Regret Not a Moment (36 page)

Devon yanked a wool scarf she was wearing off her neck and, with trembling hands, dabbed at Morgan’s head with it. Gingerly, she applied pressure to the wound, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. But it was no use. Her scarf was quickly soaked through. Devon had to get help, and quickly.

How long would it take to get back to the stables? If Devon took Skylark at a gallop, maybe twenty minutes. But the trail was narrow and it was impossible to gallop over the entire course of it. And then, once home, what sort of rescue equipment could she and the others bring onto the trail? They could devise a litter. But how long would that take? Meanwhile, Morgan would be lying alone, bleeding. How long did it take to bleed to death? Devon couldn’t leave her daughter to die alone in the snow. She sobbed in despair at her helplessness. But she couldn’t be helpless—she had to help Morgan.

Devon tied her scarf around Morgan’s head like a bandage. She made it as tight as she could, hoping to slow the bleeding. Then, tentatively, she picked up her daughter. She took a few unsteady steps. She looked down at Morgan. The child’s eyelids fluttered. Devon’s heart surged with hope. If only she could get help in time.

Could she put Morgan on the horse with her? Of course not, she chided herself. How would she balance her on the saddle and guide the horse at the same time? And if she tried to hurry Skylark, there was no telling what the motion would do to Morgan’s wounds. Tears of frustration coursed down Devon’s face. She had to move. Morgan was bleeding!

Devon held the child tightly against her and started down the path toward home. How long would it take on foot? An hour? She wanted to sit down and sob. Wanted someone to rescue them. But they were all alone.

She tried to gather her thoughts. It was snowing harder and the wind was biting. Making little grunts of exertion and distress, she plodded down the path, her load feeling heavier with each step. She was in agony wondering if her lurching movements were further harming her daughter.

She looked down at the little face. The blood had soaked the arm of Devon’s wool coat, and the sweater beneath. She could feel the clammy dampness of it on her skin. She wondered if Morgan was still bleeding as profusely as before. She didn’t dare stop to look. Snow landed on Morgan’s face. It outraged Devon to have to expose Morgan to the snow and cold, but what could she do?

A long sob escaped her.

Morgan’s lids fluttered open. She was conscious! There was hope!

“Oh, Morgan, you’re going to be fine. I love you, honey. I’m getting help for you,” Devon cried as she surged forward on a new burst of adrenaline. It made Devon frantic to know that there was nothing she could do to ease her daughter’s pain. “Hang on, Morgan. We’ll get help in a minute.”

Morgan’s eyes closed slowly.

“That’s right. Just rest, darling.” Devon’s voice was an eerie chant. “Just sleep. Just rest. You’ll be okay. Please, God, let her be okay. Please, God… Please, God…” She was unaware of what she was saying, unaware of even speaking aloud. And she continued to chant as she staggered on, faster than she would have believed possible yet still excruciatingly slow.

Suddenly, in the distance, she saw the stables. “Morgan, we’re there! Oh, thank God, we’re going to make it!” she cried. She did not know where the strength came from, but she found herself moving even faster. Forward, forward. She was panting and each breath was a trial for her. She had no more strength, yet she tramped forward. She reached the outer perimeter of the racetrack that marked the edge of the developed portion of Willowbrook.

“Morgan, darling, we’re home,” she gasped. Devon struggled up the long hill. It seemed to go on forever. Her breath was coming in great rasping moans now, but she went on. Because at the end there was help. That thought kept her going. And as she approached the barn, she saw two stable hands working outside. She started yelling for help at the top of her lungs. Yelling and yelling like a woman possessed.

The two workers rushed toward the woman and child. Devon’s face was bright red from cold, and blood spotted her cheek. Her nose was running unheeded. Her hair was plastered to her skull, hanging in strings to her shoulders.

But it wasn’t her disarray that chilled their blood, or even the sight of Morgan, limp in her mothers arms. No, it was Devon’s strange crooning. She was muttering words of comfort and hope, applying pressure to the girl’s head, doing something with a bloody scarf, smoothing back the soaked hair from Morgan’s pale face.

