Margarita and the Earl

by Joan Wolf

  It was a great help to her to be able to talk to Nicholas. She felt that he alone seemed to understand what it was she was feeling. She was right in that he did understand. Nicholas knew all too well what it felt like to be left alone in the world. Margarita’s family had been torn from her by violence, but she, at least, was confident of their enduring love. She was a devout Catholic and derived much comfort from the conviction that she was not eternally separated from those she loved. She had never suffered the pain of a love that was betrayed and rejected. Nicholas had, and because of that he was armored against allowing himself to become too involved with other people. Margarita, on the contrary, suffered agonies at the thought of what the Spanish were doing to her countrymen. Nicholas was apprehensive for her; it was not safe to feel so much.

  He was aware that he worried about his wife. For some reason he could not articulate, he felt personally responsible for her. All the protectiveness in his nature had suddenly narrowed and focused on this one human being. He was not a man given to self-analysis, so he did not realize that this feeling stemmed from the first time he had looked into her eyes and seen there a lost and frightened child. He had recognized instantly, emotionally, that look, and from then on, he had felt it his personal mission to shield her from any further pain.

  He had to go to London in early September and when he left, Margarita felt lost. She went to visit Mrs. Frost every day, something she did not usually do so frequently. Mrs. Frost was a great consolation to her. She talked sensibly about childbirth and children and dispelled many of Margarita’s fears about her coming ordeal. She talked too about Nicholas’s mother, whom she obviously remembered with a great deal of affection.

  “My lord never mentions his mother at all,” Margarita said gravely. “I thought she was dead.”

  Mrs. Frost looked at her own capable hands as they sewed a hem on a shirt. “Lord Winslow loved his mother very much. I think he can’t forgive her for leaving him, for preferring someone else. He was too attached to her, I suppose. When she left he had no one.” She sighed. “I’m sure she loves him still. His refusal to see her must hurt bitterly.”

  Margarita’s brown eyes looked huge. “It is very sad.”

  She found the information she heard from Mrs. Frost of very great interest, but she never mentioned his mother to Nicholas. Margarita had the Spanish sense of family. It was this sense that had prompted her to write to her grandfather about her mother’s death three years ago. She determined that when her baby was born, she would write to Nicholas’s mother.

  Three days before Nicholas returned, she received a letter from Andrés Bello. In it was the information that the Spanish were besieging Cartagena. That night she opened her window and looked out at the sky. The night was clear and the stars were brilliant. She felt a kind of peace enter her as she looked up at the vast and remote heavens. What did all their little earthly sufferings and strivings matter in the face of that magnificence? She stayed at the window for a long time, reluctant to relinquish the peace she knew she felt only at the price of turning her back on life. She felt empty and free. And then the child within her kicked, and slowly she closed the window and got into bed.

  Nicholas arrived shortly before dinner on September 24. It had been softly raining all day, and there were beads of moisture on his hair as he came into Margarita’s bedroom where she was dressing for dinner. A rush of joy went through her at the sight of him, so big and damp and vibrant. She felt life and hope coursing back into her veins. “I am glad to see you, my lord,” she said. “I missed you.”

  He bent to kiss her forehead. “I am glad to be back. How are you and the baby doing?”

  “We are very well, thank you.”

  He was scanning her with narrowed eyes, checking the truth of her statement. She was big with child, but her arms, throat, and shoulders still retained their old slimness. There was the suggestion of a shadow below her eyes. “Has the weather been getting you down?” he asked lightly.

  “A little. But it is like sunshine to have you home again. Did your business prosper?”

  “I’ll tell you about it at dinner,” he said. “First I must change.”

  *

  Nicholas’s sojourn in London this time had been rather different from his last visit. He spent a good deal of time with his lawyer and his man of business, both of whom were delighted to see that the new Earl of Winslow showed every sign of taking his responsibilities very seriously indeed. They were surprised. Nicholas’s reputation had not prepared them for this startling transformation.

