The Marquis, watching her closely, hoped this might be a sign of the early stages of pregnancy. Four pregnant wives he'd witnessed and knew it was not uncommon for a woman to fall into varying moods, melancholy being especially common, when she was increasing. He, therefore, was not troubled by her behavior and went on with his visit to David, as scheduled.
When he arrived at the cottage he was stunned to find David gone. His clothes, his pipe and his small cache of toiletries, all gone. The fine mount that he had given his son stood tethered in the makeshift stable, a bag of oats hung over its massive head.
Walking through the small house, he spied a vase on the table. Reaching out, he picked it up and was immediately assailed by memories so haunting that he nearly dropped the gay little hand painted object. The note that had been propped against it had fallen to the floor, and it was only luck that he spied it. With great effort, he leaned down and retrieved the paper and read it with trembling hands.
"Father, I am sorry that all of your wishes will not be borne... namely, the heir you so desire. I find I cannot continue here, and I will make my way in this world as best I can without your largesse. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, but if you cannot, I will understand.
Please... if you should find a way to tell her how sorry I am and how bereft at leaving this way. She cannot know the feelings I have for her; it would not be seemly. She does not know who I am, I promise you that, but I have grown to love her and I cannot allow this charade to continue, for it kills me to leave her each night, knowing that soon it will be forever. Let forever start now, the agony of waiting is done.
With fondness, your son, David
The Marquis of Darlington stood in that small room and allowed the tears to slip down his weathered face for the second time in his life. First Mary had left him here, alone and anchorless, so many years before and now their son had done so as well. After a while, he picked up the note and the vase, tucked them into his pocket and called for his aide, returning home with the mount tethered to the carriage.
He tried to decide how to tell Hannah that David was gone and finally realized that he could not. The girl would know soon enough. If she questioned him, he would simply say the fellow had changed his mind and gone on his way.
It would not be the best explanation, but it would be the truth. Mayhap she was already with child, for he had taken careful note of her monthly cycle, and he knew that she should have bled well over a week ago. In spite of the loss of his son, the old Marquis could not help but be hopeful. He may have an heir already growing in the girl's belly.
Chapter Six
~~
She waited through the night, and he never came. Tossing and turning, she could not find sleep, and her body, denied his intimacy, was trembling and aching more than ever before. Aching for that illusive something, that something that she would now never know.
The hollow emptiness in her womb was mirrored in her heart, where a immense fissure had been torn.
At dawn, Hannah arose from her bed and went to the window, drawing the drapes aside and looking out over the vast lawns. The ground was covered with a mist that arose from the gardens in wraith-like splendor, rising into the morning sky as the sun greedily absorbed the moisture... as he had absorbed her life, her hope, and her dreams.
Hannah was startled that she should have such a thought. The stranger—the silent lover in her bed—had been naught to her she reminded herself sternly. Stubbornly, she lifted her chin and set her shoulders, denying the heartbreak that threatened to overcome her. She would not pine for the gentle stranger. She had rejected his ardent overtures, and he had gone. There was an end to it.
Placing a hand over her flat stomach she prayed that a child had been conceived, for she was a week late with her menses. Sadly, she realized that, if she had a child, she would never know his father, never see the child run to the man.
Her mind's eye pictured a tall dark man coming across the lawn, a small dark-headed boy running to him. The man's arms opened and swooped the laughing child up and away, onto his broad shoulders, the pair of them laughing and companionable. A man and his son.
A single tear slipped down her face, and dropped, unnoticed, onto the hand that pressed against her lips. She drew upon her meager strength and resolved to think upon him no more, for she knew that he would not come back.
She would bear a son and looking upon him, she would at last know the man.
She went to her bed, only to toss and turn, until the dawn light filtered through the heavy drapery.
Hannah came late to the breakfast table, and the Marquis was already there. He looked up at her entry and his eyes, so kind, so knowing, followed her progress across the room. He did not speak for a while, but sat toying with the food on his plate. In silence, they broke their fast, each one thinking of the man who had gone from their lives... neither willing or able to broach the subject that was uppermost in their minds. Finally, the old Marquis cleared his throat and spoke into the silence.
"Hannah... the day appears to be coming on very nicely. Would you like to go for a drive? I think we could both benefit from some fresh air."
"Yes, Milord. That would be very pleasant." She spoke in a tone that conveyed that she cared not where she went, or what she did, but would agree to please him.
"You look a little pale, my child. Are you feeling well?" He looked at her with those kind, sorrowful eyes, and she could not sustain her indifferent posture, and weeping, she rose from her chair and flung herself at his feet, her head resting upon his knees as she sobbed out her heartbreak.
The Marquis placed a gentle hand upon her silky hair in a comforting way, and waited for the storm to pass, his heart aching as well, for the man who had left them. His son. David.
"He has gone." It was a statement, but there was a question in her voice.
