An American Duchess (22 page)

In church, Zoe sat beside Nigel, in the Hazelton family pew at the very front. Of course, he sat looking proper and respectful, and though she let her fingers stray and gently touch his thigh, he didn’t acknowledge her touch. Which made it all the more fun to do.

After church, she wandered through the aromatic house until she found Nigel at his desk, in his study. Ever since she had announced her pregnancy, he smiled whenever he saw her. But she knew he was restless and wakeful at night.

A week after she’d told him the good news, she had got up to use the chamber pot. She’d heard gruff sobs from Nigel’s room. She’d tried the door. It had been locked.

She’d heard the sounds night after night. It had to be over the War. Why couldn’t he put it behind him? There was no point asking him—he continued to refuse to speak of it. But she was always aware of it.

She walked up to his desk. “What is Mrs. Creedy cooking that smells so wonderful?”

Nigel looked up. “It’s Stir-Up Sunday.”

“What is that? It sounds naughty.”

“It isn’t. This is the day the Christmas puddings are made, on the Sunday before Advent, so they have time to mature for Christmas Day. The reverend spoke of it in his sermon this morning.”

She hadn’t noticed the sermon since she had been touching Nigel’s leg.

“You’ll stir it, too,” Nigel said.

“The pudding? In the kitchen?”

She didn’t believe him. But soon he led her downstairs, where they joined the rest of the family, including the dowager, Nigel’s mother, Julia and Isobel.

Zoe had never been in the kitchen before. The walls were stone, the ceiling low. There was the servants’ dining room, then an arched opening that led to the kitchen. Along one wall stood an enormous metal oven and stove that gleamed like a mirror. A huge ornate buffet was opposite, filled with china dishes. The two new kitchen maids hurried around—with the money from her inheritance, they had been able to acquire more staff.

A huge metal bowl rested on one of the large wooden tables in the kitchen.

As the duke, Nigel had the privilege of stirring first. He winked at her, took the wooden spoon and stirred. He shut his eyes, and his lips moved, but she couldn’t hear what he said.

When he returned, she cornered him. “Did you say a magic incantation?”

“I made a wish. Every member of the family takes a turn to stir the pudding. You make a wish while you do it. Stir only clockwise. Stirring anticlockwise invokes the work of the devil.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“It’s tradition. And no one has ever put it to the test.”

She liked this, teasing Nigel. “What did you wish for?”

“Telling you would spoil the wish,” he said at first. Then he murmured, “But maybe it was for a healthy, happy baby. And an easy birth.”

“I know what I’m going to wish for,” she said.

His gaze was wary.

She waited until she had walked up to the large mixing bowl, picked up the spoon and stirred the batter, studded with chopped candied fruit, nuts and raisins. Then she rejoined Nigel. “Maybe,” she whispered by his ear, “I wished for you to come to my bed every night and let me exhaust you with pleasure. You could come to me tonight and find out.”

He drew her aside as his mother went in to stir next. Maria looked incongruous stirring a pot while wearing a beautiful dress, her hair elaborately marcelled.

Nigel bent close to her. “I shouldn’t. In your condition, I shouldn’t make you submit to my attentions. And I cannot sleep with you, Zoe. Most definitely not now. If I was in one of my fits and I caused harm to you or our child, I could not forgive myself.”

“Nigel, you aren’t making me submit. I want you. I miss holding you in my arms.” Her voice cracked.

His brows drew together. “All right. I will come to you tonight,” he said softly.

A sudden cramping pain went through her belly. “Oh!” Zoe put her hand on her tummy.

“Is something wrong, Zoe?”

“No. I—I don’t know. I felt a cramp. I think my skirt is too tight. I will need larger clothes.”

He put his arm around her.

“I’m fine, Nigel,” she assured him.

“No, you are going upstairs to rest. I insist.”

She let him escort her—at least this way she would have him in her bedroom. When they reached her room, she ran her fingers up his chest. “And it is perfectly fine to do it, you know. I asked Dr. Drury,” she said.

Shock turned Nigel’s face blank. “You spoke to the doctor about—”

“Sex? Yes. Why shouldn’t I?” She put her fists on her hips. “He’s a doctor. He assured me, with a lot of embarrassment, we could have ‘normal marital relations’ during the pregnancy. He was so uncomfortable, I asked, ‘What about abnormal ones?’ I thought he was going to faint.”

