Joan Wolf (16 page)

And keep out sorrow from this room within

Or memory could cancel all the notes

Of my misdeeds, and I unthink my sin.

--Anonymous

       As soon as they reached Montpelier Square, Linton sent for the doctor. Dr. Bayer’s diagnosis was that Jessica was painfully bruised and might have a slight concussion, but he didn’t think any permanent damage had been done. He prescribed some medicine which caused Jessica to fall asleep almost immediately. She slept all through the day and did not awaken until eleven the following morning.

By then Linton had put a bullet through the Marquis of Alden’s shoulder.

Lord George Litcham had tried to dissuade Linton from calling Alden out, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. “If you won’t act for me, I’ll get someone who will,” said Linton relentlessly.

So Lord George had made the arrangements, and at six o’clock in the morning Linton and Alden had met out at Paddington and Linton had relieved his feelings by shooting Alden neatly through his right shoulder. Lord George had been enormously relieved. He had been afraid Linton had meant to kill Alden.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, as Linton was sitting on Jessica’s bed watching her try to eat some soup, Lord George was presenting himself in Grosvenor Square. Lady Linton had heard about the duel.

Lord George started by pleading ignorance, but the look in Lady Linton’s sapient blue eyes soon put him to rout. It wasn’t long before he was telling her the whole story. It took a stronger man than Lord George to hold out against the combined charm and concern of Linton’s mother.

“Evidently Alden was coming home after a night’ on the town,” Lord George told her. “I doubt if he was sober. Well, stands to reason—how could he have been? Well, as he was driving by the park, out came Miss O’Neill leading her horse. Alden stopped the carriage and got out. I imagine it looked like a perfect opportunity to him. From what he said, I gather she had refused several offers from him; and not in a manner calculated to flatter him. He was after a little revenge it seems.”

Here Lord George recruited himself with a sip of sherry. Lady Linton said nothing. She just sat still and waited.

“So he pushed her into his carriage and forced her into his house. She evidently delayed him for some time by pretending to reconsider his offer. Then, when matters got serious, she grabbed the poker. That was when Linton arrived.”

“I see.”

“I have never seen Philip that angry. Never. There was no talking to him. I’m only glad he settled for Alden’s shoulder.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t Philip who got shot,” said Lady Linton tartly.

“Oh, there was never any fear of that,” returned Lord George. “Linton is deadly with the pistols. You should have seen Alden’s face. He was sick as a horse at having to face Philip. Of course there was nothing else he could do.”

“Men!” said Lady Linton with scornful contempt. “As if a duel could ever solve anything. What does Miss O’Neill think of all this?”

“I doubt if she knows. You see she fell down the stairs at Alden’s house and knocked herself out. The doctor gave her a sleeping draught and she was still sleeping this morning. Philip went right back to Montpelier Square after the meeting, but I doubt if he’ll tell her about it. I’m quite sure she wouldn’t like it.”

“She fell down the stairs? Is she hurt?”

“Not badly, thank God. If she had been seriously injured I really think Linton would have killed Alden.”

“Well, I suppose we must be grateful for small blessings,” snapped Lady Linton and dismissed the uncomfortable Lord George.

When Jessica awoke the next morning she felt achy and heavy-headed, which she put down to the aftereffects of
Dr. Bayer’s sleeping draught. The doctor came to see her again at about noon and recommended that she spend the rest of the day in bed. She alarmed Linton by submitting to the doctor’s edict with scarcely a murmur.

By late afternoon she felt hot and when Linton felt her forehead it was sweaty.  Once more he sent for the doctor. He was deathly afraid she had seriously injured her head in the fall, and when the doctor came slowly into the downstairs salon after seeing Jessica, Linton asked him sharply, “Is it brain fever?”

Dr. Bayer looked surprised. “No, my lord. It has nothing to do with her head. Indeed, if I had known about Miss O’Neill's condition I would have warned you this might happen. That was a very nasty fall she took.”

“Her condition?” said Linton.

The doctor glanced at his face and then quickly looked away. “Miss 0’Neill is three months pregnant. She is having a miscarriage.”

