Captives' Charade

by Susannah Merrill

  “Oh, they o ffered to make the journey, even in this deluge,” Stewart replied, reaching for a slice of the fresh bread Sarah had warmed for them, adding, with a gleam in his eyes, “but I think we’ll manage, don’t you?”

  Sarah blushed ridiculously, to Stewart’s considerable amusement. He chuckled, “I have exhausted my imagination to make you a woman of experience, and yet you still color like a virgin. Look at you,” he chortled, rising to place a kiss on her bowed head. Using a long finger to tilt her pointed chin upward, he spoke in gentler tones, “Come now, my sweet innocent. See me off. I’m going to bring in more firewood, and then we’re going to barricade ourselves against this depressing storm.”

  As the day passed, Sarah experienced an increasing restlessness that had little to do with the steady rain outside. She knew its cause but was hard-pressed for a solution. Despite Stewart’s seemingly complete commitment to marriage and family, there were still too many questions battering about in her mind.

  Why had he remained in Charleston while she, accompanied only by her broken heart, had traveled to Boston? Why had he then stayed away so long? And despite the confession he had made about missing her, Sarah did not truly believe he’d come here to await her return from the fabricated trip to Philadelphia.

  With each passing hour, she was more convinced that Stewart had found himself trapped into a situation with but one honorable solution – and she did not want marriage for that reason alone.

  Oh, at first she had. Seeing him again after all those lonely months, feeling his intoxicating nearness, experiencing the joys that only his touch had ever provoked – those reawakened desires had proved powerful persuaders.

  But where was the love? And how long could the marriage survive without it? Pretending to be his wife had been one thing, but the charade had been successful only because of the threat inherent in a poor performance. What were their chances under the present circumstances?

  Could he be faithful to her? She doubted that very much. There was Felicia, of course, but what of the others she did not even know about? Stewart was a traveler, and there was no indication that the marriage would alter that fact. Could she stand the separations even if fidelity were not a concern? Their parting had nearly destroyed her once. It would be no less demolishing a second time.

  As horribly di fficult as it was going to be, knowing it would irrevocably splinter her heart, Sarah made a decision. The weather was cooperating, as if God himself was forcing her to make a choice. The parson could not come to sanctify the marriage, for there was no marriage to bless. And there wouldn’t be.

  Making the decision was one thing, Sarah knew. Carrying it out would be something much more challenging. But then something happened to change the course of events forever.

  CHAPTER 39

  It was nightfall when Sarah realized that the occasional contractions she’d been feeling during the course of the day were no longer sporadic or benign. Curiously fearful of alarming Stewart, she kept her condition to herself, as if sharing would make real what she did not want to be. It was too early, she chided herself; the pains would go away.

  Finishing up a pure white muslin baby gown, she feigned absolute concentration over her work whenever her rounded belly tightened, praying that Stewart, who sat near her in the glow of the lantern, would not notice that she held her breath or creased her brow.

  Fortunately, he seemed engrossed in reading Johann Kemper’s journal which told of the success of the farm. It was hard to tell that there was so much unspoken between the two; they appeared perfectly, silently, in tune.

  Immediately after the latest pain, Sarah decided that she must seek isolation for it was becoming nearly impossible to keep from gasping. “Stewart,” she began nonchalantly, “I think I will retire now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Is anything wrong,” he responded, closing the ledger as he moved forward in his chair to look at her more closely.

  “Of course not,” she dismissed him lightly. “It’s just that my eyes are tired from this stitchery, and I thought I’d go to bed, rather than take a rest. I can finish it tomorrow.” Seeing that he was about to rise, she gestured hastily, “Oh please, don’t trouble yourself. There’s no reason you need to retire so early.”

  “Afraid that I may ravish you again?” he crooned teasingly, lifting himself effortlessly from the chair.

  Ducking her head to hide her fear, she rejoined negligently, “Of course not! I’d given you credit for some sensitivity, if only because your efforts are ultimately fruitless. You know we can’t ....”