Nigel looked just as shocked as the doctor.

“But you can make love to me without harming the baby.” She could see on his face he didn’t believe her. She sighed. He was so stubborn.

Nigel kissed her hand, apparently not aware the tender, sensual gesture made her ache with desire. “You must rest, Zoe,” he insisted. And he took her into her room and tucked her into bed.

* * *

She stayed in bed all afternoon, but more pains came through dinner. Zoe wore a loose, waistless dress of red silk, and she fought to get through the meal, believing the cramps would stop. Then a stab of pain shot through her so sharp and fast, she struggled to push back her heavy chair. She could barely move it—that was why the footmen drew them out—but she stood anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just had a sudden pain.”

“Oh, my dear.” The dowager looked up swiftly and set down her fork. “Have you had these for very long?”

“I had a few just after we stirred the pudding. They are getting worse—” She broke off as one forked through her again and she clutched the back of the chair.

She saw it—the dowager’s face, fighting to disguise sorrow.

“What is it?” Zoe gasped. “It’s the baby, isn’t it?”

“Langford, send for the doctor,” the dowager said quickly. “Though I fear there is nothing he can do now. We must take Her Grace upstairs.”

There is nothing he can do now.
Zoe met the dowager’s blue eyes—the same deep clear blue as Nigel’s. She didn’t need the words. Everything was written in the sympathy on the older woman’s face. But she whispered, “I am going to lose the baby, aren’t I?”

As the question left her lips, she felt a strange gushing sensation. Her underclothes were wet. It was if she’d let go and wet herself. Another cramp came and her legs almost collapsed.

“What can I do?” she gasped to the dowager. She looked down. A large wet spot showed on the skirt of her dress.

The dowager’s chair had been drawn out. Nigel pushed his own chair back without waiting for help.

Zoe felt the dowager’s gloved hands on her shoulders. “You must go upstairs, my dear. I do not think there is much we can do until Dr. Drury arrives. And then—”

“Has this happened to you before?”

The dowager looked prim. She lowered her voice, but said crisply, “Not to me, but to the duchess, Langford’s mother. She lost three of her babies this way.”

“She lost her babies?” Zoe whispered.

More spasms came. They lasted so long Zoe clutched the chair—

Nigel swept her into his arms. Long strides took him to the stairs, and he carried her up as if she were weightless. All the while, the cramps came. Held in his arms, she went through agony.

“Nigel—oh, please, you must stop. Put me down. Oh—”

“No, let me get you to your bed.” As though she weighed nothing, he raced up the steps with her, took her to her room. Her sheets flew back—someone tore them out of the way. Nigel laid her gently on her bed.

Another cramp took her. She curled up with it, a sob escaping her. “I can’t stand it!”

The dowager came forward and touched Zoe.

“It’s too late, isn’t it?” Zoe asked her. She knew the dowager would be honest. Blunt.

“I believe once you feel these pains, the poor wee child is gone. That is what we were told. Nothing can be done.”

All her life she’d flung herself into risk—when she was the only one who would be harmed.

“What did I do wrong?” She was helpless. She’d always feared being helpless. She had felt this when she’d learned of her brother’s death. He had been at war, so far away, and there had been nothing she could do.

Fury flared in Zoe. This wasn’t fair. She had to stop it.

* * *

Nigel pressed his knee into the mattress and leaned over Zoe. He clasped her hand. Brushed her hair back. Her skin was clammy. “It’s all right, love. Hold on, love. The doctor will be here soon.”

What could he do? He ached to make this stop for her. He couldn’t bear seeing her writhe in pain. God, he had been in battle, lost young men to bullets and disease—nothing was as terrifying as this.

“I want it to stop,” Zoe begged. “Make it stop. I don’t want to lose my baby. Please make these pains stop. They’re pushing him
out.
”

Her plea fractured Nigel’s heart. He had never seen her like this. Zoe was trying to get off the bed. He had to hold her on one side, and his mother held her on the other, to keep her down. She had managed to pull her aeroplane up when the engine stalled—she’d done it with stunning calm.

Now she dissolved into pain, fear, horror. It made his heart almost stop.

He had to do something.

