Regret Not a Moment (39 page)

“Yes,” Devon admitted thoughtfully. She and Roland had everything in common that she and John had lacked. They both raised Thoroughbreds, both loved country life… both wanted children. They laughed at the same things, enjoyed the same food, the same pastimes. In short, they were as compatible as two people could be.

With one exception. “Roland, how will your family feel about your marrying so hastily, and an American at that.”

“Devon,” Roland answered firmly, “I am almost forty years old. Even if my parents were alive, I shouldn’t let their views stop me from marrying the woman I love. As for my sister, I value her opinion, but they don’t determine my actions.”

“It’s not just a matter of family opinion, Roland. You’re a member of the aristocracy. Would you want a child who is half American, who doesn’t come from one of the great families of Europe, inheriting your title and properties?”

The look of love Roland gave Devon was so strong that it melted her heart. “Yes, as long as he’s your child too.”

Devon gently released his hands and rose from the couch. She walked to the huge fireplace, almost never lit despite the cool Cairo nights. There was little wood to burn in Egypt. Roland studied her as she placed her arms on the mantel and dropped her head down onto them, lost in thought. For what seemed like a very long time, she said nothing.

Finally, the tense silence grew too much for Roland. “You can’t think of a reason to refuse me, can you?”

Devon whirled about to face him. “Oh, Roland, I’m not trying to think of a reason. I just want to be sure that I’m being fair to you.”

Roland rose and came toward Devon. He took her in his arms and, once again, gave her a long, passionate kiss. She put her arms around him in return, enjoying the warmth of his body near hers. His kiss became more gentle; then, just when it seemed that he would release her, he dropped his lips to the space where her neck met her bare shoulder. The action sent a shiver of enjoyment through Devon.

“We’d be compatible in every way, I promise you,” Roland murmured in her ear.

Devon closed her eyes and let her head drop back, shifting all her weight to Roland’s encircling arms. It felt wonderful to be cherished again, she thought. And if she didn’t feel the same kind of love for Roland that she had felt for John, well, who was to say the one kind was better than the other?

“Marry me? Before my leave expires?” he urged, not letting her go.

She lifted her head and straightened her body, but he did not loosen his hold on her. With her arms around his neck, she looked into his eyes and said, “Yes, Roland, I’ll marry you.”

DEVON, PHILIP, and Grace were in Philip’s office preparing to go to lunch together at Shepheard’s Hotel when the news came. It was carried in by a flustered-looking secretary who knew of their close relationship to John Alexander. Had it not been for Philip’s position at the embassy, Devon would never have known that John was hurt. The explosion in Geneva had made headlines around the world, but the names of those involved had been carefully concealed.

According to the newspapers, the bomb had been planted at the site of a secret meeting of Allied “diplomats.” None of the so-called diplomats, however, were known to be part of their countries’ respective foreign services, hence the secrecy. A British operative had been killed, along with two members of the Free French. John was fortunate to escape with injuries, but they were severe, according to the cable the secretary handed Philip.

Devon, stunned, slumped into Philip’s cordovan leather couch, Grace’s comforting arms around her. Philip stood helplessly in front of his desk, not sure what to say.

Devon’s heart pounded with fear at the thought of John dying. Even though they were divorced, the memories they shared were an important part of Devon’s life. John had been her first love and her first lover. They had had a child together, then shared the tragedy of her death. The bitterness and hostility that had immediately preceded their divorce seemed no more than a distant memory to Devon.

“I have to go to him!” Devon exclaimed, almost to herself.

Grace raised her eyebrows and met Philip’s eyes over Devon’s head. Grace understood and shared her sister’s distress, but she wondered how Roland would feel about Devon rushing off to Geneva to be with her first husband.

“I must get in touch with Roland…” Devon mumbled to herself, devising a checklist in her mind of things to do to prepare for her departure. “Philip, can someone on your staff check on flights?”

“Dear, don’t you think you’re jumping the gun? After all, it’s very likely that his wife will be there,” Grace said in the gentlest of tones.

“His wife…” Devon looked puzzled for a moment, then her face clouded. “Oh… yes, of course.” There were a few moments of silence as Devon mulled this over. Suddenly, she stood up in a decisive fashion. “Nonetheless, I want to go,” she said, punctuating her phrase with a firm nod of her head.

