Chapter 24 #2
But she had said it. She had said the words. And however she had meant them, she told him she did not want his child. A man sitting beside his wife’s bed and hearing her say, I do not want it, was not a man one could reasonably ask to hear the words differently than as they had fallen.
Selina gave him a child.
The thought came unbidden. She tried to push it away, but it would not budge.
She pressed her forehead harder against the glass before readying herself for bed. She crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.
He did not come to her room that night. But then, she had not expected him to. He had slept in his room on a handful of nights in recent weeks, nights when he had been up very late over papers and had not wished to disturb her.
She told herself, lying in the too-cold, too-large bed with her eyes open in the dark, that this was one of those nights, and that she was being foolish, and that she should go to sleep.
She did not go to sleep for a long time.
William did not go to her. He sat up in his study until the clock struck one, and then two. At some point after two, he rested his head on his folded arms on the desk and dozed in fits.
When the grey light began filtering through the curtains, he rose, stiff and sore, and went up to his room. He changed into fresh clothes and came back down again. Apparently, no one in the house had noticed that he had not slept in his bed.
I am being considerate. She has been ill. She fainted. She needs her rest. I will not disturb her.
The following three days, the house was not quite itself. Nothing was said to indicate otherwise. Nothing, to the servants’ discerning eyes, was amiss.
Anne took her breakfast in her room, which was not unusual while she was recovering.
William spent a great deal of time in his study, which was not unusual, either.
They met with the girls at luncheon and dinner and were entirely civil to one another.
He enquired after her health. She replied that she was much better, thank you.
He said he was glad to hear it. She said she hoped he was not overworking.
He said he was not. They passed the salt.
Felicity noticed first.
As William knew well, Felicity noticed everything. On the second morning, she appeared in his study without knocking, carrying a sketchbook.
“Can you tell me what you think of this Roman helmet?” she asked, gesturing to her drawing.
“I think it needs a bit more shading in this area,” he said.
She accepted his opinion with grave courtesy. Then she said, “Papa, will you come and take tea with Anne and me in the morning room at four? Anne has said she will come down and is feeling better.”
“I have work, Felicity. I have been neglecting my duties for too long.”
“You have work every day.”
“I do. That is the life of a duke.”
“You did not use to work every day. You used to take tea. Everyone needs tea, Papa.”
He looked at her. She looked back at him, eyes identical to his own, unblinking in her small face.
“I shall try,” he said.
He did not come to tea.
On the third afternoon, Celia took matters into her own hands. Her method was direct, as was her nature. She found Anne in the library, where Anne had gone to sit with a book she was not reading, and climbed into her lap with the bodily assumption of a much younger child.
“Anne, are you and His Grace quarreling?”
“No, Celia. Why would you think such a thing?”
“You are.”
“We are not quarreling, Celia. Truly.”
“Then why does he eat his breakfast with the newspaper up in front of his face like this?” Celia held up an imaginary newspaper with great drama in front of her small face. “And why do you look at your toast as though it had been impertinent to you in your room?”
“Celia.”
“Felicity says you are out of sorts still,” Celia said, pronouncing the phrase with the careful air of a child repeating something she had overheard. “Felicity says we are not to interfere. But I think interfering is the right thing to do. I think you and His Grace should make up. You seem better.”
“There is nothing to make up for, Sister.”
“Then you should go find him in his study and tell him so.”
Anne closed her eyes. She rested her cheek atop Celia’s head and breathed in her hair. She savored the familiar scents of soap and the outdoors, and a faint trace of a biscuit she had evidently been eating. She did not answer.
After a moment, Celia patted her consolingly on the arm. “There, there,” she said, in a voice Anne recognized as her own, used during fevers and scraped knees and small sorrows over the years. “There, there, Anne. It will come right. Things do. Mostly.”
“Oh, my wise Celia.”
“Shall I go and tell him you are crying?”
“I am not crying, Celia.”
“You are a little bit.”
“I am not.”
“Very well,” Celia relented, with the air of someone who would not press the issue, and laid her head against Anne’s shoulder. She stayed there, not moving for a long while in the late afternoon light.
“What would I do without you?” Anne sighed, wrapping an arm around her.
“Be very bored.”