Unveiling Love

by Vanessa Riley

  The door to the carriage opened. A refreshing breeze blew inside. "Sir."

  Barrington stretched and blinked at James.

  His man, dressed in a dark coat steeped in braided trim, poked his ruddy face inside. "Here, sir."

  "Thank you." Barrington took the velvet pouch. The smooth nape appeared gray, but it was probably emerald or red. How horrid not to experience all the shades of a rainbow. On the balcony, Amora had said she wanted him to see her. Clothing was one thing, but she shouldn't have given up painting, something that had once brought her joy. He'd speak to her about that.

  Yet, his inability to detect certain hues didn't explain why she'd also abandoned the pianoforte. He adored music, and she was quite proficient before the war.

  "Mr. Norton, I took a peek inside. Just lovely."

  James's infectious grin filled his countenance. If not for the solemn night or the possibility of facing an angered wife, Barrington would smile too.

  "The missus should love it. Might do the trick. You won't have to lounge in your study."

  "Hope so. Get me home as quickly as possible."

  "Yes, but be at ease. One night isn't long enough to change the locks." His man shut the door and soon the carriage raced towards Mayfair.

  James was of a different race, different station in life, but no one understood Barrington's burdens better. Hopefully, his man was right about the locks, too.

  Running a hand against his hair, Barrington shoved on his top hat and tried to relax. Nothing could ease his soul. Since the onset of her pregnancy, he'd been very careful to be in by at least ten each evening.

  This should be a happy time for them both. His being absorbed in work always made her uneasy. Headaches, nightmares. He'd find her upset in her chambers, stewing as if she assumed something bad had happened.

  With a last tweak to his wilted cravat, he bounded from the carriage.

  "Good luck, sir." James tipped his tricorn hat and tugged the reins of the conveyance, hauling beasts and carriage toward the mews.

  Partially blinded by the glare of the bright sunlight, Barrington plodded up the path and onto the portico. All the lights of the house were a glow. Amora had a penchant for burning candles, but this was a bit much. Why?

  He pressed on the door. It opened before he could settle his fob in the keyhole. Not locked?

  Mrs. Gretling pounded down the steps with a bucket of balled up sheets. "Oh, Mr. Norton! You're home. No one knew where to find you."

  Her tone sounded clipped. Their Scottish housekeeper was not shy with her opinions, but Amora knew where he was.

  "My wife didn't say?"

  The housekeeper shook her head. Her face pinched as she ran towards the kitchen. Were those tears in her light eyes?

  Amora. He turned toward the stairs, but two men blocked his way. He recognized one as the physician who looked after Amora's odd headaches about eight months ago. But who was the other, the lanky man with walnut colored hair parted and converging upon a low brow?

  And why were they coming from Amora's bedchamber?

  The physician stopped in front of him and extended his hand. His countenance was ashen. "Mr. Norton…"

  The other man also stuck his hand in Barrington's face. "I am Reverend Samuel Wilson. I wish we met under different circumstances."

  Eyes widening until they hurt, a feeling of utter dread ripped Barrington's gut asunder. He pushed through them and pounded up the stairs to Amora's chamber.

  Chapter Three: The Pain and Promise of Choices

  Barrington flung open the door and stopped at the foot of her bed. How grey her skin looked. How small and hopeless her ragged breathing sounded. She seemed lost, maybe gone from him. Please be alright.

  He made his wooden legs move forward. He rounded the side of her canopy bed and eased onto the mattress. A bandage wrapped her forearm, poking out beneath her muslin robe. Spots darkened the wrapping. Had the doctor blood let her? "Amora?"

  Afraid to touch her. Afraid not to, he stroked her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

  Her lids opened. One shaky hand lifted then fell against his waistcoat. Her fingertips struck the buttons, jingling them. "Barr?"

  "Oh, sweetheart. You? The baby?"

  With a wince, she pushed away and rolled deeper into the bedclothes. "No. N-o-o baby, no baby."

  The quaking in her voice, the finality of her words gripped his heart, squeezing it until nothing but sorrow wrung out. He couldn't breathe, couldn't put a name to any thought, couldn't imagine how all their hopes were gone.