“Where is Dr. Drury?” Nigel demanded, shouting to one of the footmen who stood near the doorway. “Has he arrived yet? Go downstairs and see if he’s come. Make sure the bloody car was sent for him. We need him
now.
”

 17 

THE LOSS

Masculine voices rose and fell, and when they grew hushed, Zoe fought terror. Maids rushed in and out, flustered and gasping. When Zoe’s eyes opened, between bouts of pain, she saw desperate faces, piles of linen and Nigel—his dark hair in a disheveled mess, his eyes stark with worry, his skin as pale and deathly white as a ghost.

Sweat coated Zoe’s chest. Her short hair was wet and stuck to her head. The pains came, and her stomach—her womb—went hard as rock. She kept pushing. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to push her baby out. It wasn’t time.

But she couldn’t stop her body.

She clutched at a hand. Nigel’s hand clasped hers, firm and strong. “I can’t stop pushing,” she cried.

Someone took her other hand—it was her mother-in-law, who tried to soothe her. “You must relax,
ma petite.
”

Nigel’s mother had also seemed so fragile and ghostlike. But now her grip was strong, and her voice was filled with passion and command. She clutched her mother-in-law’s hand.

“You went through this,” Zoe gasped. “I’m so sorry. But it can’t be true. There can’t be no hope—” She broke off and cried out.

Voices babbled at her. Nigel tried to soothe her. A deep voice said, “You must breathe, Your Grace. Please try to relax, Your Grace.”

It was Dr. Drury. As he leaned over her other side, Nigel’s mother moved aside, and Zoe reached for him desperately.

“I don’t want to lose my baby,” she begged. “Please, can’t something be done?
Please.
”

“Stay calm, Your Grace,” the doctor said, sounding terribly stern and so concerned it made Zoe sob.

“I can’t. I can’t,” she cried. “Won’t you listen? Make this stop.”

“Your Grace, we cannot make it stop now. We have to see it through.”

“I have a fortune. A
fortune.
” Her shrill tones hurt her own ears, but she was desperate. “I’ll pay anything. Give you anything if you can save my baby.”

“Your Grace, I am afraid it is not a matter of money.”

“Then what’s the point?” she cried. “What’s the point of millions if they can’t save a child?”

“Zoe, calm yourself.” Nigel stroked her hand, gently, lovingly.

“No! I am not going to be ladylike now. I don’t care if I’m a damned duchess. To hell with that!”

“Can you save the child?” That was Nigel, his voice raw and strained. Then his voice cracked. “Will Zoe be all right?”

The doctor drew Nigel back, and she tried to cling to her husband’s hand, but he was forced to let her go.

“Yes,” Drury said. “There should be no danger to Her Grace. But the baby cannot be saved. She is miscarrying. I am afraid it means the baby is already dead.”

Already dead?
Perhaps he thought she couldn’t hear over her own cries and screams, but she could.

Nothing could be done, as the dowager had said. She had clung desperately to hope but now it all dissolved and rushed out of her heart. She felt weak, drained, empty. “Why?” she cried. She screamed as her womb tightened again, and she doubled up with pain. “Why does my body do this if my baby is gone?”

The doctor leaned over her. “Your water has broken, Your Grace. Now your body will deliver the child naturally.”

“The baby is going to be born? I don’t understand. You said the baby was gone.”

Dr. Drury turned to Nigel. Lamplight glinted on his round spectacles. He spoke low again, but she heard him. “Her body has to expel the deceased fetus, Your Grace. There will be less pain than a normal birth. She will have strong contractions, but I assure you it will not last long.”

Through a haze of agony, she saw Nigel’s face. Saw the slash of pain at Drury’s words.

“What can I do, Doctor?” he asked.

“Support her through it. I would normally send you away, Your Grace. But for this, perhaps your presence is helping.”

What could help? She clung to Nigel’s hand, but there was nothing that would help her.

She sobbed. Her body had betrayed her. She was going through with a birth that was hopeless.

Crying out, she arched up. Pain racked her. All this, all this, and her precious darling baby would not live.

“Why did it happen?” Nigel implored Drury. “Have we done something wrong?”

Had
she
done something wrong? That was what Nigel must mean. That had to be it, wasn’t it? She drove too fast. Rode too much.

