a pause.
“Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose we must start considering names again.”
“I’m glad you mentioned that,” I said rapidly, “because I have a splendid idea. Edward, why don’t we call her Nell? It’s pretty and it’s short—I’ve often felt annoyed that I myself have such a long name—and I thought you might like her to be called after the daughter you loved so much. What do you think?”
He looked startled. “That’s very generous of you, my dearest, but—”
“It would be so nice,” I interrupted, the words tumbling from my lips, “if she could be named for your favorite daughter. I should like that very much.”
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