  He refused to be bated. “I was merely going to offer you a hand, my sweet, and tuck you in. You seem to have a bit of trouble moving around today.” Had he noticed after all, she wondered.

  “Please do not coddle me,” Sarah retorted, even though she took his proffered hand. “Were I not perfectly capable of negotiating, I’d not have been left to fend for myself ... Oh my God!”

  Sarah stood riveted to the floor as a gush of warm liquid trailed beneath her pantaloons. Clutching Stewart’s fingers, she stared wide-eyed, her mouth shaped in an exaggerated O, her senses reeling.

  “What is it, Sarah,” he asked intently, his hands rising to her shoulders to steady her. “I-I ... I don’t ... I’m all ....” she struggled, and it was only because she cast her indigo eyes downward over her stomach that Stewart had any idea what she was referring to.

  A faint suspicion developed as he lifted her skirts just enough to see her dampened pantaloons and drops of liquid on the braided rug beneath her. “The baby,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. A flash of insight prompted his next words. “’Tis all right, Sarah. It’s not unusual. It simply means that we’re going to be parents a bit sooner than we’d expected.”

  “No!” she cried out, instinctively clutching the front of his shirt with both fists. “The baby’s not due for three more months! Can’t we stop it?”

  Realizing Sarah was panic-stricken forced Stewart to maintain an aura of calm, despite his own unease. Rubbing her arms, he said quietly, “What we can do is get you into some dry clothes ... and then we’re going to have our baby,” he cajoled with soft, confident words. “Come on now. Put your arms around my neck.”

  Too stunned to do anything but follow his orders, Sarah let herself be carried into the master bedroom, down a small hallway between her own and the Kempers’. It featured a huge four-poster bed, and a stone fireplace that took up one entire wall. It was Stewart’s room, of course, and had he not been carrying her, she still would have felt his presence here by the way the room was sparsely yet exquisitely furnished. Standing her on the plush Aubusson carpeting of browns and blues, he immediately pulled back the thick, downy comforter, ordering her to begin removing her clothes. “I’ll get you a gown and some linens,” he told her, and then proceeded to stir up a fire in the grate.

  “Stewart,” she whispered unsurely, as her fingers fumbled to open the row of tiny buttons on the bodice of her gown, “are you certain ... I mean, could it be a false alarm? Suddenly she gasped for another pain had begun, and this time she had not the warning to disguise its effects.

  He was at her side at once, supporting her as the contraction expanded and diminished, noting the beads of perspiration on her temple despite the room’s chill. When it had passed, he took over the task of unbuttoning her. “That was not your first pain,” he said, his eyes fixed sternly on her downcast lashes.

  It was definitely not a question. He seemed to know much more about childbirth than she, and for once she found his greater knowledge quite comforting, though she was loathe to admit it to him. “How long have you been in labor?” he demanded as he helped her step out of her gown.

  “This afternoon,” she answered quietly, “but I didn’t realize it until a short while ago.” “Then I think, madam, that you’ve answered your own question,” Stewart replied as the folds of Sarah’s undergarments loosed beneath his fingers. “This is no false alarm.”

  Shive
ring from his touch as much as the room’s chill, Sarah was grateful for the quilt he threw round her shoulders before he turned to get her bedclothes. “You’ll have to get Dr. Claremont then,” she told him somberly. “He lives ....”

  “I know where Dr. Claremont lives, Sarah. In the same town as Reverend Rushing who cannot possibly pay us a visit for at least a week. Get ready, dearest,” he leveled at her from the doorway. “We’re going to be on our own.”

  Stewart returned in moments to find tears coursing silently down Sarah’s flushed cheeks. She was standing exactly where he had left her, huddled beneath the heavy quilt. “Another pain, Sarah?” he asked softly, throwing the linens on the bed beside her, before taking her arms.

  “No,”shechoked,leaningheavilyagainst him as if she had not the strength to stand alone. “What is it, then?” he coaxed, brushing the tears aside as he cradled her head against his wide chest, his heart contracting painfully as he felt her distress.