As if any of it would help. As if she didn’t realize that Morgan’s large green eyes were staring blankly up at her.

“IT was not your fault, and you have to stop telling yourself that it was.” John enfolded Devon in his arms.

Only in the dark of the night, in the shelter of their bed, was she able finally to talk about Morgan’s death. For two days after it happened, she had hardly uttered a word. She was drowning in remorse, shock, grief.

Then, the day of the funeral, it had seemed that the presence of her friends and family had reminded her of the existence of the world outside her private nightmare. Although her speech had been stilted and her responses automatic, she had conversed normally under the circumstances. But not until now, the night after the funeral, had she been able to share her grief and guilt with anyone else. Why was she unhurt while Morgan lay dead in the ground? Why hadn’t she listened to John and not tried to overcome Morgan’s fear of horses? Why hadn’t she checked to see that Morgan was holding the leading rein correctly? Done
something
different? She flayed herself endlessly.

Devon did not sob or moan in a way that might have been cathartic. She cried silently, continuously.

“You must hate me,” Devon insisted quietly. The voice that told of her grief escaped her in whispers, like poisonous vapors.

“Don’t be crazy. It was an accident.” John did not know how to comfort his wife. There was a part of him—an ugly, hidden part—that agreed that Devon was to blame. But he fought to keep it concealed, even from himself.

“But if I hadn’t tried to convince her…”

“Look, if you think that way, you could as easily blame me. I agreed to go along with giving her the pony,” he offered.

“No.”

“You did what you thought was right at the time.”

“I killed her—” Devon’s voice broke. “And—she must have been in such pain. She was so scared, but she trusted me to protect her and I let her—” Devon couldn’t continue. She choked on her tears, lost in heartbreak and remorse.

“You never forced her to go with you. You were always careful about that.” John tried to reassure her, near tears himself. “Don’t paint yourself as a monster because you wanted her to enjoy the things you enjoy. Morgan loved you and wanted to be like you. That’s only natural for a little girl.”

Devon’s logic told her that John’s words were true, but in her heart she bore a guilt that would never, ever be erased.

THE only relief Devon found from the torments that plagued her was in her work. She immersed herself in it to an unprecedented degree. The time that she spent in New York with John seemed idle by comparison. There she found herself with too much time on her hands and too little to occupy her mind.

The atmosphere at Willowbrook calmed her. The quiet country nights, the warming presence of her parents nearby, the multitude of living things around her—horses, flowers, butterflies, birds, and other country sights—all these she found soothing.

John, in contrast, found that evenings filled with laughter, dance, and champagne took his mind off his sorrow. He was basically a social animal, Devon a solitary one.

Devon also found that there was more and more for her to do at Willowbrook, for over the past seven years the enterprise had grown. Willowbrook was once again internationally renowned as a racing stable and her top stallions now commanded stud fees as hefty as any in the world. Willowbrook had become a profitable business concern, and Devon and Willy regarded as among the most knowledgeable horse experts in the country.

Prior to Morgan’s death, Devon had made the effort to participate in the activities John liked, to spend time in New York with him. Now, being with John was a strain. He was always urging Devon to put her grief behind her, to “rejoin the world,” as he put it. But instead of rejoining someone else’s world, she had created her own, and if she was not happy, she was at least not tortured.

“Devon, have you heard?”

John’s voice over the long-distance telephone line crackled through the static.

Devon brushed the dirt from her hands into the kitchen sink and put aside the spade she had been using to repot her ginger plants.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Devon spoke loudly to compensate for the static.

“Germany has defeated France!”

“Oh my God! Grace and Philip are in France!” Her stomach plummeted. She slumped forward, gripping the edge of the sink.

“Devon, I can barely hear you, but I just wanted you to know that I’m coming down to Willowbrook. I’ll fly down tonight after work.” Devon had a thousand questions, but the connection was so full of static that it was no use prolonging the conversation.

“I’ll see you tonight!” she yelled into the receiver. What to do? What to do?

