Devon hugged her husband with all her might, involuntarily comparing his reaction to John’s that long-ago day in Paris. How wonderful for their child to be welcomed into the world with unadulterated joy!
“Do you care very much whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Devon asked anxiously.
“Not a bit! Though only a boy can inherit the title and estate.” Roland lifted her off her feet and onto the plump flowered sofa that matched the drapes in their bedroom. It was a cheery, thoroughly English room. Devon had created it as a surprise for Roland, basing it on photographs of the conservatory of his country estate. The sun-filled room had been Roland’s favorite, with its hunter green walls, white trim, and yellow-pink-and-green-flowered furniture. The bountiful Egyptian sun spilling through the long windows made the room a burst of happy color, which perfectly suited the mood of the moment.
Roland surrounded Devon with his embrace. How he loved her! He had never imagined he could be so happy. He drew back and drank in the radiance of Devon’s face for a quiet moment. Then he asked, “When will we have our child?”
What a wonderful way of putting it, Devon thought. Aloud, she said, “Late December, I think.” Just like Morgan, she thought, with a surge of melancholy.
“Christmastime…” said Roland dreamily, not remembering, in his happiness, the sad memories that Devon associated with that time of year, “how wonderful!”
Devon looked into her husband’s happy face and her sadness vanished. Never had she felt so appreciated, so much at one with another person. The baby was a new and beautiful aspect of her love for Roland. It added infinite dimension to her feelings for him.
“I wish you could have the baby at home,” Roland said.
Devon knew he meant Abersham. She, too, would have liked to have the child in her husband’s ancestral home. Or at Willowbrook, with her mother nearby. But she knew that it was best for the baby if she remained in Cairo until it was born. She told Roland of Dr. Huerscht’s warning.
“Then by all means, you must stay here,” he said firmly. “I’ll see if I can’t arrange it so that I remain here until the baby is born.”
“What do you mean?” Devon asked, suddenly distressed.
“Darling,” Roland chided gently, “its no secret that our work here is mostly done. They need us in the European theater.”
“But they can’t send you now!” cried Devon.
“They can indeed. You know many men are separated from their loved ones. I can ask to remain here, but I may have to go nonetheless.”
Devon disengaged herself from Roland’s arms and stood up. Of course, he was absolutely right. She could not be selfish. At the same time, it broke her heart to think of being separated from her husband when their child was born.
Turning back to Roland, she squared her shoulders and put a brave smile on her face. “I understand that you may have to leave,” she said calmly. Then she sank onto the couch and took his hands, adding a plea that was not at all stoic, “But please, please try to stay!”
Roland left the villa a bit earlier than usual the next day. On his way to headquarters, he stopped at the Thomas Cook office to arrange a wire to his solicitor in London. That dispatched, he prepared himself to face his commanding officer with his request to remain in Cairo for the next nine months.
The news, however, was not good.
“You’ll be here for a few more months, of course, but every good man is needed in the European theater. I’m afraid you’ll be off just about the time that it’s most important to your wife that you be here,” the older man said, regret in his voice. “What we can do, however, is try to arrange some leave for you close to the due date. Nonetheless, I can’t give you any guarantees, old chap.” He looked regretfully at Roland, fully understanding the Earl’s wish to be near his wife for the birth of his first child.
Roland, always correct, revealed none of his distress. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “that’s all I can ask.”
CHAPTER 43
DEVON stood on the balcony and watched the jeep drive out of sight. She had withheld her tears in Roland’s presence—it was already too difficult for him to leave her—but now they spilled unchecked down the smooth lines of her face.
I should be grateful they let him stay this long, she told herself. The baby was due in only two months. Then she, like Roland, would go to England with the child. She knew it was far wiser to remain in Cairo until then. England was cold and wet in October, Cairo sunny and warm. Her obstetrician was a Swiss doctor of impeccable medical credentials to whom she had been referred by Dr. Huerscht, whereas in England the best doctors were serving the war wounded. Here, she had her sister. In England, she had no one. And even the English countryside was subject to bombing raids, while Cairo was now safe from any German threat. Still, Devon wished desperately that she didn’t have to be so far from Roland.
She sank into her flowery couch facedown and indulged in a few moments of sobbing. Then, slowly, it subsided. She sat up again and looked at the tear-covered pillow, ashamed at her self-pity. After all, she told herself, her circumstances were no worse than thousands of other women’s.
Devon got up and rang for Alice, who arrived moments later with a silver tray bearing several letters and invitations.
Alice bustled around the room as Devon perused her mail. “You didn’t eat your breakfast,” she chided Devon, clearing the little round table on the balcony. Devon and Roland almost always breakfasted in the warm morning sun.
“No…” Devon said absently.
Alice threw her a worried look. She knew Devon was distressed at Roland’s departure. But Devon’s next words reassured Alice with their normality.
“Grace has invited me to a luncheon for Cecile de la Montaigne. You know, she’s marrying Lord Penderbrook. Can you prepare my lavender silk?”