  “I-I am so frightened,” she cried, her shaking voice muffled by his nearness. “I don’t know anything about having a baby. Elsa was going to bring Lydia’s scientific journal so I could read it when the Kempers returned. I thought I would have time. But now, and without a doctor ....” Her words broke off in an agonizing sob.

  “Shhh,”hewhispered,ashecurvedher swollen body to his length, “you have nothing to fear. I told you a long time ago that I had developed some medical knowledge over the years. And it just so happens that birthing babies is one of my specialties.”

  “The truth?” she returned, her huge blue eyes fixing him with a gaze of undisguised hope.

  “The truth,” Stewart assured her, “including my own nephew, Ethan.”

  “You delivered Peggy’s baby?” Her eyes filled with wonder at the thought. “Her second son is named Stewart Ethan after me,” Stewart smiled proudly. “Peggy was overwhelmed with gratitude,” he added arrogantly, though his eyes expressed the teasing nature of his remark.

  “Howeverdid...?”shebegan,curiousnow. “It’s a very long and rather odd story – in hindsight, of course – and I promise to tell you all about it, but not right now. I think a matter of more pressing urgency is the need to get you into your bedclothes.” Immediately Stewart pulled the quilt from her shoulders, reaching for the white brushed cotton gown he had tossed on the bed. Shyly she submitted to his ministrations, her heart nearly bursting with love for this man who was so gently and confidently taking over her life once again. As he tied the satin bows in the front, she was all too aware of his knuckles grazing her breasts, and she allowed herself a moment of pretending that he loved her and that they were married. It could be so good ....

  Another contraction was forming and she winced in anticipation. Sensing her tension, Stewart took her hands, which she grasped tightly. “Relax now, Sarah. Loosen your grip and take deep breaths,” he ordered. “Do you want to lie down?” She shook her head negatively, her eyes fastened shut, her lips a tight line. “Good girl,” he said gently, “it’s better if you don’t, for now at least.” His thumbs made soothing motions on the back of her hands for the duration of the pain, and when it was over, he placed warm lips on her fevered brow. “You’re doing fine, just fine,” he murmured, though it pained him to see her suffering. “Come over to the fireplace with me. And I’ll try to warm up this place a bit.”

  Resting as comfortably as possible under the circumstances, Sarah sat in a winged chair next to the fireplace as Stewart added logs to the paltry blaze. Soon it was roaring and the heat felt good, especially on Sarah’s bare feet. Stewart stayed with her while another pain wrought its torture, and then left to get water and instruments for the birth.

  As the contractions increased in frequency and strength through the night, Stewart did his best to keep Sarah comfortable. At one point, he forced her to walk the length of the room for what seemed like hours, until she was crying with both pain and frustration over his cruelty. “Say what you will,” he intoned, after she upbraided him for his coldblooded tactics, “but you’ll never see a healthy island woman taking such anguish lying down. They walk until the baby is ready to arrive.”

  In fact, however, Stewart’s bravado was a two-edged blade, and both sides were cutting deeply. Sarah’s suffering was his own doing. He had taken her again and again, only vaguely cognizant of the consequences, which paled in significance to the addictive joy her body promised and fulfilled. He kept telling himself that women had babies all the time, and though Stewart had managed to participate in more than a normal man’s share of birthing experiences, he had always been completely detached.

  Detachment in this case was a contrivance he could only hope for. Sarah’s pain was his, and all the worse for he could not suffer it himself, but was forced to live it vicariously in the wounded indigo eyes that pleaded for relief ... relief that he could not provide.

  And the other sharper cut was that what she was going through may all be in vain. He had wracked his brain recalculating the pregnancy, but the fact remained: the baby was grossly premature. If it should survive the birth, there was very little chance it would live.

  As the night wore on and Stewart alternately attended, forced or cajoled the courageous woman whose life had been so affected by his, he pondered these grievous thoughts and prayed that his worst fears would not be realized.

  Though it was morning, the only real light emanated from the fire that was blazing strong yet silently in the hearth. Attracted to the flames, Sarah’s eyes moved slowly toward the light, coming to rest on a silhouette that would forever be emblazoned on her memory.