“It could be many reasons,” Drury said, in his brusque manner. “The most likely one is that the infant was not developing properly. There was some defect, something so severe that the child would not have survived anyway. No one did anything wrong.” Then Drury seemed to remember where he was and he added, “Your Grace.”

She arched on the bed, screamed. She squeezed Nigel’s hand.

Pure panic showed in Nigel’s eyes. “Zoe, Zoe.”

Would their baby have had blue eyes? Tears streamed down her face. She felt them pour over her lips.

“Soothe her, Your Grace. Try to distract her from the contractions.”

His hand caressed her cheek. He took a cloth and wiped at her tears.

The strongest urge to push overtook her. Her muscles all worked together. A slippery, gushing sensation came from her.

“There. We have the wee mite now,” the doctor said. “The rest will follow after.”

Dimly, Zoe saw the doctor do something on the bed, between her legs. He held a small bundle in a piece of white cloth.

She was tired. So tired. But she held out her arms. “Let me see the child.”

“No, Your Grace—” Drury began.

“Please. I must see him.” She was so certain it was a boy.

The doctor hesitated.

“I have to see him. I have to know. I have to say goodbye.” Tears spilled down her face again, hot and sticky.

Dr. Drury looked to Nigel. “I don’t advise it, Your Grace.”

He would side with the doctor. After all, she was a wild, brash American with no ideas of what was proper.

“If Zoe wishes to see the child to say goodbye,” Nigel said, “I will have to insist on it.”

Zoe couldn’t quite believe it—that Nigel had agreed with her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The blanket was held in front of her, wrapped around a small bundle. With all the swaddling, it was slightly bigger than her hand. She supported it, opening the folds of the blankets with weak, shaking hands.

A tiny little creature, wet and mottled red with blood, lay in the hollow of the stained white sheet. Her child. Smaller than the palm of her hand. The size of a pea pod. But there was a tiny head. Small, curled-up hands. Little legs folded together. Oh, God—a tiny nose and delicate closed eyelashes. Little fingers.

A perfect little child who had no chance to know life. She gazed down through a veil of blurring tears. “Hello, little one,” she whispered, the words croaking and catching.

She gazed up at Nigel. “We will wrap him up—I want him to be comfortable. I want to have him buried. With a marker. So I can go and see him—”

The tears were too strong. They strangled her voice, cut off her words and her breath. She had to give in to them.

Sobs racked her; tears streamed down her face. Nigel’s hands took their baby and his blanket out of hers.

She looked at him again. Nigel stared down at their child. His face was blank, utterly without expression. He looked as though he was carved from stone.

Then he said, “We had a son. He was so beautiful. So precious and small.”

Was he angry? He must feel rage, as she did. But his face showed nothing.

She was so furious with herself. She hated her body. How could it have done this? She didn’t believe the doctor. Look at their tiny child. He was so perfect. There could not have been anything wrong with him. Her body had done this terrible thing.

“....must rest,” Dr. Drury said. “The remaining placenta will be delivered. It could be hours. Bleeding could be heavy for several days, then turn to a spottier discharge...”

Numbly, she fought to listen to Dr. Drury.

“Drury, this is not the time. Zoe has had a great shock. We will discuss later what is to be done.”

She looked up at Nigel. He looked ducal as he spoke to the doctor—cold, collected, in control.

They had lost their child!

It was as if ice had formed over him. But she knew what it meant—it wasn’t that he didn’t feel anything. Nigel withdrew to avoid pain. She shivered at his frostiness. If he was this cold, his heart must be completely broken.

She saw surprise in Drury’s eyes. “You are bearing up admirably, Your Grace,” the doctor said quietly. “Her Grace will need your strength.”

Drury had no idea. Inside, Nigel had to be crumbling apart. Just as she was.

She hadn’t meant to lose their child.

Then Nigel looked down at her. Suddenly he lifted her in his arms. “Have the bed stripped and remade at once. The duchess must rest.”

He held her in his arms while the servants bustled. Her dress had been pulled off her, but she wore a white shift, soaked with red blood. Her thighs were streaked with it. The red splotches seemed to whirl in front of her eyes.

She fought to not faint.

Maids rushed to tear off old sheets, replace them with clean ones. Nigel sat her on the edge of her bed, and the doctor withdrew as Callie changed her. Zoe wiped listlessly at her legs with a wet cloth, taking off some of the blood. But she didn’t care.

