by Louisa Trent
His tombstone would have to make the call there, Talbot mused, massaging his hurting leg.
Oh, that reminded him. He and McDougal did have one major dissimilarity. Talbot had a handicap.
No, not his limp.
His principle.
He only had the one, but that barrier was thicker than any hymen and just as raggedy around the edges from all those outside influences trying to break it. Though poked repeatedly, that barrier refused to budge.
He would not marry without love.
Having never known that particular emotion early in life, he was committed to experiencing it now.
If he was capable of it, which might present an initial stumbling block to the ultimate goal. He did have some reservations on that score. In the orphanage where he was raised, children were not touched a great deal, and so he had never learned those demonstrations of affection, of comfort, of wordless interaction. No cuddling, no hugs, no small brushes of fingertips that meant so much. His first real intimacy with other human beings had consisted of the sexual. That sort of intercourse could be faked. It was only mechanics, and he had always excelled at mechanics, at making something out of nothing but an idea. Even grand sweeping romantic gestures could be imitated with practice. Lips pressed to a wrist, caresses behind a knee, an earlobe tickled—all those moves could produce pleasure in the recipient without the giver feeling anything. He was adept at foreplay, but with the exception of the written word, he rarely felt anything deeply himself.
For that reason, his past dalliances had only included experienced partners, no starry-eyed ingénues. Virgins tended to weep after the sharp prick and then had the temerity to expect to trade a few drops of spilled blood for a gold wedding band. Tiresome. Tears tried his limited patience. And left him confused as to how to proceed.
And so, he would not marry without love. With love would come those touches of affection, of comfort, of true intimacy, of intercourse that went past the physical into the spiritual.
That was his one principle, a tenet in which he firmly believed—love would show him the way. He might stumble en route, he might fall flat on his face, but eventually he would feel something deeply and receive those same profound feelings in return.
In the here and now, however, strumpets would gladly accept cash, promiscuous tarts a slap and a tickle, and worldly women, who looked to the future when their everything began to sag, would gladly invest in a long-term arrangement with a deep-pocketed protector.
All those situations were fine by him.
Because he would not marry without love.
Where did Veronica Cooper fit in there?
She was not an innocent, not a strumpet or a promiscuous tart either, and neither was she a woman of the world. What would suit her?
The stability of a mistress and a visitation schedule suited him best. A tight squeeze would fit every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday evenings into his busy life. In recompense, he would offer a rented house in town with well-appointed furnishings, the occasional bauble and theater ticket thrown in to keep a smile on her face and her legs flung over her head.
While he looked.
Sadly, taking a roll in the hay with her or with any woman was just wishful thinking on his part. All he required of Veronica Cooper was the occasional peep.
Was it not? Could he possibly hope for more?
The wait to speak with Mr. Cooper was long, and Talbot had done a lot of thinking. In the end, though, his one raggedy scruple made the decision for him. And he would act accordingly.
When the maid showed him into his meeting with Mr. Cooper, Talbot came right to the point. “No disrespect intended, sir, but I know about your daughter’s circumstances. It has also come to my attention that she is carrying her lover’s child and that the man refuses to wed her and give them the protection of his name. I propose to do both.”
Talbot took a deep breath and then plunged. “Mr. Cooper, I am here today to formally request Miss Veronica Cooper’s hand in marriage and to claim the baby as my own. I love her, sir. I did from the very first word.”
Chapter Seven
Papa had requested she meet with him in the library, and Veronica descended the staircase from her bedroom to the first floor like a shuffling old woman, one hand clutched to her heaving belly, the other holding on tight to the railing.
Mornings were by far the worst. At breakfast, she could barely keep down a cup of milky tea. Generally, by late afternoon, the nausea would fade and she could take a slice or two of dried toast. It was now early evening, and she still felt remarkably unwell, too ill to eat.
Was her baby all right?
Seven weeks along, or so she estimated, and she continued to spot her drawers. Not a great deal, but the bright red speckles on the snowy white linen frightened her. Was all as it should be with her pregnancy, or was this intermittent bleeding a sign of something dire?
As an only child with a mother long deceased, she had no one to whom to pose her concerns. The doctor who had confirmed her delicate condition had not been at all forthcoming as to the details of what she might expect. Unwed and ruined too, she was also removed from the homey information she might ordinarily have garnered from married ladies in her acquaintance. Her father meant well, but woman’s problems were not something she could discuss with him. And so she had told no one about the spotting, because there was simply no one to tell, even if she were to leave the house, which she most assuredly was not about to do. Too sick, too shamed, she stayed secreted away in her darkened bedroom with the curtains drawn.
Despite the precautions, prying eyes were everywhere. Even the chambermaids whispered behind her back. Humiliating.
Where was Robert? Why had she not heard from her lover?
She knew so little about him, not even where he resided. Some tenement, she would guess, but which one? Sending a note around to his door was impossible without an address.