  Two heads, one covered with unruly waves, the other tiny, round and smooth, were pressed together at the brows. The tiny form was serene and quiet. Peaceful. But the larger shape was shaking uncontrollably from the effect of deep, wretched sobs that were torn from lips glistening with spent tears.

  Transfixed by the sight and the sharpness of the pain it wrought, Sarah closed her eyes again, hoping that the sinking blackness into which she was falling would culminate in a merciful death.

  They buried her on the hill overlooking the low-slung farmhouse, in a beautifully wrought casket that Stewart had labored on for two days, stopping only to tend to Sarah’s meager needs. She had no recollection that he’d eaten or slept.

  With a calmness that belied nothing – for beneath the surface was a cool, hard stone where her heart had once been – Sarah finished the gown she’d once put aside and carefully dressed the miniature form for her eternal sleep.

  With uncanny determination, she denied herself any sentimental indulgence. The baby was dead, and that fact would not change no matter how perfectly formed she was, nor how beautiful her pale skin appeared, nor how angelic her tiny face looked in repose. She would neither walk, nor talk, nor grow to become the apple of her father’s eye.

  She would be denied her mother’s love beyond what they had shared these six months of her existence, and she would never know that she was responsible for the only time her father had ever cried.

  They named her Mary, after Stewart’s mother, and Catherine, after Sarah’s, and she was laid to rest in the drizzling rain; the same rain that had started before she was born.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Sarah, please,” the Duchess begged in an uncharacteristically harsh voice, her frustration at its peak, “you must eat something. You are starving yourself to death, don’t you see?”

  Hollow blue eyes trained themselves on the tearful green ones, and the Duchess recoiled in horror, seeing affirmation there. “Oh my darling,” she finally cried out when she had regained her voice, “why are you doing this? Won’t you tell me? Can’t I help you? Sarah, I demand....”

  “Mother, please,” Sarah replied tiredly, directing her gaze to the garden below her bedroom window. Where Stewart had first kissed her. She winced and turned back to the distraught figure hovering nearby. “I am not starving myself, Mother. I assure you.” There are much slower ways to die.

  “You’ve told none
of us anything that explains your behavior these past four months. I can only assume your captivity was radically more terrible than your account,” the Duchess sobbed, wringing her slender hands.

  “Believe me, through clenched shadowed, sunken eyes, “I have told you everything

  Mother,” Sarah answered teeth, absently rubbing her there is to know about the hijacking, and you have the letter from Captain Slade to verify the events.” By rote, she added, “I have lost Tegan and I suffered an illness on the boat. It simply takes time to regain one’s strength....”

  Sarah’s mother interrupted. “That would explain your weight, perhaps, but not that look in your eyes. No, Sarah, you have changed; you are a stranger to all of us – and I will not rest until we learn its cause.” Imperious though she sounded, she was not prepared for the effect of Sarah’s icy hand grasping her forearm suddenly.

  “Shall I assume this is some kind of threat?” Sarah asked coldly.

  “You’ve left us no choice,” her mother cried out, pulling her arm away shamefully.

  “No choice but what?” Sarah bit back, suddenly unnerved. “You were not supposed to know,” the Duchess wept, “but we had to do something. Don’t you see, Sarah? We want our daughter back.”

  Sarah ignored the heartfelt plea, but a creeping sense of dread forced her to pursue the other remark. “Tell me, Mother,” she ground out, her hands shaking, “what have you done?”

  “Y-your father has sent for ....” “Who, Mother?” Sarah implored recklessly, frightened, angry, and filled with speechless dread. “Who?”

  “M-Mr.Chamberlain,”shesobbed,her beautiful eyes glistening with a tearful apology. Though she was expecting it, the name hit Sarah like a blow to the stomach. Sheer survival instincts alone allowed her voice to maintain a semblance of calm. “You are wasting your time – and Mr. Chamberlain’s – indeed if he does deign to come.”

  “He’s coming, Sarah,” the Duchess uttered as a parting comment, her words bolder in direct relation to her proximity to the bedroom door. “His business relationship with your father is at stake.”