Chapter Seventeen
Another month passed and still Clara’s courses did not arrive.
She refused to believe she was pregnant and wanted desperately to have a doctor by to help put her mind at ease, but it was impossible to do without Pearce finding out about it. He never left the house long enough, and someone in the home would certainly mention a male guest to him.
She couldn’t risk having that happen.
So, Clara waited as long as she could, but she dreaded keeping the secret from her husband almost as much as she dreaded telling him.
Each day that passed without signs of her courses making itself known only inflated her anxieties.
Even with Pearce’s warm, hard body wrapped protectively around hers, even when he kissed her senseless, even when she was pretending to read and he quietly reached over to take her hand in his and stroke her knuckles with his thumb, she was tetchy and uneasy.
She could not even find it in herself to pick up her painting.
It felt disloyal to him to keep such a suspicion private.
Eventually, no amount of denial could overshadow her suspicion that she was, indeed, expecting.
Now that she knew the truth behind her husband’s trauma and his desire to never again father a child, she was almost constantly ill over her indecision, unable to feel even the most remote joy over being a mother—about carrying Pearce’s child in her womb.
Finally, when she could stand it no more, Clara prepared for bed after supper and exited the dressing room to find Pearce seated in his usual chair by the hearth.
The smile he gave her melted her heart; she pocketed the sight and the emotion away because she was unsure when next she’d experience it.
Ever observant, she watched as Pearce sensed her unease and went to her.
The time had come.
Pearce helped Clara to sit in the chair he’d immediately vacated upon recognizing how unwell she appeared. Her face was drawn and pale, her lips were pulled into a thin line of what almost appeared to be despair.
“May I fetch you something to drink?” He feared she might faint if something wasn’t done. He’d never seen her in such a state. Before he could dart away, she caught his hand in both of hers. The haunted look in her eyes caused a chill of foreboding to graze his spine.
“Clara? What is the matter, darling?”
She took a shaky breath before speaking. “I believe I am with child.”
For Pearce, the world tilted on its side. He didn’t hear her next words; they were muffled as if he were beneath the surface of a dark, frigid loch.
No.
“How can you know this?” he demanded, eyes wide and wild.
Tears welled in Clara’s eyes. “I have missed my courses.”
“Only once?”
She hesitated briefly before whispering, “Three times as of this week.”
Pearce yanked his hands from hers and began to pace jerkily.
A wall of dizziness crashed into him, so he bent and placed his hands on his knees, trying to take a deep breath and struggling.
This was supposed to be a moment of joy, when a man discovered that the woman he loved was carrying his child, but Pearce experienced only sickening dread.
He loved Clara.
He bloody well loved her and now he was sure to lose her.
He could only hear Clara’s screams echoing in his skull, see the life evaporate from her beautiful eyes, burning the image of his wife and child and reducing his joy to ash in the wind… He felt an overwhelming wave of nausea.
“Dear God.” Sweat beaded upon his brow and upper lip.
“Oh, God, no.” His frantic mind tried to pinpoint when this had happened.
Despite his determination, he’d yet to obtain a sheath or instruct Clara on using a sponge to prevent conception.
He’d relied solely upon withdrawal at orgasm as a method of contraception.
His hands shook.
This was all his fault.
He’d condemned Clara and the babe she carried with her to death.
Pearce threw himself around the room like a mad, caged lion, pacing and storming in circles, unsure of what to do with his body or his head.
“Please, calm yourself, Pearce.” The tears now falling from her eyes clogged her voice.
Pearce wanted to listen to her, he really did, but he was beyond reason from his grief and guilt. He could not breathe and his chest felt tight. When she reached out to touch him, he leapt from her as if afraid he might be burned.
“No! I’ll not endure this again.” His voice cracked hoarsely. “I’ll not watch you die.”
“Please,” she pleaded with him. “It will be fine. I will be fine—please!”
He could only shake his head in denial as he backed away from her. “Nothing about this is fine.” Despite the irrationality of the emotions, he felt betrayed and hurt. It wouldn’t be until much later when he calmed himself that he acknowledged that she had done absolutely nothing wrong.
