No longer sleepy, Sarah found the hours dragged as she lay staring over a book. The ache in her back continued, and the pains were sharper and more frequent. Finally she abandoned any attempt to read and stared out at the rain-darkened sky, straining her ears for sounds of the doctor’s arrival. Please God—she closed her eyes to pray over and over —please God, let no harm come to my babe.
Just as night fell, she heard the welcome sound of the doctor’s hearty Scots voice. “What’s this trouble ye be havin’?” the doctor boomed as he strode into the room.
Briefly Sarah told him. He frowned and shook his head. “Yer lady mother na had a bit o’ problem carryin’ her babes. Bleedin’, ye say? I’d best have a look.”
He finished his examination, his face sober. “I’ll tell ye straight, lass. There’s some that bleed, and carry the babe, and some who lose it. Ye must stay abed—no getting up for anything, hear? Stay abed, and we’ll see.”
Fear such as she had never known clutched Sarah. “Lose it?” she whispered. She seized the doctor’s hand. “Surely you can do something.”
The doctor’s bluff face softened. “Dinna fash thyself, lass. I’ve known ye since ye were a wee bairn, and knew ye’d want the truth of it. ’Tis strong ye are, and likely all will be well. But there’s naught to do but stay abed and keep yer mind easy. The rest is in God’s hands.”
Becky’s summons reached Nicholas as he sat in his study fortifying Hal with brandy for the upcoming rout. Despite Hal’s initial protests, he left at once. Becky was an older, experienced woman, not given to flights of fancy. If she thought the matter grave enough to recall him, ’twas likely to be serious indeed.
Within an hour he had strapped on a saddlebag and was guiding Valkyrie through the London traffic. Worry churned in his stomach. A barn-raising had been planned, and Sarah would doubtless have supervised. Had there been an accident? Becky’s note provided no details. He pressed his horse harder.
When Nicholas calculated he’d reach Sarah before nightfall, he hadn’t reckoned on the driving rain that began flailing him as soon as he left the environs of London, or on the pathetic condition of the hacks he was forced to hire after Valkyrie tired. It was past dark when at last, soaked through and jarred in every limb, he beheld the torches burning on the gatehouse at Stoneacres.
Never so glad in his life to surrender anything as he was to turn over the last sorry nag to a stable boy, he half fell from the saddle and stumbled up the front stairs. Briggs opened the door before he could knock.
“So glad you’ve come, Lord Englemere.” The butler reached up to help him out of his sodden greatcoat. “The doctor’s with her ladyship now.”
“No!” Sarah’s anguished cry ricocheted down the stairwell and lanced through him. For a moment after the echo faded, both men stood frozen, Briggs’s hands clutching the collar of Nicholas’s coat. Then Nicholas stripped off the dripping garment and took the stairs two at a time.
“No,” Sarah repeated in a whisper. Even before the examination the doctor had just completed, she’d known the bleeding was heavier. The pains came often, and had intensified to wrenching spasms. Still, she refused to believe it. “There must be something you can do, Doctor—anything! I’ll do anything to keep this babe!”
“Sarah, child, ’tis naught ye can do but accept. ’Tis young ye are, lass. There’ll be other babes.”
“You don’t understand. My husband needs an heir. I owe it to him. I must carry this child!”
“Sure, and all men wish for sons, lass. But ye canna stop what’s meant to be.” He patted her hand, his eyes sorrowful. “Rest, now. ’Twill be over by morning, belike.”
He turned to Becky, who stood by the bed. “Give her laudanum for the pain.” He looked back at Sarah’s rigid face and sighed. “Take some and rest, lass.”
This isn’t happening, Sarah told herself, locking her hands over her belly as if by so doing she could ward off the catastrophic process going on there. “No,” she moaned.
Becky wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. “I’ll fetch you hot tea, Miss Sarah, and be back in a twink.”
But when the door opened a few moments later, it wasn’t Becky with the tray. His wet hair plastered against his head, his sodden clothes steaming in the room’s warmth, Nicholas paused on the threshold. “Oh, Sarah.”