  "My fault. M-y fault."

  Her cold whisper echoed rattling against the now-empty cavity within his chest. "No, sweetheart, not at all. You're alive."

  He hadn't lost everything. They hadn't lost everything. "Things will be well. We will be fine. Oh, and I love you."

  She slipped away a little more. The distance could be a mile. A mile in the bed where he'd held her, listened to her raspy giggle against his chest, where they locked fingers, lips, and soul ties, where they'd made this child.

  Where they'd made this child lost.

  Where he'd held her every night, except this last.

  "Go work, Barr."

  He stirred up his most convincing voice, the one he'd use for Justice Burns when a witness lied and he had to appeal for mercy. "If I'd known, I would've been here. You know that. I should've been here. This is my fault."

  "Hope gone."

  The pain in her voice, cut a little more of him, dumped his work-ethic beliefs into the rubbish bin. If only he'd been here. If only.

  Throat closing, he sucked in air. Barrington brushed her temples, wrapping a lock of fever-damp hair about his thumb. "I'm here now. Tell me how to make things better."

  Her shuttered breath told the truth. There was no better.

  Slipping betwixt the covers, he crawled next to her, just as he should have done last night and towed her into his embrace. Her body felt stiff, none of her typical softness, no loving limbs curling into his chest. She must wish him gone, but how could he leave?

  Her clammy palm gripped his and pulled it to her abdomen. "Only thi… holdi… your …tention died."

  Her womb felt so empty and flat beneath his fingertips. She'd just started to show.

  How could he hold in the violent storm brewing in his conscience? He dug inside and found some strength, something made from his grandfather's will. He couldn't appear broken in front of her. She needed him strong. He needed to be strong. "I'm so sorry, my love."

  She turned toward him. Her hands caught on his jacket. The pouch fell from his pocket. The silver rattle jingled onto the mattress.

  Her thumbs slipped over it before jabbing it into his gut. "No bauble. Leave." She sighed and then began to sob. "Leave."

  His spectacles steamed. He popped the useless gift into his pocket and dragged himself from the room.

  With a closed door as the final separation between them, he sank against the wall in the hall. He wasn't built of stone, nor enslaved to his emotions, but this had no logic, no reasoning. Just pain.

  He was empty, empty with a hole just as big and as deep as when his best friend, Gerald Miller died. A friend so much closer than his own brother. Miller had died in Barrington's stead.

  Why God? If he'd let Smith perish alone, not knowing redemption... Would that have been better?

  If he'd only chosen to take Amora home. Maybe it would've made a difference. At least, he could've been with her and not let her face this agony with strangers.

  He ripped off his spectacles, closing them within his palms so tight it felt as if they'd break. This one time in three months, he chose something over her. That equaled the death of his child? Amora hating him?

  He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. It didn't go away.

  His Blackamoor love wasn't enough-- the heart of a dull, color-robbed man wasn't enough. He'd just proved it, by not being here to protect her or their child. "God, I was away doing your work, not out carousing or imbibing.
Why couldn't you have been here with my wife, my child?"

  The pounding on the stairs drew Barrington's weary attention to the man he'd seen earlier.

  "God was here, Mr. Norton. But some things aren't meant to be."

  Barrington scooped up his lenses, thrust them on and turned to the intruder, the wild haired vicar from the entry. Wilson's outstretched hand hovered inches away.

  This time Barrington took it. He allowed the older man, maybe six or seven years his senior, to hoist him upright.

  "Mr. Norton, I am about His business and sometimes the path is sorrowful. Even Job cried, and none of us could carry his heavy burdens."

  Barrington pushed past him. He wasn't going to open his soul to a stranger. "Follow me."

  With listless steps, he led the man down the stairs to his prized room. Once inside, he closed the door. "Sit, Vicar. I'd offer you something to drink, but I don't have anything strong. Though my late father could conjure something drunken from the kitchen." He bit his lip. This wasn't James he complained to but a minister, a stranger at that. "Did the doctor or Mrs. Gretling summon you?"