He could not be around Clara—he could not be near her to watch her body change and her hopes grow with every week.
He could not handle having his world fall apart all over again.
Most importantly, he could not allow his presence to put her and their unborn child in danger.
The Brinley curse followed him everywhere.
It had stolen his mother; it had shattered the future he’d planned with Anna and Malina.
And now, it was welcoming Death into his household once again.
He needed to leave.
He needed to do what he could to save Clara, and that meant running as far away from her as he could, even if it killed him to do so.
Heedless of her plaintive cries, Pearce left the room and disappeared down the hall, leaving Clara to sob and fall to her knees, wrapping her arms around her waist in a mockery of the comfort she so desperately craved.
*
Clara awoke alone in the oversized bed she’d shared with Pearce since their arrival in Northumberland.
She didn’t know how long it was after he fled that she was finally able to calm herself enough that she could catch her breath.
She had not expected the revelation to go well, but him storming out…
that had shattered her. She’d picked herself up off the floor and, after standing in a moment of indecision, she’d crawled into their bed and burrowed beneath the coverlet that smelled like the perfect combination of their skin.
She had done her best to wait up for him, hoping against all hope that he would return to her once he’d had time to think through the situation, but she’d fallen asleep when the hour grew too late.
Now, the coolness of his pillow told her that he’d never returned.
Clara’s head ached and her eyes were swollen from crying, but she forced herself to rise and move on with the day. There was simply nothing else to be done. The pace of life did not stop for anything.
She rang the bellpull and went to the dressing room to await Beth’s arrival.
As soon as her maid saw her, her mouth fell agape.
Clara gave a simple shake of her head, indicating she did not desire in the least to discuss her sorry state.
Instead, Beth helped her dress in silence.
She felt only marginally better when she was finally washed, brushed, and dressed in a clean cream lace morning gown.
When she was done, Clara swallowed down her pride and asked, “Do you know where I might find my husband?”
Beth’s discomfort was as palpable as another person in the room. “Lord Brinley left at daybreak; the last of his things are waiting belowstairs for transportation.”
With that, Clara’s stomach fell through the floor; she swore she heard it smack against the stone floor of the cellar. She was forced to place a steadying hand upon the wall lest she collapse to the ground.
Clara knew without asking that Pearce had left instructions that she was not to be allowed to follow wherever he’d fled, and that caused her world to dim a startling degree.
One week later, Clara was fully unpacked and moved back into her chambers at Coylton Castle in Scotland. After Pearce’s departure, she’d waited a tense several days in determined optimism for him to cool his head, see reason, and return home.
He did not.
He sent no word about when she might expect him.
He seemed to have removed himself from her life with the same swiftness and finality as a beheading.
When Clara had eventually come to terms with the fact that he would not be returning to her, she made the decision to flee as well.
Some would say she was abandoning her post as lady of the house, but hadn’t Pearce done just that?
Why should she be forced to remain where she was clearly unwanted?
She’d much rather be in the bosom of her loving family—especially in her delicate and unfamiliar condition.
So, she wrote to Dori and Amelia to advise them of her plans.
After that, she set about packing her things, waiting to leave immediately upon her brother’s arrival—for there was not a single doubt in her mind that he would come for her.
Dori never failed her.
She’d remained brave when he’d arrived alone and bundled her off to Scotland.
He’d been mercifully silent on the long journey north, likely having been coached by Amelia to allow Clara to process her feelings without his input.
It wasn’t until she arrived at Coylton Castle and saw Amelia’s outstretched arms that Clara burst into tears.
Exhausted and heartbroken, she’d fallen into a deep sleep as soon as she’d been fed and tucked into her old bed.
It was only after they were alone in the study that Dorian’s temper finally snapped. “How dare he? How bloody well dare he abandon Clara like that?” he bellowed.
“I don’t know,” Amelia shook her head helplessly. She tried to be a calming voice of reason, but even she was having a hard time explaining away Brinley’s behavior.