Alice went to Devon’s dressing area and located the suit. She checked the hem and cuffs to ensure there were no dangling threads. “I think the skirt needs a bit of pressing,” she murmured, throwing the garment over her arm and going toward the bell pull. A few moments later, a young Arab servant arrived. Alice handed her the skirt, explaining what needed to be done, then dismissed her.
Devon looked at her in amusement. “I didn’t know you’d learned Arabic,” she said, chuckling.
“It’s good management practice to make an effort like that,” Alice said with a businesslike nod of her head.
“I suppose you’re right,” Devon said, respecting Alice for her insight. Alice was in her sixties, but her energy had not abated. The household servants respected her and she, in turn, treated them with kindness and respect.
It was much the same way she, Devon, treated the stable workers at Willowbrook. A wave of homesickness suddenly engulfed her. She had never intended to stay away for such a long time. She knew that Willy was a capable manager, but she still wished she could see the farm again. After the baby was born, she’d visit, she promised herself. And after Roland returned from the war, they would all have to spend several months each year at Willowbrook. She knew that Roland would want to live in England, but he had already told her that he would be happy to spend considerable time in the Virginia countryside that so resembled Abersham. She remembered briefly how bored John had become at Willowbrook. Roland would be more suited to life there, Devon thought happily.
She suddenly had a vision of them many years hence. Roland would be gray, her own hair white. They would still be active, would take rides in the woods, work in the garden. They would have grandchildren by then. A lot of them, she hoped. Perhaps she and Roland could have another child next year.
She wondered if Laurel and Chase had received the letter—sent by Grace in the diplomatic pouch—announcing the news of her pregnancy. Devon had waited until after the fifth month to notify them, not wanting them to be disappointed in case of a miscarriage. Devon missed her parents. She wished Laurel could be beside her when the child was born.
Then she shook her head to clear it of s
uch regrets. She forced herself to think of other things. Deliberately, she shifted her thoughts to Roland’s sister. Devon wondered what she was like. Hopefully like Roland, kind and witty and good-natured. Roland did not often mention Regina, however, and when he did it was always with restraint.
Well, no matter what, Devon told herself, Roland and I have each other.
CHAPTER 44
DEVON was elated that Roland was able to arrive in Cairo the day after the birth of their daughter. Like Morgan, the child was born close to Christmastime, but in the case of this second child, the birthdates followed Christmas rather than preceded it. Her birthday was January 2, 1944.
“Are you disappointed that she’s not a boy?” Devon asked, knowing the answer in advance. She was already sitting in an armchair next to the bed, dressed in the lavishly trimmed red caftan purchased at the bazaar. It was both modest and festive, thus perfectly suited to receiving guests in comfort after the birth of her child.
“Not possible.” Roland beamed. “My only regret is that she won’t be able to inherit Abersham.” The English law of primogeniture often encumbered old properties with prohibitions against female heirs. A male relative, no matter how remote, took precedence over a female direct descendant of the property owner.
“It doesn’t matter,” Devon said, “she’ll have Willowbrook. And,” she added, “I fully intend that we should have another child. A boy maybe?”
“That would he grand, but it doesn’t matter a bit if it’s not.” Roland sat on a pouf at the foot of her chair. From his position, he was able to remain as close as possible to his wife and child. “Darling, I have a very exotic name request,” he said, looking at Devon with a bit of apprehension.
“Exotic?” Devon gave Roland a sidelong glance, then returned to feeding her child.
“What would you think of the name Francesca?” he asked.
“Well…” Devon reflected a moment. “Its certainly not very British.”
“That’s just the point. I thought of names like Penelope or Rowena, but they seemed… not very lively, I suppose.”
Devon laughed. “I have to agree with you.”
“Then there are the shorter names, like Anne or Mary. They’re even more boring!”
“I can’t argue with that either, but how did you arrive at Francesca? It’s not the name of an old girlfriend, is it?” she asked with mock suspicion.
“The very idea!” Roland exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “Well, it’s ridiculous, I suppose, and not at all as tradition dictates, but I once read a book in which the heroine’s name was Francesca. It just stuck in my mind.”
“How long ago did you read this book?”
“Years ago. At school.”
“And you’ve been counting on naming your daughter that all these years?”
“Well, I once considered giving the name to a particularly lovely hound, but then I decided not to squander it.”
“Thank heavens, because I don’t think I would like to name my daughter after your particularly lovely hound.”
“Precisely!” Roland said, raising his arm clownishly so that his right index finger was extended in an exclamation point just above his shoulder.
Devon laughed at the pose, then said, “I suppose that since the name hasn’t been taken by one of your animals…”
Roland sprang to his feet. “Capital! Then you agree!”
“I think it’s a lovely name, and I agree,” Devon said, amused by her husband’s glee.
“Francesca, I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time,” Roland said, tenderly taking his daughter from Devon’s arms, “and I intend to make you as happy as you’ve made me.”
It was a moment that Devon would hold close to her heart until the end of her life.
