by Louise Allen
What sort of reason is that for wanting your wife’s love? he asked himself. She is no fool. She likes you well enough in bed, she liked you well enough when she thought you would make a decent father. Why couldn’t you have hidden how you feel about the baby? Why couldn’t you have explained about Freddie?
Elliott urged the team into a canter. Just don’t fall in love with her, he thought. Don’t be so stupid as to risk that. Rafe did not love you, the child most certainly won’t—children know when they aren’t loved—and Arabella can see you all too clearly.
He was almost at Fosse Warren when he heard the hooves thundering behind him. He reached for his pistols in their holster strapped to the side of the curricle as he turned to look over his shoulder, then thrust them back as he recognised Peters, the head groom from the Hall, galloping flat out on Ace, Elliott’s big black hunter.
‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded as the man reined in beside him. ‘Her ladyship?’
‘No, my lord.’ The man got his breath back and pulled a letter out from the breast of his coat. ‘Her ladyship is perfectly well. Only she rang, about half an hour after you’d left, my lord, and gave me this letter. She said it was urgent and I was to give it to you as soon as I could.’
‘Ride on to Fosse Warren with me,’ Elliott said, putting the roughly folded letter with its blob of sealing wax into his own coat. What had Arabella to say that was so urgent? Never come back, I hate you, probably. Or she had sat down with the dictionary and found the words to tell him just what a stiff-rumped, self-righteous, deceitful husband she had found herself.
He fended off the enthusiastic welcome of butler and housekeeper at the Warren and retreated to his study, thankful for the small, well-worn familiarity of the place.
The hastily melted lump of wax broke into shards under his impatient thumb and he spread the letter out on the desk.
I am sorry, it began with no salutation. I have been so afraid of exposing you to gossip and censure for what I did. For my sin. And there they were, my worst fear. Not only friends who would be critical of you—but such a beautiful young woman. So eligible. She will know what to do always. She will know how to act and what to say. Not like me. I stood there feeling lumpen and ashamed. Of course you should have married her.
There is no excuse for me losing my temper. I cannot blame it on my condition—it is my insecurity and guilt. My shame. And I should not take it out on you.
But, Elliott, you should have told me about her. I am your wife and I want to be a good wife. And I cannot if you keep things from me.
Do not worry about me. I feel better now I have written this and I will do my best to have long lists of all the tenants’ needs by the time you have exhausted all your invitations and reassured yourself about Fosse Warren.
I will do my best to look after the Hall while you are gone.
It was signed simply A.
Elliott looked at the letter for a long time. He was not even making much of a fist at being the sort of husband Freddie, brought up to this life, would have expected. Arabella was lonely and ashamed and feeling guilty. He picked up his pen and wrote.
I will come home tomorrow. I am sorry too, I should have trusted you with the truth. I find I do not want to look at turnip clamps or attend prize fights. I will come home and we will hold dinner parties if you would like that. And we will go on picnics.
E.
Chapter Twenty
Elliott returned home the next day and discovered that, for a married man, there were interesting ways to make up after a row. They held dinner parties and a card party, Arabella met all the local gentry and faced down the occasional raised eyebrow at her burgeoning figure. The staff, as he suspected, had already guessed well before they were told that their mistress was expecting a happy event, and were quietly delighted. On the surface theirs was a successful marriage.
Anne Baynton and Arabella became fast friends and, as she became more secure and confident, his wife began to blossom in a way that took his breath when he looked at her.
Arabella grumbled about backache and twinges, about feeling too hot and having to disappear at frequent intervals into the brand-new water closet he had ordered to be installed. But she also grew more passionate and adventurous in bed, which delighted him, although, out of the bedroom, she remained slightly distant and reserved. She had not forgotten what he had said about the child and he wondered if she trusted him after he had concealed the truth about Freddie from her.