“Devon, do you suppose that it will hurt Roland’s feelings if you rush off like this?”

Devon made a small noise of exasperation. “Don’t be silly! He’ll understand.”

“Well… all right,” Grace said, skepticism apparent in her tone.

And, indeed, Roland was understanding.

“By all means, darling,” he said when she phoned him a few minutes later. “I’ll be on a mission for a few days in any event, and I’m sure Alexander will appreciate your concern. I understand it was a rather nasty explosion.”

Devon heaved a sigh of relief at her husband’s supportive reaction. She threw Grace a look of victory as she spoke into the telephone. “I knew you wouldn’t mind my going.”

That’s not quite accurate, Roland thought to himself. It disturbed him that his wife felt compelled to rush to John’s side. At the same time, the feelings that made him want to stop her from visiting the wounded man shamed Roland. And since he knew that stopping her was impossible, because of both Devon’s will and Roland’s sense of fair play, he thought it best to feign complete support for the decision.

“I’d like to see you off,” Roland said, “do you know your schedule?”

“Not yet. I’ll telephone you.”

A few hours later, Roland kissed his wife good-bye and watched her mount the stairs to the airplane. Just before entering the plane, Devon turned and waved at Roland. His heart swelled with pride and love as he waved back.

Roland wondered if John would find her as attractive as he did. He did not see how he could fail to do so. It was with a pang of regret that Roland watched the stewardess close the metal door firmly on the hatch. Roland peered down the row of little round windows trying to catch a glimpse of his wife, but he did not see her. He did not stop searching, though, until the propellers started to move.

Devon sank back into her seat and thought about her husband. How she loved him for being so supportive of her trip! Theirs was a harmonious relationship. It seemed that they laughed nonstop when they were together. They seldom had serious discussions; it was almost as though they were still involved in a courtship. Of course, they were newlyweds, having been married only three months.

When she thought of John, she seldom thought of his being lighthearted, though of course they had shared lighthearted moments. But John was more serious than Roland, or at least his serious emotions were closer to the surface. In many ways, Roland was what Devon thought of as a stereotypical member of the British aristocracy—emotions in control, expert at small talk, always pleasant, even in the face of unpleasantness. Devon knew Roland was deeper than that, but he seldom showed it. Being with Roland was a respite from the harsh realities of the world around them: the poverty of Cairo, the tensions of war, and on a more personal level, the ego-bruising, heart-shattering unhappiness of the last three years. To Devon, Roland was a safe haven.

The cold in Geneva came as a shock to Devon’s system, though she had known in advance to expect it. Months of hot Cairo sun were only a memory in the drizzling, bone-chilling Geneva April. It did not seem possible that it was spring when Devon observed the spindly, bare trees silhouetted against the misty gray sky.

Devon checked into the luxurious, family-run Le Richemond Hotel where, in typical Swiss fashion, she found a full tea hospitably awaiting her in her suite. She asked the chambermaid to draw her bath and sunk into a cozy wing chair to enjoy the repast. Once finished, she undressed and made her way to the white marble bathroom where the hot, perfumed water awaited her.

When Devon emerged from the tub she felt like taking a nap, but opted instead to dress for her visit to John. The hotel’s concierge had told her that the hospital allowed visitors until eight o’clock. Devon was undecided whether to telephone John in advance of her arrival. She decided against it, choosing instead to surprise him.

She dressed carefully, more carefully than she cared to admit to herself. She discarded two dresses before finally deciding on a pale blue wool suit with chinchilla collar and cuffs. She surveyed her reflection in the mirror. She wondered if she was overdressed. Would John think she had made a special effort to look good for him? She dismissed the thought as silly. After all, he was flat on his back in a hospital bed—undoubtedly in pain. It was egocentric to suppose that he would even pay attention to what she wore, she told herself.

Still, she wondered if she should change into something more subdued. Then it occurred to her that Bebe Henley might be there. She thought of the stunning younger woman with her blonde hair and dramatic fashion choices. Devon decided to leave on the blue suit.

The hotel’s Rolls-Royce took her to the hospital, a beautiful private clinic with none of the sickroom smell that characterized most hospitals. A wholesome-looking young nurse directed her to the room of Monsieur Alexander, and Devon proceeded down the hallway, high heels clicking on the gleaming floor.