“Will she be all right?” the Earl asked at last, his voice unusually harsh.

“Yes. It should be over soon, my lord. I’ll stay with her.”

“Is there anything you can do?”

“To save the child? No, my lord,” the doctor’s voice was firm but gentle. “She asked me the same thing. There is nothing to be done now, I’m afraid.”

“I see.”

The doctor returned upstairs, and about an hour and a half later one of the servants came to tell Linton he could come upstairs if he wanted to.

The initial shock of the doctor’s revelation to Linton had given way to a deep, quiet fury. He bitterly regretted his duel of that morning. He wished passionately that he had known then what he knew now.

“I would have killed the bastard,” he grated between clenched teeth. As he walked up the stairs to Jessica’s room he was rigid with anger. He stopped outside her door for a minute to school his features; then he went in.

Jessica was lying quietly in bed; the doctor was standing by the window. The room was immaculate; there was no sign of what had just happened. Her head turned at the sound of the door opening and, when she saw him, her eyes suddenly came to life in the tired gray mask of her face.

He stood still in the doorway for a long moment, his eyes on that face. He felt a wrench at his heart, so painful he could swear it was physical. Then everything inside him broke up, broke down and gave way, and he was sitting on the side of the bed holding her in his arms, his face buried in her hair. She began to cry, deep, hard sobs, and he held her closer, giving her the only comfort he could, the knowledge of his own grief, and love.

Dr. Bayer ordered Jessica to stay in bed for four days, and she obeyed. She felt drained and empty, incapable of a thought that projected beyond the next hour. She had lost her baby. She could not bear to contemplate yet the loss of her love.

Linton was infinitely gentle with her. The blind fury that he had lived with since first he heard of her kidnapping had left him. He could not help Jessica by his anger. He had realized that as soon as he had seen her face.

She needed him. The fierce protectiveness that she had always aroused in him was his only emotion at present.
It was why he asked her no questions, talked only of trivial, unemotional topics, and most of all gave her the steady comfort of his undemanding physical presence.

Lady Linton had not seen her son since he had left the house to rescue Jessica. He had written her a brief note telling her about Jessica’s miscarriage. She had known he would have been happy had she come to Montpelier Square, but, holding fast to the news she had had from Mrs. Romney, the Countess had kept herself aloof.

It seemed as if Linton’s family did not need to save him from Jessica O’Neill, as the girl was prepared to do that herself. Lady Romney felt a pang of pity for Jessica, who obviously did love her son, but she did not want to do anything that might cause the actress to change her mind. So Lady Linton stayed away.

Her absence was not unnoticed by either Jessica or Linton, although it was unremarked upon. Linton was sorry. He did not want to cause a breach with his mother, but if she would not accept Jessica, then a breach there would be.

Lady Linton’s absence was far more bitter to Jessica. The Countess’s judgment had been correct. Had she appeared in Montpelier Square, Jessica would have weakened and allowed Linton to persuade her to agree to what her heart so sorely wanted. But his mother’s absence said loudly that she was not prepared to accept such a marriage, and Jessica, as the days went by, was forced to realize that nothing had changed.

She had left home six months ago, and in that half-year’s time her whole life had altered. She thought back now to the arrogant, innocent girl she had been. Not for her the sitting back and allowing destiny to take its course. Not for her a convenient marriage to some unknown, boorish, rich man. It was all right for other, less proud, less determined women. Not for her. Not for Jessica Andover.

She would take her fate into her own hands. She would dare to do what few women of her class would do. She would dare to stand alone.

She thought now she would have been wiser to marry Sir Henry Belton. He, at least, would never have been able to touch her. It might not have been a happy life, but there would not have been the soul-deep loneliness she knew was in her future now. It would be so hard to go on without him.

A week after the miscarriage she told Linton she wanted the carriage to go shopping. He was delighted. It was the first sign she had shown of coming out of the fog of depression that had gripped her all week. “Buy yourself some wedding clothes,” he told her. “We’ll be married next week and go down to Staplehurst after.”

She didn’t go shopping at all. She bought a ticket for the next day’s mail to Cheltenham.