  "I was playing cards with the doctor when the footman arrived. The message was so dire; I came along to see if I could bring comfort. I'm helping at St. George's for a season. My living in Hampshire will be vacated soon."

  Barrington paced from his perch against a bookshelf. He walked past the vicar and dropped into the chair behind his desk. Once he pushed stacks of paper out of the way, he viewed the vicar with open suspicion. "You're from Hampshire? We're from there. Clanville to be exact."

  "I know of the Nortons and your wife's Tomàs family. As a boy, I used to visit my cousin, Minister Playfair, in your village."

  The man knew of them? Barrington drummed his fingers along the desk, trying hard to order his thoughts given the stranger's advantage of foreknowledge. "Oh, the old vicar."

  "Yes. Playfair was a wonderful mentor. I loved fishing with him at the stream behind the smithy, close to the priory. Lots of good tackle. Tasty trout."

  Cheery, almost skipping, the vicar's tone reflected boyish hope. To Barrington it grated, reminding him of another place he'd never show his son. Another memory to be shed from his list.

  Wilson puffed up his chest, sitting back with folded arms. "Clanville. I loved playing in the creepy priory, the old Norman temple. And I had been known to steal a few of Mr. Tomàs's pippins. That sweet juicy apple was almost worth the lecture. A powerful, lighthearted man, Mr. Tomàs."

  "My father-in-law, Mr. Tomàs, was a good man." Barrington held his tone steady, tried to keep it and his thoughts rooted there, not Tomàs's worse half, his mother-in-law. While his father-in-law was a firebrand - warm and encouraging, the shrew was a blizzard - cold and mean.

  The weight of the morn fell again upon his shoulders, forcing him to slouch. He rested his aching hip against the well-worn chair. The bullet wound, Napoleon's parting present from the war. "Was my wife in much pain?"

  The man's bushy brow lifted. He raked through his tousled hair. What words did he search for? How much more horrible could the events be?

  "She was quite fevered. She said…she said some odd things."

  The undercurrent in his voice held accusations. How did Barrington not think more of Amora's needs? How sorry was the state of their marriage? How would they get on after this loss? Accusations Barrington couldn't answer.

  "Has your wife ever been institutionalized?"

  Barrington sat up. Every muscle in his face tensed, almost snapping. "No. I don't know what you've come to peddle, but she is not in any state that needs to be sent away."

  "I was not suggesting anything of the sort. It was her fear of the doctor, her begging not to be locked away. She seemed to be reliving something."

  Barrington glanced at Wilson's jaw, the place he'd strike first if he let his temper free. "Just a nightmare. A delusion from the pain of losing our child."

  "My late wife, she miscarried a few years before birthing my boy. She took a tumble in the garden. She was never that healthy again." He cleared his throat and lifted his gaze. "Mrs. Norton had a lot of pain, almost too much pain."

  Barrington's heart broke again. Unlike the vicar, Amora still lived. "Sorry about your wife, Wilson."

  "I've reconciled with it, Mr. Norton. God gave us ten beautiful years. He gives and He takes away." He leaned forward. "The next few months won't be easy ones for Mrs. Norton. My wife was plagued with guilt. Me too, for not being there to catch her. Taking in a foundling child was a saving grace."

  "I see." Barrington looked down at his mahogany desk, inherited from his grandfather. With his thumb, he traced the etches, and then scooted papers along the blotter atop. Maybe they'd never have children. Would that be fine, no son with his skin, her eyes?

  "With your permission, I'd like to visit with Mrs. Norton in a few days."

  Something in his tone didn't sound like a ministerial visit. No, it seemed dire.

  Barrington raised his head, glaring at the vicar. "What do you suspect?"

  Wilson stood and pressed his hands along the edge of the desk, between the piles of correspondence. "I've seen signs similar to hers, and these women became so desperate they took their lives. I won't let that happen again."

  Gut burning, Barrington jumped up and stepped into the minister's shadow. "My wife has never possessed such weakness. I will help her. She will be fine. Get out, vicar. Never come back."

  The fellow nodded and left the room.