John’s door stood open, but before entering Devon paused outside to listen for voices. She heard nothing, so she peered inside tentatively. The room was painted a cheerful lemon yellow and furnished with rich rosewood furniture. How typically Swiss, Devon thought with a smile.

She tiptoed into the room, wondering if John would be sitting up. Maybe he’d be dozing.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. She stood riveted in place with shock, unable to move, unable to breathe.

John was almost invisible in the crisp white bed, so encased was he in bandages. There were holes for his eyes and mouth, but his head, arms, and neck were like those of a mummy. One leg was raised, held in traction from the ceiling by a pulley. A sheet covered the other half of his body, and Devon could tell from the bulk that there were more bandages underneath. His bed was surrounded by a variety of sinister-looking devices—tubes, bottles, and several metallic boxes with numbers on them. Devon had no idea of their purpose.

It was as though John were an inanimate object, so alien did he look. And there was no sign of life from him! Devon struggled to suppress her panic, but her heart was racing so fast that she was breathless. She could feel herself growing unbearably hot. She braced one hand against the wall, afraid she would faint. Black spots swam in front of her eyes. He looked… no, it couldn’t be… but he looked… dead.

But he has to be alive, she told herself, or he wouldn’t be in this room. He would be somewhere else. Somewhere cold and final.

She took one tottering step toward the bed and froze. Her legs simply wouldn’t carry her. She wanted to confirm that he was alive, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t utter a sound. All she could do was stare in horrified disbelief.

Then John’s eyes slowly opened. He blinked at the light. Then blinked again at the sight of Devon.

Devon felt a giddy wave of relief wash over her. He was alive! She gasped for air, trying to steady herself. I can’t faint, she told herself. I can’t show John how scared I am. If I do he might die. He’ll die because he’ll
think
he’s dying. He mustn’t know how horrifying he looks. I have to act like I know he’s going to live.

She marshaled her forces and, with what seemed like a superhuman effort, made her way to the flowered chintz armchair next to the bed. She tried not to collapse into it. Was she acting normal? Or did her face show her bone-chilling fear?

“John!” she whispered, unable to keep the agony from her voice. There was no answer. The seconds ticked by. She waited for him to respond. Oh God! He couldn’t even speak! He just stared at her as though she were a figment of his imagination. The last time she had seen John he had been brimming with male vitality. This broken creature in the bed couldn’t be the same man! Couldn’t be!

Yet John’s eyes were following her every move and she knew more than ever that she had to—for his sake—maintain her poise. But suddenly she was freezing, despite her heavy suit. Absolutely trembling with cold when just seconds before she had been sweating. She forced herself to take some calming breaths. And still those navy eyes gazed at her. She had to pull herself together. She had to be strong. One final deep breath. If she could only touch him, she was sure that some of her own life would flow into him.

“Can you speak?” she asked, her voice a rasp.

It was several seconds before he croaked, “Little.”

Tears welled up in Devon’s eyes. She blinked several times and looked up at the ceiling, trying to control her distress. Another deep breath. “You must be in terrible pain,” she said finally.

John’s eyes closed, then reopened in a sign of assent.

“These bandages…” Devon reached forward and hesitantly touched the sheet that covered him. “For your burns?”

“No,” he croaked, “bones.”

It was odd, but even those few uttered monosyllables made him more recognizable. The timbre of his voice—hoarse though it was—was familiar. He wasn’t just a mummy in the bed. He was John. Oh, thank God he was alive!

John’s eyelids fluttered as he fought the desire to sleep. Then he closed them, giving in to his fatigue.

For a long time, Devon sat silently watching him. She had never before thought of John’s death. He had seemed invulnerable. Able to beat any odds. And now he was utterly helpless. An overwhelming feeling of tender protectiveness filled her. She wished she could ease his pain, somehow take it away. But there was nothing she could do for him. She wanted to weep, to wail like a child at this thought. She felt terrified and so alone. John was the one person who had always seemed immortal to her, irrational though it was. Now she had to muster her courage and see him through this, all the while knowing that she had no control over whether he lived or died. Just like Morgan, she thought in despair.