The same did not hold true for him. He knew where she lived. Why had he not taken the initiative and contacted her, as he had done in the past?
After that terrible story appeared in the scandal sheets, a salacious indictment of her name without any mention of his, she had expected him to come to her house. But no. He made no effort to see her. Consequently, she had yet to tell him about the baby, that he was to be a father.
Not hearing from him was all so frightening. But for the sake of her child, she would not give in to her worry. Robert would come for her. He made very little money as a dockworker, but they would manage after their wedding. Somehow. Perhaps she would take in laundry to help make ends meet.
Veronica’s foot stalled on the tread. Oh dear. How did one wash clothing?
Hopeless. She was so utterly stupid about the running of a household. Why oh why had she not thought about the repercussions of her sexual activity?
But even if she had, even if she had considered contraception, what good would that have done her? Robert would never have cooperated. A good Irish Catholic like him take precautions? Use a condom? Practice withdrawal?
Ha!
And here she had called herself a proponent of free love. Free seemed to mean the man escaped all commitment and responsibility.
She covered her trembling lips with a hand. What would she ever do?
Her father might disown her, disinherit her, banish her to Europe until she gave birth…
If she gave birth.
Why was she spotting?
After making her slow way down the rest of the stairs, an attack of wooziness struck in the front hall. As black spots danced before her eyes, a man rushed lopsidedly to her assistance. Too ill to care, too ill for politeness, she made no attempt to focus her eyes on his face or to inquire over his name, but merely leaned against him for support while trying not to retch all over his shiny boots.
“Place your arm around my neck,” he said abruptly, his tone educated though stiff.
She wore no corset, no gown for that matter. Clad only in a loose wrap…and red-
spotted drawers to catch the steady drip, drip, drip of crimson blood…she did as he bade her.
After settling her into his arms, he began limping up the stairs she had just come down.
“Which bedchamber is yours?” he asked.
“Last door on the left, the end of the second floor hall,” she gasped as a dreadful pain squeezed at her innards.
He noticed straightaway. “What ails you?”
She rested her head against the rock solidness of his chest, and spoke into the soft black wool of his coat. “I am bleeding.”
“From where?” he demanded to know.
How could she possibly tell him? Even the doctor had not looked at her down there. His examination had consisted of kneading her belly over her shift and asking about her monthlies.
My baby, she wanted to scream through her chattering teeth. Is something wrong with my baby?
Oh, God, she felt so alone. Why was childbirth shrouded in mystery?
Finally, terror for her baby prompted her to say to this complete stranger, “Between my legs. I am bleeding between my legs.”
“Vaginal bleeding,” he muttered and raced lopsidedly along the hallway for her room.
She tossed her head back and forth. “Robert! Where is Robert?” She looked up into a beardless face, and a dull memory competed with a sharp pain for a foothold.
Why, she knew him. He was the staring gentleman from the book reading. Why was he here?
“Put me down!” Twisting like a snared rabbit in his arms, she thrashed her head frantically back and forth. “Stay away from me. You walk with a cane, sir.”
“A walking stick,” he corrected, placing her on her bed. Without ceremony and regardless of propriety, he flung her wrap up to her chin, yanked down her bloodstained drawers, and splayed her legs wide while she squealed. “No no no.”
“Miss Cooper, this is no time for offended modesty. This bleeding must be staunched.” He hiked her knees up in the air and bent his head to her privates.
She felt faint. “My baby. Please, sir, do what you must to save my baby.”
As something tore away inside her and she gushed hot and wet below, the stranger’s head popped up from between her knees. He placed his cane aside, stripped off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. After pouring hot water from the bedstead’s pitcher into the washbasin, he dunked his hands and furiously scrubbed them with soap up to the wrist.
“Where do you keep your menstruation rags?” he asked.
“My bureau, top drawer,” she cried as agony squeezed her belly and darkness mercifully moved in.
Chapter Eight
Four months later, Maynard Cooper held a shaking finger in front of Veronica’s nose. Though her father had never raised his voice to her before, he shouted at her now. “You will do as I say, daughter. You will wed Mr. Talbot Bowdoin, for you have no other choice. Your reputation is in tatters.”
Too upset to be still, Veronica paced the floor in her father’s library while twisting a hanky in her hands. The square of embroidered linen was not there to catch her tears. She had done no crying these past weeks. The hanky served as a prop, something to wring in frustration.
“Sorry, Papa, but I cannot obey you. Someone…indeed, a man…will soon come for me. He will take me away.”
“If you are referring to Robert McDougal, that scalawag will do nothing of the kind. Not only is he your social inferior, the man has no honor or integrity. You are well rid of him.”
“He loves me.”
Her papa’s face grew florid, as if he were on the verge of having an apoplexy. “Loves you? Bah! He used you.”
“What do you mean he used me? Used me how?”
“I never wished to tell you, never wished to hurt you this way, but you leave me no alternative. That evil piece of offal came here, to this very room, and tried to extort money from me.”