And he knew he was not reaching out to her as he should. He did not know how to reach her, how to make her trust him without declarations of love that he was sure she would see through. Would he have fallen in love with her if he had been the one to meet her in that country churchyard, if she had looked at him and seen her Sir Galahad on his black charger?
He liked her, he worried about her, he desired her body and enjoyed her mind. Was that not enough without pining away and feeling the need to write poetry and make flowery speeches? As the weeks passed and everything else became better on the surface Elliott found he could not forget, except for a few hours at a time, that the child Arabella was carrying was not his.
Then one morning in the middle of August he found her, her hands clasped over the swell of her belly, her expression intent and inward looking. ‘What is it?’ Elliott knelt beside her. ‘Is something wrong? Shall I send for the doctor?’
In answer she took his hand and laid it on the curve and smiled at him, her face radiant. ‘Feel. The baby is moving.’
And under his hand something shifted, kicked. Arabella’s baby. Rafe’s son. An ordinary miracle that every parent greeted with joy and rejoicing. He felt ill with the violence of his instinctive rejection and furious with himself for feeling that way.
Elliott fought to keep his face clear of expression, but she must have felt his reaction through her hold on his hand. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ he lied. He had to hide it from Bella, she needed tranquillity and reassurance now, not this dishonourable rejection that he should be able to overcome. ‘I was just worried—doesn’t that hurt?’ Another kick came right under his palm as though the child sensed him and his resentment of it.
‘No. It does feel strange that it is so strong. I expect it will be a little uncomfortable when he is bigger.’
‘You are certain it is a boy, then?’
‘Not really—I cannot decide.’ Her colour was high, but all the inner glow seemed to have gone out of her. ‘I am sorry, that was tactless of me, given how you feel.’ But despite her distress at his reaction she was watching him with a tenderness in her eyes that he supposed was a reflection of her feelings for the baby. He was constantly wondering about her true feelings, about what was going on behind those wide hazel eyes, even when her face lit up at the sight of him coming into a room or her arms reached for him in bed.
There was noise from outside and he got to his feet, glad to be away from the intensity of his feelings and the searching look in Arabella’s eyes as she studied his face. ‘Daniel’s here,’ he told her.
Arabella got to her feet and walked slowly to stand beside him at the window. She curled her hand over his arm and the ache inside subsided a little. She always made him feel good, he realised, wondering at it.
‘Perhaps I should find him a nice wife and he can set up his own nursery,’ Arabella said.
Elliott watched his cousin as he jumped down from what looked like a smart new Dennet gig. He liked Daniel and his cousin was a good friend to Arabella, who seemed relaxed with him in a way she never was with Elliott. He wondered why he had never felt jealous, but looking down and seeing the pleasure on Arabella’s face he felt a jolt of something unpleasantly like it now. ‘Matchmaker,’ he said.
She laughed at his accusation, and shook her head at him. Elliott kept his arm around Arabella’s shoulders when they went down to greet Calne. It was strange, he reflected as Daniel showed him his new gig, how very possessive he felt towards Arabella all of a sudden.
Simply territorial instinct and the fact that she was his responsibility, he supposed.
She was stroking the horse, a pretty grey mare, laughing as it blew gustily into her palm in search of titbits. ‘She is sweet, Daniel. Have you had her long?’
‘A few weeks. Would you like to come for a drive, Bella?’
‘I would love to, but—’ She looked at Elliott, her face alight at the thought of such a simple treat. He realised that it had never occurred to him to take her out in one of his sporting vehicles. She would be driven to the village or to visit tenants in the gig or the closed carriage and, being Arabella, had not presumed to ask for something more interesting.
‘I will take you driving tomorrow in the phaeton,’ he promised. ‘I would say today, but I promised to meet Henderson to decide on some felling over in Forty Acre Wood.’
‘Of course, thank you,’ she said with every sign of pleasure. But he saw her give the mare a last, lingering caress.
‘But there is no reason for you not to go with Daniel now.’ Why be such a dog in the manger? Calne was a good driver and the mare was prettily behaved and he trusted his cousin. He was rewarded by her smile.
