Tangled (22 page)

Tomorrow I will send to warn the servants at Hartington House to prepare it for us. Tell your maid to pack your things."

"David," she said, "we can't leave now. There is so much to do.

And there are invitations we have accepted."

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"I'll have everything taken care of tomorrow," he said. "You have had a busy afternoon, Rebecca—first the visit to the school and then the rector calling here. You must be tired."

"It is a natural part of my condition," she said. "I don't like to give in to it, David. There is too much to do."

"You will go to your room now," he said, "and lie down until your maid comes to dress you for dinner. And you may close your mouth and leave the words unsaid. That is an order."

She closed her mouth and looked calmly at him. God! He could remember calling on her a few days after her second miscarriage. If that was what she had looked like a few days after, how must she have appeared while it was happening and immediately after? Through the careless taking of his pleasure—and once through the abusive display of his anger—had he forced her to have to go through that again?

She wanted a child more than anything in the world, she had said.

Was he to raise her hopes again only to have them dashed by the cruelty of a miscarriage? He clamped his teeth together and felt his jaw harden.

"Yes, David," she said and turned quietly to leave the room. He had to dash across it in order to open the door for her.

"I'll take you up," he said, offering her his arm.

"Thank you,' she said.

Rebecca had miscarried twice. His mother had died in childbed.

He felt terror rush cold into his nostrils as he led her silently up the stairs to the door of the room that was no longer his.

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They took the morning train for London. Rebecca forced herself to relax and watch the passing scenery. The work at Stedwell would not collapse because they were to be away for two weeks. As David had explained to her, Mr. Quigley and Mrs. Matthews were both loyal and capable servants and would do an exemplary job now that there were definite directions for them to follow.

But she did not like leaving Stedwell behind. She felt

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as if she really belonged there. She had never had a chance to feel a sense of belonging during her first marriage since Julian had so impulsively followed David into the Guards and they had had no fixed home. He had needed her, of course. He had often told her that he would not be able to live without her. She had belonged to him and had felt wonderfully needed.

It was a need that was not there in David. He needed her for Stedwell but not for himself. He had shown that in two months of marriage. There was no closeness, no union. Not even the affection he had once told her he hoped for. There had to be some sharing of selves in order for there to be affection. David shared nothing of himself. She glanced at him seated next to her in the railway carriage, reading his newspaper. He was always so controlled, so austere. He had permitted her only rare glimpses of the man within—and none voluntarily.

He felt her eyes on him and looked up. "You are all right, Rebecca?" he asked.

She nodded and smiled.

"You are not cold?" he asked. "Or tired? Would you like to lie down?"

"I am fine, David," she said.

His eyes stayed on her for a few moments and then he returned his attention to his paper.

He had refused to allow her to deliver food baskets the morning before and had insisted that she lie down for an hour after luncheon and again for an hour before they went to the Mantrells' for dinner.

She hated being idle— there had been so much idleness in her life.

But she had been touched by his concern. And by this—taking her to London to consult a physician when there was a doctor in the village at Stedwell.

She had thought in the first rush of bitterness after she had got up the courage to break the news to him that perhaps his concern was not so much for her as for his unborn child. It might, after all, be a son and he must want a son as heir to both Stedwell and Craybourne after him. Heir to a viscount's title and eventually to an earldom. But she had admitted to herself almost immediately that the thought was unworthy of her, David had been

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unfailingly courteous to her from the start—with two memorable exceptions. Besides, she was convinced that what she had said to him that afternoon in the drawing room almost two months before was right. He had married her because he blamed himself for Julian's death and felt he owed her his protection.

Yes, his concern was as much for her as for his child. Her health would be of some concern to him.

But she still felt as bitter now as she had felt two days ago. She could remember Julian's reaction on the two occasions when she had given him similar news. He had been boyishly overjoyed, lifting her off her feet the first time and spinning her around until they were both dizzy and laughing helplessly, hugging her to take her breath away the second time.

David had not moved from his position in front of the fireplace until it was time to escort her to her room. His expression had neither softened nor changed. She had had to ask him if he was pleased. He had said yes, and he had shown concern for her health—to such an extent that he was bringing her to London for a fortnight, perhaps longer if the physician felt it necessary for her to stay. But—oh, there had been so much missing.

She had not realized until she was alone in her room-in what should have been his room—just how much she had hoped that her news would break down some of the barriers between them. She had longed for him to smile, for those blue eyes of his to warm, for . . .

Yes, foolish woman that she was, she had even longed for him to take her in his arms and tell her without any prompting at all how pleased he was about the baby, how pleased he was with her.

She had wanted him to see her terror about miscarrying. She had not even tried to hide it. She had needed his arms then. But all she had got was his voice, sounding almost harsh, dealing with the possibility as a practical problem. She appreciated his concern. But at that moment it was the emotional problem she had wanted dealing with. She had needed his arms, and his voice against her ear, assuring her that it would not happen, that he would not let it happen. She had wanted comfort and make-believe.

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And then she had been alone in her room, escorted there by her husband with the command to rest—and abandoned at the door.

Did he have no feelings? No understanding of how much she had needed him to stay with her? If he had lain down with her and held her in his arms . . .

What a very foolish idea, she thought. David? David holding her in his arms? Tenderness between her and David? It was not David she needed. The thought came to her on an unaccustomed wave of self-pity, and guilt stabbed at her at the same moment. It was Julian she wanted. Julian's arms.

Julian!

She closed her eyes and swallowed several times. She fought guilt.

