Laura Carroll Butler

by The Price of a Pearl

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” she apologized.

  “My mother should be resting,” Rebecca continued.

  “Yes, my lady.” It would do no good to tell Lady Edderle that her mother could not sleep or that Lord Edderle had asked that his wife not be disturbed while she tended her roses.

  When she came back into the drawing room to Davis, the strained smile and tense lines had returned to Rebecca’s face.

  *************************

  Alone in their room, Davis told Rebecca about his visit with Susanne. “Tristan tried to see her on his way back to Tundle,” he began.

  “And?”

  “She wouldn’t see him at the house. She said she was afraid of what Michael might do.”

  “Where was he?”

  “She said he’s kept the flat and spends much of his time writing there.”

  They were both silent contemplating this. “Do you believe that’s true?” Rebecca asked.

  Davis was uncomfortable lying to Rebecca. “She believes it is,” he answered.

  “Do you?” she asked then realized how accusative she sounded. “I’m sorry, of course you do, Davis. Has she forgiven Tristan?”

  “She showed me the letter he sent.” Davis shook his head. “She’s still very angry, Rebecca.”

  Tristan had come to St. Clare’s in September to see their mother. Although Rebecca had sent a note to Susanne requesting she come also, Susanne refused. Rebecca excused her by telling Sarah that Susanne was concerned about traveling in her expectant state and that seemed to satisfy her. But Tristan was still angry at himself for his thoughtlessness. His mother’s eminent mortality had caused a feverish need in Tristan to right his wrongs. Rebecca was sympathetic, but Susanne was stubborn. And Michael was unpredictable.

  “At least Johanna sounds content,” Rebecca offered. Davis had shown her his sister’s letter. “Her children sound delightful. And she’s expecting as well.” Her words were tinged with an envy she could not hide.

  Davis took her hand in his. “It will happen, Rebecca,” he assured her.

  “Of course, Davis,” she answered.

  *************************

  November 1, 1774

  My dear Tristan,

  When I think of what I am most proud of in my life it is you, my son. You have become the man that I always hoped you would be. You have been my protector all these years when I should have protected you. You gave up your dreams to fulfill what your father wished of you and in order to support your sisters and me. I want you to promise me that you will live your life for yourself. Your sisters will be cared for by their husbands. Your duty is finished. Now you must find what and who gives you pleasure and satisfaction or your life will be empty. Most of all, I wish you to seek happiness in all that you do. Know that it is not the size of your house that brings you satisfaction; it is who share it with. If I have learned anything in my time, it is that no amount of money can substitute for the love of family.

  With love, Mother

  **************************

  November 1, 1774

  My dear Susanne,

  When I think of what I am most proud of in my life, it is you my daughter. You were the daughter that I never expected, but I have loved always. I did not protect you as I should have. Nevertheless, you were always a loving, golden child and you have grown into a fine lady that I am proud to claim as my daughter. You are so fortunate to have a man who loves you and who will always put your needs first. I pray that you are a better mother than I have been, that you make your children’s welfare a priority, and that you always love with the devoted heart that God gave you.

  With love, Mama

  *************************

  November 1, 1774

  My dear Rebecca,

  When I think of what I am most proud of in my life, it is you my daughter. You are the grace of God in a woman. You have always put the needs of others before your own and never asked for the same in return. I thank you for caring for me in my last months. I worry that I have strained you when you should be concentrating on your own love and happiness. But if I had protested, it would not have mattered as it is not in your nature to turn away someone in need. Please take care of Tristan and Susanne. They will need your strength in the coming weeks. I would tell you to take care of Davis, but I think you need to let him care for you. He loves you so and his greatest joy is in his devotion to you. Someday you will have children to treasure as I have; but your first love should always be your husband. I thank God everyday for the gift of you, Rebecca.

  With love, Mother

  ****************************

  November 10, 1774

  Dear Susanne,

  Please come here as soon as possible. Mother is very, very sick.

  Love, Rebecca

  The letter arrived the following day in London, delivered by Davis’ driver and one of his footmen. Their instructions were to wait and bring the Earl and Lady Brooks to St. Clare’s the moment they were able to leave. Once Michael was located it was only an hour before they were ready. On the trip down, Susanne was quiet and Michael was hung-over; but he held her hand as it lay in her lap. The baby kicked furiously and she stared out of the window without a word.

  It didn’t matter what time they left; Sarah was dead less than an hour after the coach left St. Clare’s Abbey.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rebecca would not cry. It bothered Davis who knew the pain of losing a mother. Susanne wept openly and Michael, who hadn’t known Sarah well but could appreciate her kindness, rocked her gently. Tristan also arrived too late; he kept his distance until Susanne approached him, but let go of his grief at her embrace. Now Rebecca held him as the five sat in the drawing room of St. Clare’s the night of the funeral. Davis sat alone.

  There was no talk, no accusations, and no repercussions. Each child felt some measure of guilt at not being at the bedside, staying away too long, hastening Sarah’s weakness with an ill-advised trip. It was irrational and unspoken, but real nonetheless.