Sarah closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall.
Chapter Sixteen
She heard Nicholas shut the door, felt the mattress shift as he sat on the bed beside her. “The doctor just told me. I’m so sorry, Sarah.”
She couldn’t bear to face him. Struggling for control, she lay with her back to him, her eyes locked on the wallpaper. At last she managed to calm her breathing.
“I’m sorry, too, Nicholas,” she told him, still facing the wall. “Dreadfully sorry. You didn’t need a housekeeper, for your household runs like an oiled watch, or a friend, for you’ve many, or a lover, as—well, no matter. Only one thing did you need from me. And I have failed to provide even that.”
“Don’t, Sarah!” Nicholas cried. “Calm yourself, sweeting. Such things happen, the doctor said. You must dismiss such absurd fancies and rest.”
She turned then. He looked distraught, she thought with numb detachment. As well he might. He’d bought a wife dear, and had no return yet for his investment. When he continued to gaze intently at her, she realized with a small shock he was genuinely worried.
With a supreme effort, she damped down the agony scouring her. “I shall be fine, Nicholas. I’m sorry you were dragged out of London to no purpose.” She managed a weak smile. “You’re dripping on the bedclothes.”
Nicholas studied her. Seeming reassured, he smiled back. “Let me get food and dry clothes, and I’ll return.”
He stepped toward the door, then halted. “I wanted to come, Sarah—’twas no inconvenience. You should know, if anything happens, my place is with you.” He wet his lips as if to say something further, then closed them. After a moment he said, “I’ll be back shortly.”
Sarah fixed her smile in place until the door shut. Then she fell against the pillows, and with a sigh that was half groan, half sob, turned her face back to the wall.
Finally dry in borrowed clothes, for the ones he’d packed in his saddlebag were scarcely better then those he’d arrived in, Nicholas warmed himself by the kitchen fire and hurriedly downed a plateful of food. As he drained the last sip of ale, Becky came in, her tearstained face anxious.
“Will you be going up to my mistress?”
“Directly, Becky.” He put down the mug. “How is she?”
Becky’s lips trembled and her hands twisted the ends of her apron. “The pains be stronger now. I tried to coax her to take the laudanum, but she’ll have none of it. Powerful sorry I am about the child, your lordship.”
“Thank you for caring for her. And for sending word. Did she read you a scold over that?”
“Aye, a bit. But I feared ’twas this from the first, and thought you’d want to be here.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Oh, my poor lamb! She wanted this babe so much.”
“I’ll go up and see what I can do about the medicine.”
When Nicholas entered, Sarah still lay facing the wall. Though she was motionless, he knew she wasn’t sleeping.
She looked so small on that big bed. Seeing her still, her air of quiet competence vanished, Nicholas realized again how fragile she was. His heart cried out at her pain, and he wanted nothing so much as to comfort her.
He eased himself beside her on the bed, took one limp hand and chafed it. “Sarah, sweeting, how can I help?”
She turned to him slowly, infinite sadness in her shadowed eyes. “Nicholas,” she murmured. “You must be exhausted. A miserable ride through the rain, only to learn of the l-loss of your child.”
“’Tis you who concern me. What can I do?”
“Nothing.” She took a ragged breath. “There’s nothing anyone can do. Go to bed, Nicholas.”
Her flat, emo
tionless voice moved him more than tears. He fumbled with the laudanum bottle. “Sarah, at least take some medicine. ’Twill ease—”
“Go, Nicholas,” she repeated in a whisper. “I’ll be better by morning.” She pulled her hand from his and once more turned toward the wall.
“Sarah?” He cupped her shoulder, yearning to gather her into his arms. She held herself stiffly, resisting.
“Go get some rest, Nicholas.” Her muffled voice was barely audible. “Please—for me?”
He sat immobile, stricken that she refused the comfort he wanted so badly to give. Finally, though the urge to embrace her almost consumed him, he forced himself to honor her all-too-plainly stated wishes.
“All right, Sarah, I’ll go. Rest, sweeting.” He kissed her averted head.
