Chapter 8 #5
Eleanor could not prevent a blush and a betraying glance at her husband, which made the Irishman laugh.
She was spared the need to reply by the movement of the dance, and no further comment caused her embarrassment that evening.
With her new assurance about her place in her husband’s incomprehensible life she felt happier than she had in weeks.
As they went up to their beds later, she and Amy were able to congratulate each other on a well-handled evening.
Eleanor was ready for bed when she realized that, as usual, Nicholas was not going to come to her and that she was disappointed.
Even that, however, could not wipe out her lighter spirits.
She remembered the way he had kissed her earlier, remembered the need in him.
Had she somehow misled him during that one blissful session of love?
Had she given him the impression that she was reluctant?
For this and other less-analyzed reasons she left her hair loose and broke the unwritten law by scratching on the door of his room.
She heard him dismiss Clintock and then the door opened. He was dressed only in his breeches and an open-necked shirt. Her mind went back to that first night at Newhaven. If she had behaved differently then would things have gone better since?
“Is something the matter, Eleanor?” he asked very formally.
“N … no,” she stammered. She had not expected such a complete return to his previous impersonal manner. All her courage seeped away. “I didn’t … It doesn’t matter.”
She would have gone, but he smiled and caught her hand to kiss it. “I’m sorry. Did I bark at you? Don’t ever be afraid of me, I beg you. You must be tired, though. The evening went very well. I congratulate you.”
He did it well, but she could sense the effort he was making. What had happened to the master of dissimulation?
“Thanks are deserved chiefly by the staff and Amy, I think,” said Eleanor, studying him. “I am a novice.”
“Nonsense. The mistress sets the tone for the house.” It was an honest compliment, but his tone wasn’t quite right. Perhaps it was the word mistress.
Eleanor for once felt more in control than he. “I wanted to speak to you, Nicholas,” she said levelly, “because I thought this as good a time as any to tell you I am sure there will be a child.”
He smiled. It seemed a genuine expression of delight. “That is good news. At least, I think it is. You may feel differently.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “I will like to have a child very much. I thought, though, that you might have preferred that it be … be born later.”
“That I should know it to be mine?” he said frankly. “No, it doesn’t bother me. Of course, if the other putative father were someone other than my brother, it might be different, but in this case … no, I don’t mind.”
He looked her over and laughed. “Do you know, Eleanor, pregnancy is one thing I have no experience with, even second hand. I don’t know whether you should be an invalid or a picture of health.”
“Then we’re a fine pair. I don’t know either. But I seem well. I haven’t even been nauseated, which is generally the case, though I can no longer face Mrs. Cooke’s more spicy dishes.”
“Poor Eleanor,” he said with a laugh, and gathered her into his arms. “No more mulligatawny soup.”
He gently brushed her hair back from her face. “You must look after yourself, my dear. For the child’s sake and your own. And mine. Have you chosen an accoucheur?”
Eleanor knew his concern was honest and felt as close to bliss as she could imagine just standing there wrapped in his arms and his care. “I would rather use a midwife, I think,” she replied, “if I can find a good one. There was an excellent one in Burton who never lost a mother.”
“Perhaps we should hire her,” he said, holding her away from him to look at her. “It is a dangerous time for a woman. You must do everything possible to assure your safety. Promise me.”
Eleanor looked up into warm brown eyes. It was so dangerous to allow herself this, for she knew their problems had not disappeared. She would pay in pain for these moments, and yet it was so wonderful.
“Certainly I will,” she assured him. “That’s an easy promise to make.”
“Good.”
He frowned slightly, as if searching for words, and then said softly, a little desperately, “And things will get better.”
With that he swung her up into his arms and carried her over to her bed. He laid her there gently and drew up the covers. He placed a soft kiss on her brow, extinguished her candles, and was gone.
His leaving did not dilute her happiness. She missed his kindness more than his passion, and that at least had returned to her. She sank into contented sleep.
And things did get better. He still spent little time in Lauriston Street, but, perhaps because of the presence of Amy, when he was at home he would seek their company and relax.
The gay, teasing tone was produced for both of them, and sometimes for Eleanor it approached the best times there had ever been.
With tact Amy would occasionally excuse herself to give them time alone.
Even then he did not cool and would even sometimes hold her in a tender way and kiss her gently.
There was never anything of passion in it, and she was careful never to try to take these moments further than he wished.
Life was not perfect, but it was so very sweet that she would not risk destroying it.
It was destroyed, however, one day in late June.