"Yes." His brief answer was unsatisfactory, but under the circumstances she could not prod him to tell her more. The stranger was not for her. This was her husband, and she would that she could love him as he deserved. And though he had sanctioned her behavior—indeed, had created the situation—she was guilty of adultery and could not be peaceful with the knowledge.
"I was not told... " she began in a hollow voice. "... I am afraid it was rather a shock." She lifted her head and sniffed back her tears, accepting the handkerchief he proffered, dabbing at her swollen eyes, struggling to get control of herself. She tried to explain away her actions, both to him and to herself. "I was a little hurt that no one had told me he would not come. I... I guess it made me angry."
"You are not angry, Hannah. You are in love." The Marquis spoke gently, his hand stroking her hair, his smile edged with suffering. "It would be impossible not to love the man who has taken your virtue and given you a child. I have known for some time, if you have not, that your feelings were engaged."
When she looked up at him with startled eyes, he went on in a grave voice. "Are you not past due for your monthly time? It would appear that he left more than a broken heart behind."
"I believe so, Milord," she whispered, bowing her head as fresh tears pooled in her amber eyes. "I... would that it is true."
Realizing the Marquis knew more about the stranger's disappearance than he was telling, she eyed him curiously and posed a question. "Why did he leave?"
"Because... because he was growing too attached to you. He left me a note saying so. It was not your fault, nor his either. I should have known that such an arrangement would eventually lead to this. You cannot put a man and a woman together in such intimacy without something happening between them... something more than lust."
Jumping up, she looked at him anxiously. "Where then, is the note?" Hoping she might have something to keep of him, she prayed that the Marquis had not destroyed it, but her hopes were dashed at his answer.
"I... consigned it to the fire. Felt it would not be wise to keep such evidence around. The child must never know. The world must never know. All we have
striven for would be lost." He did not tell her of that other note, but he had destroyed neither of them, in actuality. They lay in the bottom of a small chest in his wall safe, tucked away securely, that no one might find them... until long after it would be too late to do anything about what was implied therein.
Putting on a bright face for her benefit, he lifted his eyes to the window. "I think, Hannah, that we should go for that ride now. It has become rather gloomy in here."
.
* * * * *
.
The weeks rolled by in a flurry of activity as the household prepared for the new arrival. An heir had been got upon the mistress of the house, and the gloom that had lain so long over the Marquis lifted miraculously.
The carpenter from the village was consigned to build a new cradle and a rocking horse. Mr. Strongbow, the village smithy, had a knack for whittling and offered to carve an army of toy soldiers. His daughter, Mary—who was David's mother—would paint them.
Hannah and her maid were busy sewing and knitting. The tiny garments began to pile up in the newly painted chest of drawers in the nursery. The ladies of the village brought many small items, lovingly kept from their own babes. Tiny booties, miniscule gowns and blankets, quilts and bonnets.
Some new, but many passed along from their previous owners, they were placed in a basket at the door and retrieved by Darwin each morning. It was a tradition that the heir should receive all manner of things from the villagers, as his due. It would bring luck to the house, and the young master would grow up knowing his birthright included the care and prosperity of the village as well as the manor.
As it had always been done, four hundred years of tradition now sallied forth for the 16th Marquis of Darlington, not yet born.
The nursery itself had been refurbished—under Hannah's supervision—and a rainbow had been painted across one wall, a mural of bright flowers and tiny elves across another. The woman who came to paint the murals had been recommended by her maid and had done a wonderful job.
Hannah had not met the woman as yet, for she came very early in the morning and left before Hannah had arisen from her bed, working by the light of many lamps and candles. It seemed that she had to work in the fields during the day and had little time for the project, but needed the money very badly.
Hannah did not even know her name. She was let in each dawn by the scullery maid and came to the nursery by way of the servants' stairs, never entering the main part of the house.
Mary Strongbow wanted no part of the Marquis, and made certain that she avoided him.
Each time Hannah visited the nursery to survey the progress therein she was gripped by a multitude of emotions. Happiness that she would have a small babe to love and nurture, gratitude that she had been spared a life of drudgery and given this wonderful home... and sorrow as well.
Sorrow that she would never know the babe's father, nor he know his son. For she was certain it would be a son, knew it in her very bones. She began a small ritual of spending an hour each morning in the nursery by herself, sitting in the rocker by the wide window, her hands placed over her stomach as she talked to the child within her.
She would sing little nursery songs, whisper of her dreams for a good life for the child, and sometimes her mind would drift, without her consent, to the shadowed man who was the child's sire.
Hannah suffered greatly from morning sickness, and her hands and feet were constantly swollen and aching. As she grew larger, her diminutive body was assailed with all manner of pains and aches, for the babe was large and she was not.
Her stomach protruded from her thin body and gave her a comical look. But there was nothing comical about the nausea and heartburn that she endured. She suffered as well from bouts of depression that left her listless and wan, as she wandered the house, her eyes unseeing and her hands resting always over the babe cradled in her womb.
The Marquis, worried about his young wife, kept his distance and watched her grieving, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease her, for she was oblivious to her grief. She denied it with every gesture and word, denying the love that was pushed back, buried deeply in the furthest regions of her consciousness.