  Barrington heard the front door close. He sank into his chair and drew the rattle out of his pocket. He shook it, listening to the tinkles that sounded like flapping angel wings. He wondered how different things would be if he or God had chosen to be at Mayfair with Amora.

  Chapter Four: Something's Keeping You From Me

  Amora sat at her vanity pulling curl papers from her hair. Four weeks of doing nothing but eating warm porridge and milk may have strengthened her limbs but did nothing for her restless mind.

  Since that horrid night, Barrington sat with her every day, bringing her the milk, reading her Shakespeare and bits of case law.

  Not once did he mention the miscarriage. Not once did he accuse or condemn her.

  He should yell or prepare his summation assigning guilt.

  She lost their child. How much worse could his charges be than the ones repeating in her head?

  Pretending nothing was wrong was her suit, not his. Offering her kindness and sad looks couldn't change anything. Her eyes stung but they were long dried of tears. Keeping the babe safe in her bosom was her only job and she failed. Why did she let horrid Cynthia work her into a frenzy? Why did Amora believe she could walk a block in the dark without her nightmares chasing her?

  She dropped her head into her hands and pushed at her sorry temples, trying to force the memories from her brain. But they were with her. Always would be.

  Maybe she should just tell Barrington of her disappearance as Cynthia put it.

  If she'd blurted it out after all these years, what would Barrington say?

  Could he understand the terror of being dragged from Papa's orchard? No, he'd think her foolish for painting so far from Tomàs Manor, away from her mother's watchful eye.

  And if he'd known, the shame would've forced him to abandon Amora, never marrying her. Maybe it would have been best if they never wed. It had to be better than continually disappointing him.

  Than losing his child.

  Her heart hung low. Those dry eyes sprung a new droplet. The truth would send him to "willing arms". Marriage wouldn't prevent it. A difficult wife, one with lies, would give him ample excuse.

  She rubbed her sleeves. Her skin suddenly chilled thinking of Cynthia in Barrington's arms, bearing him a babe. No. The cold truth had to remain a secret.

  A knock echoed from outside her bedchamber.

  Her breath caught. Barrington? She straightened and tugged the remaining papers from her tresses. "Come in."

  The door opened. It
was only Mrs. Gretling.

  Relief and disappointment battled within Amora's lungs. Relief won.

  Tartan skirts flapping, her housekeeper brought a basket of linens and snowy chemises to the closet and began moving one muted frock and then another. "Mrs. Norton, it's so good to see ye up."

  "I thought it about time to move about. Next, I'll try being useful." She bit her lip. No need to affirm her sad state.

  Mrs. Gretling traipsed closer and offered one of her I-pity-you looks with her scrunched up sherry eyes. "It's Thursday. Would you like to go with me to the hospital?"

  "What?" Her pulse pounded as visions of a high table and tight leather straps crossed her mind's eye. She lowered her shaking hands to her lap. "I don't…"

  One silvery eyebrow rose higher on her abigail's long face. "I meant the Foundling Hospital, ma'am. You usually go with me."

  Oh, the abandoned children, the poor orphans. Amora blinked a few times and waited for her pulse to return to normal, whatever normal was. "I can't see a precious babe someone gave away." She shook her head. "I'm not ready."

  "Maybe next week." She set down the basket and wiped her hands on her thick apron before fluffing Amora's spiraling locks. "Hurry, you can have breakfast with the master."

  Stunned, she clasped Mrs. Gretling's hands to stop her primping. "Mr. Norton's not at court?"

  "No, he's been having his breakfast here most days.

  Fishing a ribbon through Amora's tresses, she pinned up the chignon. "I think he liked the pattern you two set before. Oh, listen to me run on. Go see him."

  Mrs. Gretling took up her empty basket, then shuffled back through the doorway. "He's devoted to you, you know."

  The door closed, leaving Amora even more confused. Barrington kept at their routine, even with no baby?

  No, there had to be another reason. Maybe she should find out. After smoothing her dark gray, almost black muslin bodice, she took step after step until she crept to the other side of her door.

  With a glance, she gaped at the stairs leading below to the first floor and then the one to the upper levels and attic.