No sooner had Devon put down the telephone than it rang again. It was Laurel.

“Devon, have you heard?”

“You mean about France? John just told me!”

“Oh, Devon, I’m worried about Grace and Philip.”

Devon didn’t want to worry her mother more by sharing her own misgivings. Instead, she said, “Mother, he’s an American diplomat! I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call John back and tell him to wire Grace and Philip. It will be much quicker than if we have to go to Western Union ourselves.”

“Good idea. And Devon… would you come over? I… I would feel better with you here.”

“Of course! John is coming down from New York, but he probably won’t arrive until ten o’clock tonight. I’d like to be home by then, though.”

That evening, Devon arrived back at Willowbrook a few minutes before ten to find John waiting for her in the sitting area of their bedroom. He was reading a book, a glass of cognac on the table beside him.

“John! I thought you’d be later! I was at my parents’. They’re frantic about Grace and Philip. Do you have any more news?”

“No,” John said stonily.

His icy tone made Devon take a step backward. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It would have been nice for you to have been waiting for me here when I came home.”

“I intended to be. I didn’t think you could possibly be here until ten o’clock at the earliest,” Devon explained. They had made it a practice since the beginning of their marriage for each to be at home for the arrival of the other.

John did not reply, but returned to the book he had been reading.

Devon, annoyed that he should focus on her mistake in the midst of a crisis, walked to the easy chair where he sat, and stood in front of him, palms out. “Look, I’m sorry. And I’m glad you’re back. No response to your telegram?”

John did not reply. “John!” Devon repeated, “did they answer your telegram?”

John put his book facedown on the table beside him and stood up. “Not yet.” He proceeded into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Devon could hear the sound of water running as he took a shower.

Such incidents were occurring between them with greater and greater frequency. This time it had been her fault, in a way. But she couldn’t have anticipated that he would arrive earlier than expected. Surely he could see that, Devon thought.

The more Devon thought of John’s reaction the more it annoyed her, so that by the time he emerged from the shower, Devon was ready to confront him.

He reentered the room casually drying his hair, his monogrammed terrycloth robe the only garment he wore.

“John, I have something I’d like to say,” Devon stood directly in his path.

He raised his eyebrows in a signal for her to go on.

“When I explain why I’ve done something and I apologize for it—even if it’s something that you don’t like—I expect a little more gracious a response than you gave me tonight.”

“Well,” John said, moving to past her to the armchair. He sat down and stared into the cold fireplace. “I had intended to put that incident behind us, but since you insist on resurrecting it…” John began bitingly.

Devon sat in the chair adjacent to his. “I ‘insist’ because it is the type of behavior that seems to engender more of the same… on both our parts, I’ll admit,” Devon said evenly. It wasn’t just tonight. It was the lack of understanding that was now a thick concrete wall between them.

John stood up and poured himself another glass of cognac from the cut-crystal decanter that rested on the table between the two easy chairs. Standing before the fireplace, his back to Devon, he said, “I don’t see that I was responsible for any aggravating behavior tonight. Even if you didn’t know what time I’d arrive, it wouldn’t have hurt you to stay here and wait for me. You know we’ve always tried to do that for each other.”

Devon stood and put her hand on his arm and gently turned him toward her. “And I tried tonight, too. You just arrived earlier than I expected. Surely you can understand that with the news about the war, and our worries about Grace and Philip, I would want to spend some time with my parents.”

“Or your husband, most people would say.” John released himself from Devon’s grip by moving away from her and once again sitting in the armchair.

Devon was hurt by the gesture “Well, here I am. But instead of being pleased to see me, you had to start an argument.”

“Devon, we had no argument,” John pointed out in a voice that he tried to keep reasonable, but which she found patronizing, “until I came out of the bathroom and
you
decided to start one.”

His tone caused her to speak more sharply than she had intended. “The alternative would have been to leave you feeling martyred and self-righteous about a perfectly innocent mistake on my part. John, sometimes it seems as though you look for opportunities to become offended by things I do. I can say the most innocent thing, and you always seem to take it as a personal attack.”