Her legs shook, but she grasped her bed column and tried to stand. “Where is our baby?”

“He’s been taken away, Zoe.” Nigel’s large body was in front of her, so she could not get off the bed.

“Where? Where has he gone?”

“Drury has taken him. We have to...arrange for the burial. But you must rest, Zoe.”

“There are things I must do. I want—I want to wrap our poor son in a blanket. I want to know he’s warm. We must name him. We should give him a name. I don’t want a grave marker that has no name. It isn’t right.”

“Shh. We will think of all that in the morning. For now, you must sleep.”

“What is the point of that? It won’t make things go away.”

Tenderly, he kissed her forehead. He gently arranged her so she was lying on her fresh bed, and he pulled the covers up. “Please rest. Just rest. For me.”

She kept arguing; Nigel kept insisting. She felt weaker and weaker. Soon she didn’t have the strength to talk anymore. She closed her eyes.

Her last realization was that she was still crying. Tears still trickled to her cheeks, even as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Zoe woke to one blessed moment of confusion. Then her memory of the evening flooded her. She jerked up in bed. It was still dark—there was no hint of light around her curtains. The swift movement hurt her belly, and she put her hand there. There had been only the smallest thickening of her middle. It was still there, but inside she was empty.

Rest. They—Drury, Nigel—had told her to sleep. But she couldn’t sleep away pain. She had never been able to do that.

Gingerly, she got out of bed. Her bare feet sank into the softness of the rug beside her bed. Tomorrow she would use the telephone and tell Mother her little grandson was gone.

Everyone who had known about the baby, who had greeted the announcement of her pregnancy with joy, would have to be told the news.

This hurt so much. How did people survive losing a child after they had held their babies, or who had watched a child learn to walk, or speak, or had seen their precious child begin to grow?

There was no forgetting, was there? It would be terrible to forget. Just as with her brother, she must do her duty and never forget.

She needed a goal, for when she had a goal, she rushed onward and had no time to look back.

Zoe pulled open the drapes. Moonlight illuminated the grounds of Brideswell. It was late November—the trees now looked skeletal; the gardens had gone dormant. Condensation ran down the windowpanes like tears.

On her vanity sat a decanter of sherry. Someone had put it there. She sipped some, letting it heat her dry, aching throat.

She heard a muffled sound. Or thought she did. Lifting her head, she faced the open door that led to her parlor. Nigel’s room was on the other side. Zoe heard another soft sound. He must be awake.

Did she want to see him? He must be angry and in pain. But she had to face him sometime.

She pulled on her robe, tied a lackluster knot with heavy hands and walked into her dressing room. The door was open to his bedroom and she stood on the threshold of his room, in the darkness. Moonlight spilled into Nigel’s room.

The sight before her hurt her deeply.

He sat at his writing desk, elbows on the blotter, his head resting in his hands. “Oh, my God,” he muttered. “My child. My little boy.”

He was sobbing. Great, shuddering sobs that racked his shoulders.

That was why he’d shown no expression. He had been fighting to hold in his pain and grief. Fighting not to cry.

She couldn’t go to him. How could she? Dr. Drury had insisted it was not her fault; it was not Nigel’s. That the baby had died because he simply could not survive. But when she had seen the baby, he had looked...perfect.

She didn’t know how to offer any comfort or solace to Nigel. What could she give?

She drew back and walked back into her room.

Slowly, she sank to the edge of her bed. Her body felt both heavy and empty. She stared at her bare feet. She swung them, for her bed was so high, her feet didn’t touch the ground.

A little boy would have loved to do this—swing his feet, play on a bed.

She put her hand to her mouth to smother the sound of her tears, but a cramp shot through her stomach. Then another. And another.

Oh, God.

She cried out with them. Nigel burst through from the door to her dressing room. Her bedroom door flew open and Nigel’s mother rushed in, along with maids. Drury followed, rolling up his sleeves. In another bout of pain and shock, she got rid of the placenta.

Nigel wiped her forehead with a wet, cool cloth. And this time they listened to Drury as he explained what would follow. She would have more bleeding. It could last for days, but eventually it would stop.

Zoe couldn’t speak for the pain in her throat, the tightness. In a few weeks, all trace of their lost little boy would be gone.