Chapter Five
Private Residence of the Duke and Duchess of Southwick
London, England
“And then what happened?” Lowering the fan she’d been using to cool her flushed cheeks, Mara leaned forward and pointed her finger accusingly at Abigail. “You cannot stop there.”
But Abigail, whose own cheeks had begun to turn a distinct rosy shade of pink that had nothing to do with the heat emanating from the crackling fireplace and everything to do with the heat invoked from a past she’d done her best to forget, shook her head.
“N-nothing happened,” she lied. She’d always been a terrible liar.
The act of telling an untruth for personal gain made her itch from the inside out.
Her mind just did not see the value in it.
Except for this one, small, tiny instance.
“Stephen sailed back to England, I began my studies at Columbia—”
“—College Medical School.” Mara waved her hand in the air. “Yes, yes. Isn’t there an abbreviation you can use? You may not have noticed, but it’s a rather long name.”
Abigail frowned. “It is a very important and prestigious institution.”
“Not that prestigious, or they’d have recognized your value the moment you walked in the door and begged you to be a student, woman or not.
But I digress.” Cradling her rounded belly, the Duchess of Southwick leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankle.
“I mean no offense, Dr. Chadwick. Abigail. But I already know you are a brilliant doctor. What I don’t know is what Lord Lancaster did with his mouth before he exited that carriage. ”
If Abigail’s face had been warm before, it was positively burning now. “I’m not sure that I understand to what you are referring. It is getting late, Your Grace. You should be—”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence,” warned Mara, her auburn brows pinching together to form an ominous line.
“I have rested so much that there is a permanent indentation in my pillow. What I have not done is enjoy the pleasure of my husband’s .
. . company . . . in nearly three weeks. He is afraid he’ll harm the baby.”
Medicine and science, Abigail thought with no small measure of relief. She could discuss medicine and science. It was as familiar to her as breathing, and far more comfortable than anything to do with Stephen, marriage, or passionate carriage encounters.
“His Grace can rest assured that your cervix will not begin to significantly dilate until you are in active labor, at which time intimate relations should be halted. Although, there recently was a new study and article published in The Medical Repository that suggests genital stimulation may have a positive effect on—”
“Abigail! We are not here to converse about my genital stimulation, of which sadly there has been very little lately. I want to hear about your genital stimulation.” Mara paused.
“You know, those are eight words I never dreamt I would say aloud. I do believe that this pregnancy is turning me into my sister, Kitty.”
Abigail sipped her tea. It had gone cold, but even cold tea was preferable to discussing stimulation, genital or otherwise, with the Duchess of Southwick.
“Do you think we’ll get much snow?” she said, striving for a conversational tone that fell flat as the rug underneath her feet.
“My cat, Ferdinand, detests the snow. As soon as it rises past his paws, he refuses to go outside.”
“Very well,” Mara sighed. “You can tell me about the carriage later. But I should like to hear why you find it necessary to hide from your husband. He hasn’t hurt you, has he? Because if he has, I can have Ambrose—”
“No, no,” Abigail said hastily, cutting off Mara before she could even finish her sentence. “Stephen would never do me physical harm.”
Of that, she was certain.
It was everything else about her marriage that remained ambiguous.
“Does he snore terribly, then?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Her nose wrinkled, pushing up her spectacles. “I hope not.”
“Does he have a particular odor that you find unpleasant?”
“He smelled . . . very nice,” she admitted. “From what I remember, that is. Like sandalwood and freshly squeezed lemon.”
“Is he dimwitted or deplorable in his demeanor?”
“Stephen was polite and presented himself as having higher than average intelligence.”
“I know he is not ugly. I’ve seen him before from afar, albeit not recently, but he couldn’t have changed that much.”
“He does have very symmetrical features,” she agreed.
“Then do forgive my bluntness, but what is the problem? And if you wouldn’t mind being succinct, I would very much appreciate it.
” Mara muffled a yawn with the back of her hand and smiled wryly at Abigail.
“I find that I am growing quite tired, although don’t you dare tell Ambrose.
If it were up to him, I’d be going to bed before the sun set and staying there long after it rose. ”
Abandoning her tepid tea, Abigail rose to her feet and began to pace in front of the fireplace, casting a rippling shadow of black across an orderly wall of bookshelves.