Her suffering became his own and with time, he began to wear under the strain, new lines of fatigue appearing in his careworn face as his sleep was disturbed by dreams of his son.
In his dreams David hovered just beyond the lawn, staring toward the house with hungry pain-filled eyes. The Marquis would hurry toward him, closing the distance on strong legs, only to find that David had turned into the forest and disappeared just as he reached him. He would wake, sweating and cold, trembling with torment. The dreams came nightly.
His solicitor had tracked David's movements from the very first day, and the Marquis knew the boy—as he often thought of him—was somewhere on the high seas. A letter had arrived yesterday, from Hong Kong, David's last port. The man of business had written to give David's next destination, for he had signed on with yet another packet, bound for Australia. Would he ever come back? The Marquis did not know.
He instructed Mr. Maguire to continue putting the allowance into David's account and keep him appraised of the boy's movements. Each time he received a missive, he would go to the map he had put up on his wall and pin a small flag at a port where David had been.
He knew his son was trying to build his life without relying on anyone else, and he admired the character that had allowed him to turn his back on the generous allowance, but lamented that he had turned his back as well, on his father.
As time passed, the tiny flags drew a pattern of David's movements, and his course had at last turned toward home.
Relieved to find that David's ship would be docking in England within the month, the Marquis began to make plans for his arrival, hoping to draw him home to fulfill his duty as the guardian of the heir. He was rapidly sinking under the strain of the last months, and it was clear he only held on to see the babe born and David home to care for mother and child.
Chapter Seven
~~
David stood on the roiling deck, his eyes trained on the far horizon, the storm clouds far behind. He had spent the last several hours battling, along with the rest of the crew, to keep the vessel from keeling in the high seas. As a deck hand, he was getting better, but his seasickness still came on quite regularly. Eight months at sea and he still could not keep his dinner down.
He had been to far places, and now he was coming home again. Home being the one place he was not sure he wanted to be. In fact, he wasn't sure just where home was anymore, except that England, in a broad sense, was his homeland.
He knew that his father had not stopped his allowance, for he had gotten a missive from the solicitor as soon as he had returned to London. He had only used what he had to, less than the amount he was accustomed to and when a friend in the shipping business had mentioned that they were looking for seamen, he had hopped on the first schooner headed for the Orient, intending never to return.
He had returned, though, for he found that no matter where he went the memories that haunted him were there. No matter how far he traveled, she went with him, tucked into the corners of his mind and heart with such tenacity that he could not shake her off.
At his last port, he had received a letter from Mr. Maguire that had both shaken him to his core and exalted him. He patted the pocket of his coat, feeling the letter there. It seemed that he was to be a father, after all, and the old Marquis was very ill, so he needed to get to Darlington House as soon as possible.
Torn between wanting to see her and wanting to run off again to sea, he was a man beleaguered by his frazzled nerves. He knew now that he could make a life for himself without anyone's help and had in fact, thought of investing in a shipbuilding business with the captain of the vessel he now sailed on.
They were working on the details, and, if all came through, he would be a businessman soon, and eventually wealthy in his own right. He would be able to take his inheri
tance and plow it back into a trust fund for the child. His child.
David turned his eyes to the faint line of land on the horizon and knew that he was almost there. The sound of "Land Ho!" rang out even as he strained to be certain that he was seeing England.
His England—his home—where somewhere deep in a small valley in Cheshire, his future awaited him.
.
* * * * *
.
Hannah could not get comfortable. Her swollen stomach protruded from her thin frame in a most awkward manner, and her heartburn was worse today. Though she had heard that pregnant women were beautiful, she knew better. Her blotchy complexion and lank hair, dull eyes and swollen body were anything but beautiful.
Right from the beginning, this had been a difficult pregnancy. Her morning sickness had lasted well into the fourth month, and, just when it had subsided, the heartburn and aching back had replaced it.
Eight months into her term, she was a wobbling, graceless blob. She cried a lot, never quite well. Reaching for Darwin's hand, she allowed the old butler to assist her to her feet.
"Thank you, Darwin. I shall just go along now to the garden. Perhaps some mint tea could be brought out to me there."
She moved her ponderous body across the room, her billowing dress reminding her of the night rail she had worn the first time he had come to her. Shying away from the thought, she tried to hurry along, but of course, she could not.
Darwin, who seldom spoke if he could help it, nodded to her departing back and went to give cook instructions. He watched over his charges like a mother hen. The Marquis was up and about for the first time in days, having contracted a cold that had kept him in bed. The solicitor had sent for David, but he had not arrived yet. And, the old gentleman appeared to be on the mend.
The mistress, however, was in a terrible way. She not only suffered with the physical symptoms of her condition, but her mental condition was not good as well. She moped about, and cried a lot, and her temperament was no longer sweet. She had actually snapped at her maid the other day and it had startled the woman so that she nearly quit her position.
The Silent Love Page 6
