Chapter Fourteen #3
“I’ll do it,” Constance said, going to the desk. “So we want her and Lenny to search Percy’s rooms and find out what they can about this man Henry Hope whom David told us about. Anything else?”
“That should keep them busy enough for a couple of days.”
Constance finished the letter, enclosed Harvey’s note to Darren the valet, and directed the whole to Janey at the Silver and Grey office. Only then did she begin to undress.
Without being asked, Solomon unfastened her gown. She could smell his soap from his recent wash, and he was already in his nightshirt, which he wore for the modesty of the maids who lit the fire and brought them morning tea.
Her heart skittered nervously as she went through her nighttime routine and joined him in bed.
“Shall I blow out the candle?” he said, reaching for it.
She caught his arm. “Not yet. Wait a minute. I have something to tell you.”
He flopped back against the pillow, meeting her gaze. “I know you have. Is it something to do with David?”
She blinked. “David? No. Why would you think that? Oh…” She remembered the bodies on her establishment doorstep.
“You mean when I didn’t tell you my theory about the St. John case?
No, this is nothing to do with David, though I should have learned from that how I hate keeping things from you.
I don’t even know why I did. I think I have been a little mad. ”
Her voice sounded very small to her own ears, as if she were a child apologizing for some undeniable sin she knew she should be punished for.
His arm came around her shoulders. “Will I dislike this confidence?” he asked lightly, and yet she could sense the sudden wariness as he braced for a blow. “Are you unhappy?”
She flung her arm around his neck, burying her face in his throat.
“God, no. I was too happy, Solomon, and suddenly what should have made me even happier made me afraid of changing anything at all. My perfect life should not be turned on its head. And I had such terrible thoughts that frightened me, appalled me, and yet I could not dismiss them until now. I cannot bear not to talk to you, not to tell you everything. I cannot bear to lose anything about you. I want everything you have given me, including courage.”
The words spilled out and she didn’t know if they made sense. She couldn’t even tell if he heard them, since her lips were muffled by his throat. Still, he held her, radiating heat and helplessness.
“It’s how the world goes round,” she whispered.
“Love?” he asked, clearly struggling.
She nodded, without lifting her face. “And what comes of it, if we are very fortunate.”
His caressing fingers stilled, and her heart beat and beat as though it were in her throat.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” she said, tightening her grip on his neck.
“I don’t even know why it did, except I was afraid.
I, who always encouraged you to embrace every happiness life offered—I was afraid to embrace this one that I’d so longed for.
In Venice, when I was first ill and convinced myself I was with child, I was so happy, even in the misery of my insides…
And yet when it was truth, I panicked. Until Daphne George, of all people, said those words—It’s how the world goes round—and I began to think straight again, to recognize the gift, the miracle…
Solomon, I cannot bear us to become like the Harveys, who don’t talk, who cannot share the grief only they can fully understand.
Or a new, wonderful, frightening happiness… ”
Having begun the tangle of explanations she didn’t truly understand herself, she didn’t seem able to stop talking, until Solomon gently pushed her away with his free hand, unclamping her face from his throat. She swallowed and risked looking up at him.
Once, she had thought his eyes veiled and unreadable. Now, she could see him almost afraid to believe.
He said hoarsely, “Are you saying…?”
“That we are expecting a baby. Yes.” At least that came out clearly and simply.
He hauled her against him, swaying, his cheek pressed to hers, and she thought she would cry, even through the happiness that built and built. He seemed unable to speak, but his hold told her everything—joy and tenderness and wonder. And not a little relief.
“And you were afraid to tell me?”
“I was afraid of my own fearful thoughts. I still don’t understand where they came from, when I want our child so much…”
“I think we all have fearful thoughts sometimes. Most of us never act on them.”
Solomon had not, in his youth. Even Etta Harvey, in considerably more danger of it, hadn’t, and Constance knew suddenly that even at her most confused she would never have acted on her own black thoughts either.
“Some women are troubled during pregnancy,” she murmured. “And after birth.”
“I will watch over you,” Solomon said unsteadily. “And you will talk to me.”
It was not a request, but she had no hesitation in answering. “I will. Oh, Solomon, I will.” She reached for his mouth because words were no longer enough. Emotion spilled through her lips, and his, intensifying and taking its inevitable course of passion and sweetness and joy.