She had promised not to think of him, and though David had released her from the promise, she had tried to keep it to herself. And yet she was aching with grief again. She focused her thoughts on the child growing in her womb. Not Julian's child this time. David's. But much-loved and much-wanted anyway. Oh, very much wanted.

Please,
she prayed silently.
Please, please. Oh, please.

She was in the pleasant drifting world that preceded sleep when an arm slid behind her neck and drew her head down against a broad and firm shoulder. She snuggled into it gratefully without opening her eyes or letting go of the drowsiness that her pregnancy was making so insistent these days.

She was sleeping by the time David turned his head and kissed her temple.

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Sir Rupert Bedwell was reputed to be the best ladies' physician in London. It was to his offices that David took his wife by appointment two days after their arrival in London.

It was his opinion, Sir Rupert told them after subjecting Rebecca to a thorough examination, that Lady Tavistock's womb was of the rare type that rejected an unborn child at a certain size and weight, usually from some time late in the third month to the end of the fourth. It would not be easy to extend a pregnancy beyond that

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time, but if it could be done, then all would probably be well.

"And how might it be done?" David asked. His wife was pale and silent. He guessed that the physical examination which she had just endured had been a humiliating ordeal for her as well as this conversation about her body and its functions.

The doctor shrugged. "I would not fill either of you with false hope," he said. "I am afraid the chances are high that Lady Tavistock will miscarry this time as she did twice before. If that happens, I would not advise further pregnancies, though they are not always easily avoided."

Rebecca's face was suffused with color suddenly. David clenched his teeth.

"There is nothing to be done, then?" he said. "Beyond praying, as our local doctor has advised?"

"Lady Tavistock's best hope," Sir Rupert said, "is to minimize the downward weight of the unborn child during the danger period.

Complete bed rest, in other words. And a great deal of rest and little exertion even before that."

"But still the danger is high." Rebecca spoke for the first time. It was not a question.

"Yes, my lady," Sir Rupert said.

"Thank you for your candor," she said.

"Perhaps," he said, rising as she and David did, "I might have a word with you, my lord? I will keep him for but a moment, my lady."

He closed the door after Rebecca had stepped out into the reception room. "I would advise, my lord," he said, “that you forgo exercising your conjugal rights until your lady is safely delivered of a child or until she had had two or three months during which to recover from a miscarriage."

David drew a slow breath. "I understand," he said. "Like my wife, I thank you for your candor."

"After all," the doctor said, smiling in sympathy, "there are alternatives, aren't there, my lord?"

"Are there?" David, his voice and eyes cold, resisted the sudden urge to plant his fist between the man's smiling eyes.

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There were a few brief shopping trips during the coming week and one short visit to the National Gallery. There were several visits with Lord and Lady Meerscham, Rebecca's brother and sister-in-law, since they happened to be in town. They attended the theater one evening after dining with a colonel of the Guards and his lady. But David had no intention of involving Rebecca in a social whirl. If their child was to be saved, then he would do all in his power to see that it happened.

By the time they were within four days of returning to Stedwell, they had entertained several afternoon callers. But they were alone after tea on the afternoon the butler brought in yet another card on a tray.

David held it in his hand and felt himself grow cold as he read the name.

"Who is it?" Rebecca asked.

"Yet another Guardsman," he said. "Now sold out, like me. I will entertain him alone if you wish to go upstairs to rest, Rebecca."

"No," she said. "I like meeting your former comrades. I know so little about that part of your life. Have I met him before?''

"No." He nodded to the butler to admit their guest. "He was with the Coldstreams, not the Grenadiers." He felt horribly out of control of the moment.

Sir George Scherer came striding into the drawing room a minute later, beaming cordially, one hand outstretched. He had put on weight. His complexion seemed even more florid than it had been.

"Major Tavistock," he said. "I could hardly believe my luck when I heard just this morning that you were in town. I have been meaning to look you up. I came around as soon as I could extricate myself from another engagement."

"Scherer," David shook his hand. "Rebecca, I would like you to meet Sir George Scherer. We served in the Crimea together.''

"Your wife?" Sir George asked as Rebecca inclined her head to him and smiled. "I am charmed, ma'am. Your husband deserves such beauty, I must say. I owe my life to him. Has he ever told you? It was at Inkerman. We . . ."

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"My wife," David said very distinctly, "was Captain Sir Julian Cardwell's widow. You may remember him."

Sir George's mouth remained open for a moment before he recovered himself. "Cardwell?" he said, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, of course. He was killed at Inkerman, wasn't he? My condolences, ma'am, though it was a long time ago."

"You knew him?" she said. "You were at Inkerman too, Sir George?

Perhaps you ..." She flushed. "David saved your life?''

"I had a Russian's bayonet at my throat," he said. "Your husband shot him through the heart as cool as you please, ma'am. On the slopes of the Kitspur it was in the middle of a dense fog. I was never so glad to see a British greatcoat in my life." He laughed heartily.

"The Kitspur," she said. "It was where—my first husband was killed. Where he is buried."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "He was a brave man. He held the heights according to orders after most of the rest of us had broken ranks and gone down, and then he brought his men down to rescue us. He gave his life in the process."

"Yes," Rebecca said into the silence that followed his words. "I had heard that he was a hero."

David felt as if he could not have moved or spoken to save his life.

If Scherer was going to invent a story, could he not have checked with David first?

"Lady Scherer and I would be delighted to have you both dine with us tomorrow evening," Sir George said. "If you have no other engagement, that is. I came to invite Major Tavistock alone, but this is altogether better. Cynthia will be delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am."