‘Thank you, Elliott.’ She came and kissed his cheek and he felt ridiculously pleased. ‘I will just go and get my bonnet and pelisse, Daniel.’
Elliott waited, chatting to the other man, until she came down with Toby running behind her. He handed her up, watching how the mare reacted, then waved them off and strode away to the stables to have his own hack saddled.
He should have thought to take her out more, spend more time with her alone before the baby came, and then she would not have to turn to his cousin for companionship. It had been easy to enlarge their social circle, but that did not require him to be alone with Arabella, to let her close. Bed was different—he smiled at the thought—but he wished he knew how to make a friend of his wife.
7 December
Sit on the sidelines and be ignored. Doctor Hamilton’s words were all too true, Elliott thought, pacing back and forth across the hearth rug in the study. In the grate a fire crackled cheerfully, outside, the first snows of the winter were swirling against the window panes and the short afternoon was drawing in.
Both Arabella and the doctor had been predicting that the baby would arrive the previous week, but now it was the seventh of December and she had been in labour since the small hours when she had woken him, apologising for disturbing his sleep.
Elliott had run for the stables, woken two grooms and sent them for the doctor, then returned, only to be firmly shown the door by Gwen and Mrs Knight. He stood outside staring at the panels and strained his ears. Silence. He began to pace, counting lengths of the corridor. Twenty, thirty. A cry, sharply cut off, and he lost count, ran back and opened the door. He caught a glimpse of Arabella’s face, white and serious, but not, thank God, distressed.
‘Elliott,’ she said, conjuring up a smile from somewhere. ‘Do go and lie down and get some sleep, my dear. Nothing will be happening yet.’
Sleep? How the devil did she expect him to sleep? Mrs Knight came and took hold of the door handle, her face managing to be both indulgent and severe at the same time. ‘Go away, my lord. This is women’s work now. The mistress needs to concentrate and she can’t be doing with worrying about not upsetting you.’
He retreated to the study, rang for the fire to be made up and tried to fight the image those words conjured up. Arabella wouldn’t want him upset. All the things she would be going through that might upset him were only too vivid. Like him, Rafe had been a big man—the baby was probably huge…
The sound of the door knocker had him at the entrance before Henlow could reach it. The doctor came in, disgustingly cheerful and completely calm as he brushed the snow from his shoulders. Anyone would think, Elliott ranted to himself, that this was not a crisis.
Doctor Hamilton looked at him. ‘There is nothing you can do, there is no cause for concern, my lord.’ He smiled. ‘I would have thought you a man of iron nerve. Now, courage—and don’t start on the brandy too early.’
Elliott was left at the foot of the stairs, feeling bereft and utterly useless. That had been seven hours ago. The doctor had emerged and taken luncheon, reporting slow but perfectly normal progress. Mary Humble, the girl from the village Arabella had hired as nursery maid, arrived, cheerful and kindly. Mrs Knight came out now and again looking flushed, told him there was nothing to worry about and vanished again. He worried.
When the clock struck four he opened the door and strode across the hall and up the stairs. And heard Arabella’s cry. No. He was not leaving her any longer. By the sound of it she was past worrying about upsetting him.
The sheet was tented over the bed, Hamilton at the foot, the housekeeper was rubbing Arabella’s back and Gwen holding her hand. She was white and sweating and her hair was limp about her face and she looked exhausted, but her eyes opened wide as she saw him. Then another contraction took her and she strained against it, her struggle not to cry out obvious.
‘I’m here,’ Elliott said, putting Gwen aside and taking Arabella’s hand. ‘And I am not leaving and you scream as much as you like.’ She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him, then closed her fingers around his in a grip like death.
After that he lost touch with time and any reality other than the woman on the bed. As the intensity of the contractions increased, Elliott simply poured all his strength and will into Arabella and prayed for her and for this to be over.