  One by one, they went to bed, first Tristan, then Susanne, then Davis who made Rebecca promise to come up soon. She promised, though she knew that she would only toss and turn and finally rise too early, worried that she was disturbing Davis.

  Michael refilled her wine glass and she looked up at him in the firelight trying to remember why she had been angry enough at him to leave London and risk her mother’s health. She knew there was a legitimate reason, but her foggy brain couldn’t form a coherent thought. It was something about Davis. Michael sat with her while she sipped the wine, hoping that it would relax her enough to sleep.

  “You should be with Susanne,” she said to him.

  “She’s asleep by now. That’s one thing she never seems to have trouble with.”

  “Why are you still awake, Michael?”

  “I don’t sleep much myself. Besides, you haven’t gone to bed and you should; you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  “How do you know?” He didn’t answer. “Davis told you, I suppose. Did Davis ask you to stay up with me?”

  “No. And even if he had mentioned that you couldn’t sleep, I knew already because I was awake. I heard you walking around downstairs. I would have joined you, but…”

  He didn’t finish and she didn’t offer any consolation. But she wasn’t angry with him anymore. “I wonder if Davis has ever in his life had insomnia?” she asked rhetorically, forgetting that Michael probably knew the answer.

  “He did. When his mother died.” As he said this, he watched as Rebecca finally let go, her body crumpling in grief and her eyes awash in tears. He went to her, took the glass from her hands and held her as he had held Susanne.

  Months of sadness, fear, guilt, every emotion that she had kept to herself since finding out about Sarah’s cancer emptied from her in the flood of tears. She held onto Michael as though he were her raft, the only thing to keep her from sinking. Between sobs, she said, “I made it worse.”


  Not understanding what she meant, he soothingly said, “No you didn’t. There was nothing anyone could do.”

  “She should have stayed in London. I should never have brought her here. The trip made her weaker…she could have been with Susanne at the end. I just wanted to get Davis away from …from London.” She pulled away from Michael, expecting his agreement or worse his condemnation for her part in killing her mother. But he only smiled and held her hands.

  “Your mother was not going to recover no matter where she was. You did what you believed was necessary for your family.” His sincerity puzzled Rebecca given the acrimony the last time they had seen each other. He handed her a handkerchief and she wiped her face and blew her nose. When she seemed more composed, he handed her back her wine glass and returned to his seat.

  “I envy you, Michael; you know that, don’t you? You and Davis…you have known each other for so long. I don’t have the bond with him that you have.”

  “You will.”

  “I don’t know. I love him so much, but I feel like he keeps a part of his heart from me.”

  “I told you before Rebecca, he has never loved any woman before you or since you. I wasn’t lying to you or covering for him or for me.” Rebecca knew that Michael was more likely to tell an ugly truth rather than deceive someone that he cared about with a pat lie. “He needs you, Rebecca. And he needs you to need him. Davis is not threatened by a wife who is his equal. He loves you because he sees you in that way. And he wants you to view him the same way and not as the Lord of the Manor who must be protected from any unpleasantness.” Rebecca’s expression was non-committal. Michael said very gently “He is not your father, Rebecca. He does not derive some perverse satisfaction from hurting the people he is supposed to love. If anything, he would move heaven and earth to keep you from pain.”

  Rebecca sighed deeply. “I know you are right; everyone is. I just have to stop ruminating over every jealous thought that comes into my head.”

  “No, you have to believe that Davis is the man you know him to be.” Michael could see the toll that watching her mother slowly die had taken on Rebecca. She was thinner than he had ever seen and her eyes were dark and hollow. She wore her guilt like a hairshirt and it had become a part of her for the last months of Sarah’s life. She was not the pink-cheeked, flirty girl that he met on the eve of her 20th birthday. Now she was just tired and worn out and he felt such sympathy for her. He took her hand again and said, “Let Davis take care of you. You’ll find that he is rather good at it.”

  Shortly after, Rebecca went to her room, drowsy from the wine. Her maid helped her to her dressing room to change into a nightgown. Once she had settled into bed, though, she was wide awake again. In his sleep, she felt Davis turn to her and nestled close into his arms.

  ************************

  Susanne was out of sorts in the morning. She wouldn’t eat and returned to bed shortly after breakfast. Michael checked on her after an hour and came back to the drawing room pale and shaky.

  “I think the baby is coming. Now,” he announced.

  A midwife was sent for, Davis took Michael under his care and Rebecca went to Susanne’s bedside. Susanne tried to rise when she saw Rebecca, but the maid who had been called to stay with her gently pushed her back into the pillows.

  “It’s too soon!” Susanne screamed, terrified and in obvious pain. “The baby can’t come now. It’s not ready!”

  Rebecca took the maid’s place at the bedside and stroked her sister’s hair. “It will be fine, Susanne. Babies know when it is time to come.”

  “No, no, it’s too soon. I’m not ready! I’m not ready!” she sobbed.

  “You will be fine, Susanne. The midwife will be here soon to take care of you…”

  “I don’t want a midwife,” she cried, burying her face in her hands. “I just want my mother!”