Settling for maintaining a sort of vigil in the adjoining room, he had Briggs place a cot by her door and, unutterably weary, dropped onto it. He was too distraught to be surprised at the ferocity of his need to hold and console her. Only by stern effort of will did he restrain himself from sleeping by her bed.
When next he thought at all, wan dawn light filled the sitting room. He jumped up and eased her door open.
Sarah lay quietly, and he could tell by the relaxed line of her body that she slept.
She looked peaceful. Would that serenity last when she woke? Stubborn, strong-willed, courageous—under her serene demeanor she was all that, and more. But from the first, she’d been openly passionate about one thing only—giving him a son. Without doubt, she’d take this loss hard.
Stretching his cramped muscles, he went to the bellpull. He’d get a shave, put on his own hopefully-dried-by-now clothing and be ready to attend her when she woke.
“Get out! Get out and leave me alone!”
At his wife’s shriek, Nicholas started so badly he cut himself. Swiping at the shaving soap with a towel, he threw down the razor and ran. “Mistress, you mustn’t!” He heard Becky’s voice.
“I will ride this morning, I tell you! ’Tis a morning like any other!” The sound of a chair overturning followed.
Nicholas charged through the open door and stopped short. “What the devil?”
Becky stood by the bed, weeping. Propping herself on her forearms, Sarah lay on the floor by the toppled chair.
As Nicholas entered, she looked over at him. “I will r-ride,” she repeated, but her voice faded and broke. Pressing clenched fists to her head, she began to weep.
“Leave us,” he barked. Sobbing, Becky hurried out.
Gently Nicholas gathered Sarah in his arms and carried her to the bed. Holding her tightly, he rested his cheek on her tangled hair while she wept with deep, wrenching sobs that cut to his heart. He held her till his arms and shoulders ached, though that paltry ache couldn’t begin to approach his anguish at her misery. Finally, the sobs subsided, and he eased her back a little.
Pulling up a corner of his half-tied cravat, he wiped her tear-blotched face. “’Twill be all right, sweeting.”
“W-will you h-hold me, j-just a little l-longer?”
He kissed her red, swollen eyes. “Of course.”
She’d been limp in his arms before, but she clung to him now, as if he were her sole support in a crumbling world. Ignoring the protests of his already cramped limbs, he hugged her close, murmuring incoherencies until at last the tension left her and she slept. When her breathing was deep and regular, he gently laid her against the pillows.
Sarah sat over a tray several hours later with a dull sense of calm. It’s over, she thought. My precious babe.
She had no more tears, for she’d cried them already—all over Nicholas, soaking his coat and ruining his cravat. Ah, Nicholas, she thought, sighing, what a sorry wife I’ve been.
She’d reached another equally bleak conclusion. In the solitude of her room after that bitter night, Sarah finally accepted the fact she’d been evading this month and more. Despite their unemotional bargain, despite her apprehensions about his gaming, she’d fallen in love with Nicholas.
That was why she could no longer view with detachment his liaison with Chloe Ingram. Why she missed him after a mere hour’s absence, why her heart warmed and her whole being quickened when he so much as walked into the room.
Fool, fool, a thousand times fool, she told herself savagely. How could you stupidly succumb to an emotion Nicholas doesn’t want, an emotion that will make it impossible to remain the cool, detached wife he does want?
The very idea of Nicholas in Mrs. Ingram’s embrace was enough to curl her fingers into claws and tighten her chest with outrage. How could she encounter his mistress at a rout, at the opera, with even a modicum of distant courtesy, when all she wanted was to tear the woman’s hair out? How could she politely send Nicholas off to his club, wondering every time he left if he were going to visit her? And if he should not return of an evening, how could she face him calmly over breakfast the next morning, Chloe’s cloying scent on him, and not rant like a fishwife?
Sarah covered her face with her hands. Countless highborn wives managed to carry on in perfect charity with, or at least feigned indifference to, their husbands’ other lives. She had promised Nicholas she would do the same. But she couldn’t—not now that she loved him.
If she’d carried the child, she might have managed. She could have channeled all the love she felt for the father into his son, absorbing herself so completely that she had little time to consider her husband’s pursuits.