Chapter Twenty-One

Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life’s content, farewell!

—
FULKE
GREVILLE

It was just one more sleepless night out of a host of others, this, the last night she would lie beside him in the dark. She listened to his quiet, even breathing and thought how his nearness only made the pain the sharper. She was lying perfectly still, but quite suddenly she heard his voice. “Are you awake, Jess?” She moved her head a little, unable to speak, and then she was in his arms. “Don’t grieve so, my darling,” he said softly. “We must begin to think of the future now.”

It was precisely the thought of the future that was causing her grief, but she couldn’t tell him that. She clung to him. “Hold me, Philip. Love me.”

His lips were against her temple. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

“I need you,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Jess ...” His mouth came down over hers and his hands were gentle upon her and for the moment the loneliness receded as she gave herself to his growing passion. “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

She shook her head, and her voice was deep and husky when she answered, “I love it when you come into me like this.”

“God ...” The careful restrictions he had been imposing on himself fell at her words, and they moved together with the urgency and hunger of a desperate need. When at last they lay quietly, satisfied and peaceful, she raised her hand and ran it lightly through his hair.

“I wanted a little boy with corn-colored hair and bright blue eyes,” she said.

His body was still half covering hers and he smiled now and rubbed his rough cheek against her smooth one. “You’ll have him,” he promised. “And I’ll have my red-headed little girl. We have years ahead of us to make a whole army of children.”

She answered the only part of his speech that she could. “I don’t have red hair.”

He laughed. “Go to sleep, Jess.” He turned her on her side and pulled her into the curve of his own body and she slept.

He wasn’t there when she awoke, for which she was profoundly grateful. She had a cup of coffee, got dressed, and sat down to write him a letter. Then she ordered the carriage and had it take her to Madame Elliott’s on Bond Street. She told the coachman to come back for her in two hours.  As soon as he had driven off, she got into a hackney cab. Forty minutes later she was in the mail coach on her way home to Cheltenham.

* * * *

Linton arrived back in Montpelier Square at about three in the afternoon. He had a special marriage license in his pocket and was eager to show it to Jessica.

“My lord,” Peter said as he let him into the house, “Miss O’Neill went out at ten this morning to drive to Bond Street. She has not yet returned.”

Linton frowned at the man’s grave face. “Well, she must have decided to go somewhere else afterward.”

“No, my lord. Or at least she didn’t go in the carriage. She told Jerry to return for her in two hours, and when he did she wasn’t there. What’s more, they said at the dressmaker’s that she had only stayed five minutes. She said she had a headache, and they got a hackney for her. But she didn’t come back here.”

Linton’s eyes had begun to burn with a cold light as Peter told his story, but when he got to the part about the hackney Linton frowned. It couldn’t have been Alden again, not if Jess had gone off voluntarily in a hackney. Besides, Alden was laid up with an injured shoulder. At this point Jessica’s maid appeared in the hall.

“Miss O’Neill left a letter for you, my lord,” she said somewhat breathlessly. “She asked me to give it to you when you came in.”

Linton looked for a minute at the white paper in the girl’s hand, and a dreadful foreboding began to fill him. Very slowly he put up his hand, and when he had the paper, he walked into the drawing room and shut the door. He went to the window and stood there in the harsh light, his face white and strained.

With sudden decision he opened the folded letter. Jessica’s small, neat writing filled the page.  He bent his head and read:

Montpelier Square, Wednesday

Dear Philip,

It is difficult, now that I have sat down to write this letter, to find the words to tell you all that is in my heart.

I love you. I shall never love anyone but you. And that is why I have left

I find, after all, that I can write what I could not say to you. I cannot be your wife. I am not fit to be the wife of the Earl of Linton. I should injure you and disgrace you and that I cannot bear to do.

I could not say this to you because I know you would not allow me to. You would say you think me fit to be the wife of the best man in the world. But, my darling, others would think differently. And those others are ones so closely concerned with you, and would be so closely concerned with me, as to trouble the very foundation of our life together. I will not subject you to the sorrow of choosing between your wife and your family and friends.