She stopped her pacing. “Why?”
“Robert McDougal is a union activist involved in rabble rousing at the port. Countless strikes against shipping companies like mine owe their inception to him and to men just like him. These insurrections will be the downfall of sea commerce yet.”
Her father sounded so bitter. She feared for his health when he crashed a fist down on a nearby bookshelf.
“The colossal gall of that man,” Papa exploded. “Cooper Enterprises pays a fair wage and offers those men who unload company ships decent working conditions. But no. That was not enough. Give an inch, and these Irish immigrants will steal a mile.”
“But, Papa, what did Robert do?”
“McDougal tried to bully me into making the union additional concessions, using his involvement with you as leverage. He threatened to besmirch your good name and blacken mine if I refused his demands. When I did refuse his blackmail, he succeeded in both.”
Bile rose in her throat. “You must be mistaken. Robert would never do any of those despicable things.”
“You were to be his meal ticket. When he saw he would get no extortion money out of me, McDougal abandoned you in your hour of need. That above all is what I cannot forget or forgive. Now you are ruined. Marrying Talbot Bowdoin is your only option.”
Papa was only doing what he thought best. Despite the embarrassment she had caused him, he was determined to rescue her through an arranged marriage to a complete stranger.
She was just as determined to stand on her own two feet. “I think I should get away from the city for a while. I quite need a change of scenery.”
“I agree. A quiet wedding to Mr. Bowdoin provides you with that opportunity.”
“No arranged marriage! I need to go by myself.”
“Where?”
She plucked at her hanky. “Somewhere. Anywhere.”
“I am willing to provide for you, Veronica. It is a question of your happiness, not a question of money.”
“I cannot accept any further financial help.”
“Damnation! You will need support!”
“I need nothing of the kind.” She lifted her chin. “I shall support myself.”
“How? How will you support yourself?”
“My writing. Other female authors have been self-supporting based on their book earnings.”
“May I remind you that you have not put a pen to paper since your unfortunate illness—”
“Not illness. You refer to my recent miscarriage. And subsequent low spirits.”
“I do not mean to be cruel, dear, but—”
“You could never be cruel, Papa,” she quickly interjected.
“There are realities to consider. At present, you have scant earnings. No prospects. No suitors. In the eyes of society, you are disgraced. Furthermore, since your physician said you are unlikely to conceive again, what man will offer for you?”
“The one you expect me to marry. This Talbot Bowdoin.”
“So take his offer, go away for a time, and allow this scandal to die.”
Dear God. The helpless look in her father’s eyes cut her to the quick. She had put him through so much already with her book, an erotic work he had gritted his teeth and accepted. Because he loved her. Her writing must have humiliated him, yet he had stoically kept his embarrassment to himself and encouraged her writing. How many fathers would do the same?
And how could any loving daughter put a father through any more?
And he was right—if she left town now, where would she go? Limited funds, no will to write—how would she live? Apart from an overactive imagination, she had no other talent, no other skills. If she also refused her father’s financial support, she would end up on the docks, servicing men far worse than Robert McDougal.
“Veronica, my dear child, I love you.”
“And indeed, Papa, I love you.”
“Please understand, this is not something I undertake lightly. This marriage is a solution to your difficulties, one I refused initially.”
“Initially?”
“Mr. Bowdoin approached me as this scandal was breaking, and I refuse
d him. In my arrogance, I thought I could cover the story up, but I failed. And now, look at you. Hollow cheeked and pale. So melancholy you no longer write.”
“I have not made Mr. Bowdoin’s acquaintance. Why would he offer for me, used goods?”
“He said he read your book and fell immediately and hopelessly in love with your exuberant zest for life. A wild infatuation he cannot escape. He knows everything, including the doctor’s prognosis.”
“I see. And still he proposed. Some infatuation,” she said glumly. “He must have a self-destructive streak to take me on. Or be completely mad. ”
“Nothing of the sort. These things happen, my dear. Though not of our social class, he is nevertheless a solidly wealthy man, a respected member of the community and a pillar of society. Apart from that, he has sent weekly notes to this house inquiring over your recovery. In my last reply, I agreed to give him your hand. Your marriage will put this whole sordid episode behind us.”
She sighed. “I sincerely apologize for hurting you, Papa. I was thoughtless. And selfish. See to the marriage legalities. I hereby comply with all terms. My days of free and independent thought are finished.”
“I am very relieved, child. Now, there is a condition.”
“What is it?”
“Mr. Bowdoin has asked that any specifics about him or his background be discussed between the two of you without a third-party filter. In other words, me. So I cannot go into details with you about him.”
She reached over and hugged her father. It was time to mend fences, to make amends. Between her scandalous book and her scandalous behavior, she had made her father’s life a living hell. Shame and gossip had confined more than her to the house. In these past weeks, her poor father had become a prisoner of gossip too. He had lost friends and business due to her. Guilt by association had just about ruined him too.