But now there was no babe. The idea that the arms that held her so gently while she sobbed out her grief might, in just a few hours’ time, be holding Chloe Ingram, sent a lancing spear of rage and pain through her. How could she share her husband with that woman—any woman?
Would she really have to? her ever-hopeful heart asked. Had Nicholas not been passionately attentive, even after he learned she was breeding? Perhaps he was ready to dismiss Chloe. She could summon her courage, and ask.
Almost, she could believe he might pledge fidelity, if not love. But what if she were wrong? If she broke their agreement, demanded a change in the terms of their arrangement, Nicholas might be annoyed, even outraged.
She remembered his anger the night of the Sheffingdons’ rout, and shuddered. She didn’t want to live with coldness and distance the rest of her life. If she hadn’t won his love, she dared not risk destroying their friendship.
He had bidden Chloe Ingram to her ball. All London saw the woman there, Mr. Baxter said. Kind gestures and passionate interludes could not argue away the only logical explanation for that very public display of favor.
I’ve settled it, Nicholas had told her. Yes, he’d settled it all right, clearly demonstrating he’d not relinquished his claim on the woman. You’re my wife, and no one can threaten your place. He meant, of course, that he would protect and provide for his wife and children, regardless of where his attentions might wander.
What else had he said, standing there dripping on the carpet? My place is with you.
No ardent vow of affection, that. The statement he’d made mere hours ago would not support the faint hope that, during their country sojourn, she’d managed to capture his heart so completely he’d happily discard his mistress.
Which led to the bitterest truth of all. For if her husband had a duty to her, she owed him one as well: a son and heir. As soon as the doctor said ’twas permissible, she must try again. No matter how much her heart ached, she’d have to bid him come, listen to his love words and lie with him, knowing he might go straight from her bed to Chloe’s.
Her whole bruised, heartsick being revolted. I can’t do it, she thought, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. Maybe later. Next month. But not now.
Send him back to London alone, the thought flashed into her head. Get Dr. MacPherson to tell him I must recuperate here, and let Nicholas return without me.
It shouldn’t be too difficult—he’d never intended to remain in the country. The ploy could buy her at least a little time. Sarah set aside her tr
ay to summon the doctor.
“Better now, are ye?” the doctor asked as he entered. “I’ll be on my way, then. ’Tis nothing amiss with ye time canna heal, and I’ve sick ones to tend.”
“I must speak with you about—healing, Doctor.”
He gave her an inquiring look. Sarah took a deep breath. “Please, Doctor, will you h-help me,” she said in a faltering tone, “convince my husband to return to London alone? Tell him I need peace and quiet to, ah, recover, and that it would be best for me to stay in the country. He’ll be wanting to leave here immediately, and I cannot face London just yet.”
“Aye, ’twould be good to avoid the fevers and congestion of the city, lass.” The doctor nodded his head approvingly. “Ye should recover fully within a fortnight. Surely yer man would be willing to wait that long.”
“I was thinking of a more extended stay, actually. A month or more. I’d not wish to tie him here that long.”
The doctor gave her a shrewdly appraising glance. “’Tis not uncommon to lose a first babe. In most cases, such women have no trouble after. Dinna fear to try again.”
“I know my duty, and I shall do it. But I’d like to…wait. Longer than a fortnight, at any rate.”
“Surely yer husband will understand that, too. Doubtless ’twill be difficult at first, but I think it best if ye return and get on with yer life.” He patted her hand. “’Tis a comfort in such times to have yer man about.”
“But it isn’t!” The words burst out. Dr. MacPherson raised an eyebrow at her and waited.
She bit her lip, for the first time regretting the doctor knew her so well. He’d not press for an explanation, but if she wanted his help, she’d have to confess the whole.
Pride warred with desperation and lost. “Ours was a marriage of convenience,” she began, “but over the course of it my—emotions have become rather strongly engaged.”
“And yer man’s have not?”
“There’s another woman,” Sarah whispered.
The Wedding Gamble Page 22