  Rebecca tried to smile in reassurance. She wanted to scream ‘I do, too. I want my mother. I don’t know what to do. She would know.’ But she said soothingly, “You will be fine, Susanne. I am here; I will take care of you.”

  Susanne had felt pains the night before but attributed them to grief, gas, anything but labor. Without knowing when she conceived, she was at a loss to know the baby’s due date. She knew, though, that any day before December would guarantee the gossip’s twitter. So in her mind the baby was early and not ready; not to mention, that she was not mentally ready herself, knocked off her sense as she was from Sarah’s death. She had counted on Sarah being at her side while she gave birth calmly and serenely, like the Madonna. She did not expect Rebecca, who knew less about childbirth than she did and who now gripped Susanne’s hand trying to soothe her sister with an unmistakable look of fear and worry in her eyes.

  “Would you like Michael here?” Rebecca asked.

  “My lady,” the maid said, “It would not be proper for him to be here now.” Rebecca shot her a look that stopped her from providing any further childbirth etiquette.

  “Would you like Michael?” she repeated.

  Susanne nodded. “But please don’t leave me,” she whispered as she squeezed Rebecca’s hand so tight, Rebecca expected it would be bruised. It was the first labor pain she had watched Susanne have and she worried how her fragile little sister could endure hours of this.

  Rebecca commanded the maid to bring Lord Brooks and the housekeeper, Mrs. Redstone (who surely must know something about childbirth as old as she was) and the midwife, the moment she arrived. “And the bottle of whisky,” she added for Susanne and maybe even for her and Michael.

  Between the two of them, Michael and Rebecca were able get Susanne to drink enough of the whisky to take the edge off the pain. Mrs. Redstone clucked about, ordering water boiled, the good bedspread removed, as well as anything that Susanne might be able to reach out and grab, and said nothing about Michael’s presence. Rebecca assisted Mrs. Redstone while a terrified Michael sat on the bed with Susanne holding her hand and stroking her hair while she leaned into him for support.

  Mrs. Porter, the midwife, had only been home for a couple of hours having delivered another child the night before. But Mrs. Porter had delivered Davis and his brother, Colin, and even the local doctor trusted her expertise. When she arrived in Susanne’s room and saw Michael she matter-of-factly said, “You can stay, but I don’t think you will want to.”

  Michael looked from Mrs. Porter to Susanne who said drowsily, “Everything is fine now. We are safe.”

  On his way out, Rebecca touched his arm reassuringly and said, “She will be fine. I won’t leave her.”

  The long day passed with Davis and Tristan keeping Michael occupied with game after game. They could hear the servant’s footsteps as they went about their daily business, but other than that, the house was eerily quite. Trays were prepared for the men at mealtime, but there was no sign of Rebecca and no news.

  After six in the evening, it began to snow. An hour later, an exhausted Rebecca announced that Michael could come up and see his son.

  Susanne was nursing the baby when Michael came into the room. Mrs. Porter and the servants had finished cleaning up the baby and Susanne, changed the sheets, and removed most traces of the day’s ordeal. Susanne beamed when she saw her husband. “He looks just like you,” she said. Michael looked at Mrs. Porter, pointed to the bed and asked, “May I?” She nodded, weary, but happy. It had been a relatively uneventful delivery for her and she was happy for the family and their new life so soon after their loss.

  Michael very gently settled next to Susanne. “Would you like to hold him,” Susanne asked. She pulled the infant away from her breast and handed the tiny bundle to Michael who was speechless in awe of what he and Susanne had created. While Susanne covered herself, she said, “Mrs. Porter said that he is perfect.”

  The baby was tiny, red and wrinkled, but so wiggly that Michael had to keep a tight grip. His head was covered with a mass of dark hair and when the baby opened his eyes and looked at his father, Michael could see th
at he had the same blue eyes as Susanne. He gripped Michael’s finger tightly and Michael was overwhelmed with love, gratitude and a little fear at the thought of how dependant Susanne and the child were on him. His son’s face, all squished and blotchy, made him want to be a better man.

  ************************

  Downstairs, Mrs. Porter was given dinner, paid, and driven home in the Edderle carriage. While Davis made sure she was safely on her way, Tristan tried to get Rebecca to eat. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but she had no appetite. She did gladly accept a glass of claret.

  “This is what Mother would have wanted,” she said. “Your being here, I mean. And the peace.”

  Tristan didn’t respond initially. He cleared his throat and said, “I can’t take back what I said to Susanne or even make things right between us completely. But I can be a different person, different from…Father. I have decided to sell the factory. I will make sure that you and Susanne receive your fair share from the proceeds.”

  “But why? How will you live?”

  “I will be quite wealthy from the sale. The factory is more profitable than when he died.”

  “Will you sell the house?”

  “No, only the factory.”

  Rebecca took a moment to digest his words. In her fatigue, she was sure that she was missing or forgetting something, but she couldn’t think what. “But what will you do?”

  “Travel,” he answered lightly. “I have always wanted to see the East.”

  “The East?”

  “India, the Orient. I could study their culture, their medicine.”

  “But it’s so dangerous, so many diseases…but you wanted to be a doctor…once.” She finally understood. “It’s too late for you to go to medical school here.”