“You have to understand, it was not my intention to renege on our agreement.
The terms were clear, and Stephen did uphold his end of it.
I was accepted into Columbia College without question, and, for the most part, was able to learn alongside my male peers without too much prejudice.
“I may not have the official title of a doctor, nor was I permitted to attend graduation, but I received the same education as everyone else. Without Stephen’s considerable influence, that would not have been possible. For that alone, I remain in his debt.”
Mara’s brow furrowed. “You are not in his debt, Abigail. You are his wife.”
“Yes, and I find that to be the problem.” Yanking off her spectacles, she began to polish the already clean lenses on her skirts.
“I am married to a veritable stranger. We knew each other for two days before he left, and aside from letters, we haven’t spoken to or seen each other in . . . eight years.”
“You told me your bargain was for seven.”
Bowing her head, she scrubbed her spectacles with renewed vigor.
“It was. But I . . . I ran away. To England. I came to England when I knew that Stephen had set sail for America to collect me. Our ships passed in the ocean, and it’s the closest that either one of us has been to the other since he .
. . since he kissed me goodbye in the carriage.
But now he’s here, in London. As am I. And I find our close proximity to be . . . untenable.”
“We were planning to retire to Southwick Castle after the babe was born,” Mara said slowly. “If you believe it is safe for me to travel in my current condition, we could leave early and, as my physician, it would only be prudent that you accompany us.”
Abigail stopped pacing. “Given your age and good health, I can find no reason why you could not travel, so long as it is done in the next week. But beyond that, I would advise you to remain here.”
“Truth be told, I would prefer to have my child at Southwick Castle. It’s beautiful there, particularly at Christmas.” She brightened. “You think the baby might come on Christmas?”
“It is possible,” Abigail allowed after running a quick calculation in her head.
Numbers and figures had always come easily to her.
During written exams, while other students had scribbled their pencils away to nubs of graphite in an attempt to solve a complicated equation, she’d just had to close her eyes, picture the numbers floating in front of her, and the answer had been there.
If only love were a simple quadratic formula.
“Wonderful!” Mara exclaimed. “What a delight that would be.”
Abigail’s temple creased. “There is rarely anything delightful about childbirth. As we’ve previously discussed, the pain will often seem unbearable, with blood, copious amounts of bodily fluids, nausea, and—”
“You’ve made the wonders of childbirth quite clear, Dr. Chadwick,” Mara interrupted, her smile tightening. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said seriously. “Have you been practicing your breathing exercises?”
“Indeed, I have. And I will tell Ambrose in the morning that we’re to pack with all haste.
No need to upset him tonight, as I’m sure he will argue that we remain here.
But copious amounts of bodily fluid or not, I would prefer to have our baby at Southwick Castle.
” Grasping the arms of her chair and waving off Abigail’s offer of assistance, she heaved herself to her feet and waddled—there really was no other word for it—to the door.
“If you follow me, I’ll show you to your room, and if there is anything you need, you have only to request it.
” Hesitating, she looked back over her shoulder, her brown eyes filled with the maternal warmth of a woman who was destined to be a good mother.
“I know what it is like to be estranged from one’s husband.
Although it may be hard to believe, Ambrose was not always as overbearingly caring as he is now.
But if given the choice, I do prefer to be smothered in affection as opposed to a slow suffocation in isolation.
Being alone has its benefits, of course.
I would never tell you that it doesn’t. But there is also great benefit to be found in spending your life in the company of a man who loves you. ”
“I will . . .” When her vocal chords thickened, Abigail cleared her throat. “I will take that advice under consideration, Your Grace.”
Mara nodded. “I sincerely hope that you do.”
*
Only after she’d settled into the guest chamber (a beautifully appointed room three times the size of her own), pulled the covers to her chin, and closed her eyes, did Abigail acknowledge, with a sharp pang of guilt, that she had lied to Mara with uncharacteristic expertise.
Because that morning in the carriage wasn’t the last time she’d seen Stephen.
No, their last interaction had occurred almost three years ago to the day, when he had surprised her with an unannounced visit.
A visit that had started in the park . . . and ended in her bed.