  In fact, most of his London acquaintances knew very little about Nicholas. He had never spent much time in London. He had never shown any interest at all in politics, which was the passion of most of the more serious men in town. But Nicholas’s lack of interest had been directly related to his feelings of powerlessness. Now he had position and financial security, and with these things, came a broadening of his own personal horizon. He was fortunate enough to meet for the first time a man with whom he had a great deal in common. At a party at Lady Cowper’s, someone introduced him to the Earl of Linton, and the two men took an immediate liking to each other. Linton’s estate of Staplehurst was famous for its successful and enlightened agriculture, and the two young men spent many pleasant hours in deep and thoughtful conversation. Linton was recently married himself, and Nicholas liked his wife very much. There was something about her that reminded him of Margarita.

  Lady Eleanor Rushton was not in London, and Nicholas’s visit was remarkably chaste. He went to a few routs and spent one rather pleasant night with a noble lady of doubtful virtue, but for the most part he worked. He was anxious to return home before the baby was born.

  One of the reasons he went to the routs was that he wanted to meet Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, and speak to him about the situation in South America. He was successful in meeting Castlereagh but the talk was discouraging. England was interested in South America solely as a profitable place to send its exports. The presently war-exhausted economies of Venezuela and New Granada lacked the means to buy, and therefore England was not very interested in rescuing them from the clutches of Spain. England’s economy was distressing enough; she was clearly not going to spend the money to fight someone else’s war.

  “I had some very disturbing talks with Linton,” Nicholas told Margarita that evening as they sat in comfortable chairs in the library. “Liverpool’s government is pushing for a new corn law.” At her puzzled frown he explained, “Import of foreign wheat will be forbidden until the price of British wheat rises above eighty shillings. It is protecting the British farmer at the expense of the British poorer classes. Linton says there will be famine if the law passes.”

  “But I thought England was a rich country,” Margarita protested. “How can this be?”

  “The government has a tremendous war debt to pay off. Also there are two hundred and fifty thousand demobilized soldiers and sailors who are looking for employment and most aren’t finding it. During the war the economy boomed. Now we are paying the piper.”

  “I sometimes think that Christ must weep when he looks down on this earth and sees what we have made of it,” Margarita said soberly. “There is so much suffering and most of it is due to man. Wars, people starving while food is being exported, babies dying for lack of care.” Her face was somber. “I do not think Rousseau was correct, Nicholas. It is not only unjust political institutions that corrupt man. It is something in ourselves. Original sin, the Church would call it.”

  “Well, I, for one, have never erred on the side of high expectations when it comes to my fellowman,” Nicholas said with a wry smile that did not touch his eyes.

  Margarita sighed. “There is nothing to stop you from selling your corn for under eighty shillings, is there?”

  The smile spread to his eyes. “No.”

  There was silence in the room. The rain was falling harder, and they could hear it drumming against the window. Margarita shifted in her chair
as if she were uncomfortable, and Nicholas got up and went over to her, holding out his hands. “Bedtime for you, little one,” he said briskly. “No more gloomy talk for tonight.”

  She took his hands and got to her feet. He looked down at her for a moment, appraisingly, as he had this afternoon. Aside from the bulk of her stomach, everything about her was so delicate and frail—cheek, ear, throat, wrist. Not for the first time a deep concern took hold of him as he thought of the approaching childbirth. He put his hands on her shoulders, carefully, gingerly, as if she might break if he gripped too hard. “Good night, Margarita.” He gently kissed the top of her head.

  “Good night, Nicholas.” The eyes that looked up at him were dark and soft and unspeakably beautiful. “I am glad you are at home,” she said again.

  He watched her walk to the door, and when she had gone sat down to stare into the fire, a painful line between his brows.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.”

  —John Keats

  It was October. Catherine Alnwick had gone to London for a few weeks, and Nicholas refrained from riding into Chelmarsh to visit another widow-friend of his. He was apprehensive about being away from home and definitely felt guilty about pursuing his own illicit pleasure at such a time.