CHAPTER 45
TERRIBLE foreboding gripped Devon when, on March 31, 1944, she learned that the British Bomber Command had sent 795 aircraft to bomb Nuremberg, Germany—and lost 94 of them. She knew that Roland, acting as fighter escort to the bombardiers, must surely have participated in the mission.
For two days she was almost unable to eat. The circles that appeared under her eyes were so dark that they looked like bruises. Her clear skin erupted with tiny pimples, something that had never happened before.
Then, two days later, euphoria. She received a wire from Roland reassuring her that he was fine. She blessed him for this communication.
Somehow, after those two hellish days, she felt that the worst was over, and indeed, there was some truth to that. The Allies were gaining air superiority over Germany.
Finally, there came a day in April when Roland was convinced that he could bring his wife and daughter to England without fear that they would be killed by a German bomb. He was certain that Hitler’s air force would soon be defeated. In any event, the Germans were kept so busy defending their own cities that their attacks against London had abated.
Although Roland did not write these things to Devon for security reasons, he knew she would understand the significance of his news that she could finally go to Abersham. His London town house in Belgravia was out of the question until the war was over.
Devon was elated when she received Roland’s letter.
“Grace.” She had telephoned her sister immediately. “Francesca and I are going to England!”
The idea of seeing her husband again, of being in his home surrounded by his personal belongings, was almost too exciting for her to bear. It would make her feel closer to him even when he was away, she realized, if she could live in the place in which he grew up.
Roland had arranged for her to fly on a military aircraft to a small airfield near his home, thus avoiding London entirely. It was to be a circuitous and time-consuming trip with several plane changes, but it was the only way to avoid areas that Roland feared might not be entirely safe from the Germans. Not only would the trip be time-consuming, but also Devon had to wait until there were spaces available on an airplane for her, Alice, and Francesca. Precedence was given first to active military, then to soldiers returning home.
And so she waited and hoped each day for a phone call or visit from the RAF telling her it was time to go. Her valises were packed. All she had to do was be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Each morning she dressed herself and Francesca for travel. Each morning Alice packed a soft leather bag with diapers and other necessities for the voyage. And at the end of each day, Devon was disappointed to find that there had been no room for them.
Once, only once, she had telephoned British headquarters to inquire about the possibility of a space for her little group. She had been rebuffed with exquisite politeness.
“I know the wait is tedious, Lady Abersham, and we are sorry for the delay, but so many of our personnel are being transferred to the European theater just now. We will find a place for you soon, I hope.”
“Of course,” said Devon, ashamed that she should be so impatient about a personal matter when the military desperately needed the space. “I won’t trouble you again.”
“No trouble at all, ma’am. Please feel free to check with us again, but rest assured that we have not forgotten you.”
Devon awakened to the cry of the street vendor in front of her villa. He came each morning bearing fresh fruits and vegetables. Exotic, luscious ripe fruits that tasted sweeter than the richest dessert. Devon made it a point to savor a mango each morning with her breakfast, for she knew they would be impossible to obtain in England.
There were many things about Cairo she would miss, she thought as she stretched in the fine Egyptian cotton sheets. She enjoyed her premature nostalgia for Cairo because it meant she would soon be reunited with Roland. She found herself reveling in Cairo’s attractions more than ever because each occasion might be her last in the bustling city. And, paradoxically, that filled her with happy anticipation of the new chapter in her life.
As had become the norm in the past three weeks, she arose to find a summer-weight wool traveling dress laid out for her to we
ar. Spring had officially come to England the month before, but Devon knew it was likely to be chilly and damp there.
She rang for her breakfast, then sat on the flowered sofa of the villa she and Roland had rented to await her sister’s daily phone call. Grace and Devon, as close as ever, spoke on the telephone each morning at approximately nine o’clock, whether or not they intended to see each other later in the day.
Alice entered the room with a tray of steaming coffee, croissants, blackberry preserves, and, of course, a mango.
“Do you think today will be the day?” Devon asked, her face radiant at the thought.
“If it isn’t soon, the war will be over before we even get there,” Alice joked.
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful!” Devon sighed.
Alice smiled and proceeded into the bathroom to draw Devon’s bath. Devon, delighting in the sunny, lazy morning, dreamily ate her breakfast as she read the two-week-old Washington Post sent over by Grace.
When she was finished, she bathed and dressed. She had to unpack her makeup case in order to apply her cosmetics, then repack it in case she should be called to the airfield.
She was on her way to check on Francesca when she was intercepted in the cool marble hallway by the butler, a distinguished Arab who inexplicably spoke nearly perfect English although he had never gone to school.
“Milady, there is a British officer here to see you.”
Devon’s face came alive with excitement. “It’s time!” she exclaimed aloud. “Where is he now?”
“In the foyer, milady.”
“Show him into the conservatory, please,” Devon said breathlessly. “Or, never mind, I’ll do it myself,” she said, sweeping past the servant in her impatience.
As she approached the visitor from the stairway above, she was surprised to see that he wore the insignia of a colonel. She had expected an officer of lesser rank to escort her. As the man turned, she recognized a friend of Roland’s.
Regret Not a Moment Page 33