And then the others went still, there was a moment’s quiet and the doctor said, ‘Now!’ bent down and the indignant cry of a child filled the room. Arabella fell back against the pillows and Elliott took her in his arms, kissing her in utter relief.
‘Oh, sweetheart, Arabella darling. You brave girl. My brave girl.’ She smiled up at him, exhausted yet serene. He had never felt closer to her, never so possessive.
‘My lord, do you not want to see the child?’ It was Mrs Knight behind him.
‘No,’ Elliott said baldly. Ludicrously, he had forgotten for a few moments what had brought them to this crisis. He did not want to see the child who had given Arabella so much pain to deliver. Rafe’s child. ‘I want to see my wife.’
‘Who wants her baby in her arms, not you, man,’ his housekeeper said as she gave him a sharp jab in the ribs. When he sat back she slipped a small swathed bundle into Arabella’s arms. ‘There, my lady. A lovely little girl.’
‘A girl?’ He rounded on Dr Hamilton, who was washing his hands.
‘Indeed yes, my lord. A perfectly healthy daughter.’ He frowned at Elliott and lowered his voice. ‘There’s time enough for sons, don’t be worrying her ladyship about that now. Let her think you are pleased.’
‘I am pleased, damn it,’ Elliott retorted. ‘I am delighted. I couldn’t be happier.’
I have got what I wanted. A daughter. Rafe’s daughter. Not a son. Now my son will be heir. The dark, visceral triumph built inside him until he could have shouted for joy. And then he looked at Arabella, exhausted after hours of pain and effort and risk and the shame washed back. No sooner had she gone through that than he was dreaming of putting her through it all over again. She would show him her daughter and his pleasure would be not for the child, but because it was a girl. You ungrateful devil, he thought. You selfish lout.
‘Elliott?’ Bella wanted him, was wondering why he was not at her side. Elliott made himself smile and went to sit, with care, on the edge of the bed. The baby was already at her breast and the sight knocked the breath out of him. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’
‘Lovely,’ he agreed, putting out a tentative finger to touch the red, crumpled cheek. ‘Like her mother,’ he lied valiantly.
‘Are you all right?’ Arabella asked him. ‘You sound—I don’t know, upset.’
‘Shock,’ he said, pushing the hair back from her face with a hand that shook slightly. ‘I can see why Dr Hamilton and Mrs Knight wanted to keep me out. Mere men are not strong enough for
this.’
Arabella gave a little huff of laughter as though that was all she had the energy for. ‘Here,’ she said as the baby stopped sucking and began to grizzle. ‘Go to your father.’
He found his hands full of the preposterously tiny bundle. The baby frowned at him, all angry red face, blue eyes and a drift of kitten-soft black hair right on top of her head. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Calne,’ he said, feeling inadequate. She obviously thought him so too, for she closed her eyes and began to cry in earnest. You are not a boy, he thought, trying to find some other emotion than one of simple relief that Arabella was all right and the child was a girl.
‘Bring her over here, my lord,’ said Mrs Knight. ‘I’ll hold her while Gwen and Mary make her ladyship comfortable.’
‘No,’ Elliott said, standing up and shifting the baby so she felt safe in his arms. ‘I’ll take her through to the sitting room for a few minutes.
‘Shh,’ he said, rocking her a little. ‘Shh. You must learn to do what your papa tells you.’ She quietened and opened her eyes. Speech seemed to soothe her. Papa? I must learn to get used to that. I must learn to love this red-faced little person who has caused such havoc.
Elliott sat down and talked nonsense softly to her until she went to sleep. When Mrs Knight came back for him the bed had been remade and Arabella was asleep in a fresh nightgown, her hair combed back and held by a simple ribbon. She looked too young to be a mother. His heart contracted and his vision blurred.
‘I’ll take the little one, shall I, my lord?’ It was the new nursery maid, smiling and competent, reaching for the baby.
Elliott handed her over. ‘Where is the cradle?’