  He took out a gun one particularly fine day, and when he returned home he discovered that Margarita had also gone out. Nicholas frowned in displeasure. He did not want her driving around by herself. She had been gone two hours. Nicholas sent to the stable for his horse and set out to look for her.

  He did not have far to go. He was two miles from home, on what he knew to be one of her favorite paths, when he saw her coming toward him—on foot and leading the horse. He cantered toward her. “What the devil do you think you are doing?” he asked, fright making his voice sound harsh.

  “The wheel of the phaeton hit a stone in the road and broke,” she answered. Her voice sounded a little strange, and he looked at her intently.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve started having pains,” she admitted.

  He swore. “Where did you leave the carriage?”

  “About two miles back. It can’t be used, Nicholas. The wheel is badly broken.”

  “You weren’t thrown?” he asked sharply.

  She shook her head. “I was coming home because I had started to get pains in my back. I suppose I was not watching the road as closely as I should have, but nothing serious happened, as I was going very slowly. I unhitched Hero and started to walk.” She stopped and he saw the muscles around her mouth tighten. He swore again.

  “I never thought to take the other phaeton.” He looked at his own horse. “Can I put you up on Cora, Margarita?”

  “No!” She sounded breathless. “I will walk back.”

  So with two sets of reins in one hand and with his other arm supporting his wife, Nicholas undertook what he was certain was the longest two miles of his entire life. Margarita was obviously in pain, although she was making a gallant effort to hide it. They were spotted as they reached the bottom of the long drive, and servants came running to take the horses from Nicholas. He dispatched someone for the doctor and, ignoring her protests, picked Margarita up and carried her up the drive and into the house.

  The woman whom they had hired as a baby nurse took over in Margarita’s bedroom and Nicholas was banished. Margarita begged him to fetch Mrs. Frost, and after the doctor arrived, Nicholas did indeed drive his phaeton over to Whitethorn. Mrs. Frost was alone in the kitchen. “Of course I’ll come,” she said readily to Nicholas’s question. “I promised your lady I wouldn’t fail her and I shan’t. Poor little thing, with no mother or sister or aunt to hold her hand and help her at a time when she most needs it.” The farmer’s wife took off her apron and disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. When she returned she had on her hat. “I’m ready, my lord.”

  When they arrived at Winslow, Nicholas accompanied her upstairs. At the door to Margarita’s room, she turned and patted him kindly on the sleeve. “Don’t fret, now, my lord. These things take time—especially the first. Just you try to relax.”

  She opened the door and went in. Nicholas heard Margarita’s voice, breathless, as though in pain. “Mrs. Frost!” The note of relief in that cry was unmistakable.

  “There, there, my lamb,” came the farmer’s wife’s comfortable tones. “I’ve come to help you. Everything will be all right, I’m sure.”

  Slowly, Nicholas went back downstairs.

  *

  It did not in fact take long at all. Three hours later a beaming Mrs. Frost knocked at the door of the library, where Nicholas had been pacing around like a caged tiger. “You have a son, my lord,” she told’ him proudly. “A fine, healthy boy.”

  “A boy. How is my wife?” His voice sounded tense.

  “She is fine. She did splendidly. And it was over so quickly!”

  “Thank God,” Nicholas said devoutly. “I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Frost, that I was worried. She is so small.”

  “I can say now, my lord, that I was worried too. But the baby is a nice size, and she delivered with no trouble at all. Dr. Macrae says you may come upstairs if you wish.”

  Nicholas started for the door with alacrity.

  Margarita was sitting up in bed when he came into the bedroom. Her hair had been brushed and neatly plaited, and she wore a crisp white night dress. At the sound of the opening door, she looked up from the child in her arms and her eyes met Nicholas’s. There was quiet in the room. He was aware of nothing but those great dark eyes fixed so steadily on his. Then she made a small movement toward the child in her arms. “Here is your son, my lord.”

  He crossed the room and looked down at the small bundle resting in the crook of Margarita’s arm. The baby had downy brown hair and delicate, fair skin. His eyebrows were amazingly well defined, and Nicholas said, with profound surprise, “He has eyebrows!”

  Mrs. Frost laughed. “Yes. And ten fingers and ten toes as well, my lord.”

  “He is perfect,” Margarita said softly, her eyes on the baby’s face. The child gazed back out of wide gray eyes. “His eyes will be brown. All my brothers and I had gray eyes when we were born.”

  “If he has eyes like you, little one, he will be a very fortunate boy,” said his father. He held out a tentative finger and brushed it against the baby’s cheek. “What shall we call him? We never talked of a name.”

  There was a note of surprise in her voice as she answered, “Nicholas, of course.”

  He looked at her. “I thought perhaps you might like to call him after your father.”

  “Antonio? No, Anthony would be the English.” She smiled at him then, a lovely, warm smile. “That is very generous of you, my lord. Perhaps our next son. This one is Nicholas.”

  He felt absurdly pleased and was embarrassed by his pleasure. “If you insist,” he said hastily. He took her hand. “I am so glad you are all right, little one. I was worried about you.”

  “It was painful but nothing I could not support,” Margarita answered proudly. “In fact, Nicholas, I am very pleased with myself.”

  He laughed and bent to kiss her cheek. “And so you should be. Mrs. Frost said you did splendidly.”

  Margarita’s small face glowed and Mrs. Frost said, “I think her ladyship should rest now, my lord.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Of course. Good night, sweetheart. I shall see you both tomorrow.” She smiled and he went to the door, pausing to look back once before he left. She was still looking at him.

  *

  In the weeks following the birth of her child, Margarita became completely absorbed in the rich fullness of motherhood. She turned her sitting room into a temporary nursery so she could nurse the baby at night. They had hired a baby nurse to take care of him, but Margarita enjoyed the routines of dressing and bathing her son, and Mrs. Wade found herself acting more as a teacher than a doer.

  Nicholas rather felt as if in gaining a son he had
lost a wife. She was so immersed in the baby. Her life revolved around little Nicky: nursing, resting, bathing him, eating and drinking so her milk would be nourishing, nursing, resting again.

  He missed talking to her. During dinner she told him about the baby, and after dinner she was so sleepy that he was sure she wasn’t attending to what he was saying. He was impatient with her for being so tired and ashamed of himself for feeling impatient. He knew she was up at least twice during the night to feed the baby.

  In spite of feeling a bit put out by the fuss he created, Nicholas was truly delighted with his son, especially as the weeks went by and the baby became more alert. He spent one fascinated hour observing the heroic efforts of little Nicky as he tried to get his hand into his mouth. And he became completely reconciled when he went into the nursery one afternoon at the sound of crying, picked the baby up, and the crying stopped. Tentatively he rocked the child in his arms and was rewarded with a beatific, toothless grin. Nicholas grinned back. Nicky was fine, as far as he was concerned. It was Margarita who was letting herself be overwhelmed by it all.

  *

  As the weeks went by and the baby grew and began to eat some strained food and sleep for longer periods, the physical demands on Margarita lessened and she began to turn once again toward Nicholas. By Christmas she was riding again, and in January she began to talk about redecorating the house. Nicholas, whose love for the castle was second only to his love for the land, was pleased by her ambition and told her not to worry about the expense.

  If Nicholas had found her absorption in the baby irritating, he was finding the resurrected Margarita even more difficult to deal with. He had not approached her with anything even remotely suggestive of passion since last January, a year ago. First her sickness, then her advancing pregnancy had made it impossible for him to even consider forcing sex on her. She was perfectly healthy now, but still he hesitated. He was not afraid that she would reject him. He knew she would not. Margarita would never shirk what she considered to be her duty, no matter how unpleasant she might find it. And she had found it unpleasant. That was a truth he could not disguise from himself. Nor did she do anything that would indicate to him her willingness to resume relations. Never, when he kissed her cheek, did she offer him her lips. Never, when he put a casual arm around her shoulder, did she turn to him in a welcoming embrace. She treated him, Nicholas thought bitterly, as if he were her brother.