Regret Not a Moment (40 page)

And thinking of Morgan made the fear close in, grab her. Irrational voices told her that she had failed to save Morgan. That she could fail again.

“No!” she cried aloud. John’s eyes flew open, bringing Devon back to the present. She had to calm herself, she realized. She was alarming him. She gave him a half smile, hoping to reassure him. “Rest, John,” she whispered, “that’s the best thing for you.” He obeyed, his eyelids dropping closed almost instantaneously.

Devon watched John carefully and saw that his breath, though unnaturally shallow, was at least regular. She wished his doctor would come to explain his injuries to her, but she didn’t want to leave John alone while she went in search of him. She thought about ringing for the nurse, but was afraid that the sound of their voices would disturb John. No, she would just wait. Calmly and rationally. No more panic. No more bad thoughts. She had to be optimistic, for John’s sake.

It was a few moments before Devon remembered to remove her gloves and hat. She sat quietly with these objects on her lap, uncertain what to do with her hands, her nerves screaming in distress. She removed a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. She put her hands down and stared at John, watching him breathe, watching for any sign of movement. After a few minutes the little piece of cloth she held in her hand was twisted so tightly that it looked wet. Devon saw what she had done to her handkerchief, then smoothed it on her lap.

Trying to distract herself, she looked around the room. It was spacious for a hospital room, and sprinkled with rather good prints of restful landscapes. A stack of telegrams and letters lay on the bedside table. A huge basket of fruit—unopened—rested on a side table between the windows. Several baskets of flowers were also scattered around the room.

Devon stood up and went to one of the bouquets, a vivid arrangement of red roses. She leaned against the table a few moments to regain her equilibrium. Everything is fine, she tried to convince herself. Look, you see how many people are thinking of John? That’s good. That will help him get better. Mental attitude is so important. I’m sure he’s already much better than he was. The worst is probably over. Aren’t these roses beautiful?

She leaned down to smell the flowers, but straightened abruptly at the sound of rustling linen. She turned to see the matronly-looking night nurse enter the room.

“Ah, madam, excuse me, I did not know monsieur had visitors,” the woman said in charmingly accented, but perfect, English.

Now Devon found that she was able to smile weakly and actually converse in a normal tone. “I hope it’s all right if I stay…”

“Of course, madam. It is good you are here finally.”

Devon looked at her, puzzled. She had told no one she was coming.

Reading the strange look on Devon’s pale face, the nurse said, “You are Madame Alexander, no?”

Devon came closer to the nurse, searching her face. “Haven’t you met Mrs. Alexander already?” Devon had not learned of John’s accident until almost a week after it had occurred. Surely Bebe had been notified immediately.

The nurse, flustered, did not know how to reply. She turned toward her charge and inserted a thermometer into his mouth. John’s eyes opened slowly.

“What exactly are all his injuries?” Devon asked.

“I will send the doctor, madam,” the nurse replied, a closed book after her gaffe. “You are family, yes?”

“Well…” Devon was not sure how to reply.

The nurse went on. “The doctor will discuss Mr. Alexander with family only. I thought because of the picture that you were family.”

“Yes,” Devon replied, more puzzled than ever.

Seeing the younger woman’s expression, the nurse moved aside a bouquet on the bedside table. Propped against a small alarm clock was a photograph of Devon in her wedding dress. It had been torn and it had blood on one corner. Devon could see that it was held together with tape. Her heart melted at the sight of it. She wanted to put her head on the shoulder of the matronly woman in front of her and sob until there were no tears left. John still carried her picture!

“It was in his personal effects,” the nurse explained, “and he asked for it almost as soon as he could speak.”

Devon blushed and turned away, avoiding the nurse’s curious gaze. Her eyes met those of John. He stared back at her, the thermometer preventing him from speaking.

The blue intensity of his gaze disturbed her and she turned back to the nurse. “When can the doctor come?” she asked brusquely.

“I will send him to you now, madam.” The nurse took the thermometer from John’s mouth, nodded her head approvingly, then hurried from the room.

“John.” Devon turned back to her ex-husband. “Has anyone been in touch with… with Bebe?” Devon asked, loath to pronounce the despised name.

“She was here,” he said with some effort.

“But the nurse didn’t seem to know her.”

John turned his eyes away from Devon and stared at the yellow wall. It was at that moment that the doctor entered.

“Madam.” He nodded, a stern-looking middle-aged man with a square face and glasses to match. He held out one scrubbed pink hand for Devon to shake. “I am Dr. Durier.”

Devon returned the gesture, then asked, “Can you give me the details of Mr. Alexander’s injury?”

Like the nurse, the doctor spoke English. His was even accented as though he had studied in England, which, in fact, was the case. “Monsieur Alexander will recover from all his injuries, but he will bear scars. His face, luckily, was attended to by one of the best plastic surgeons in Europe, a colleague of mine here at the clinic. He will look much as before. Perhaps some small scars near his eyes and mouth where he was deeply cut.

“He also sustained two broken arms from the impact of flying objects. And then, there is his leg.”

Devon looked at the pulley that supported the bandaged limb. “Yes, I see. It looks as though it will take some time to heal.” She turned back to the doctor.

Dr. Durier shifted uncomfortably and looked toward John. John’s eyes met the doctor’s in an unblinking stare.

Devon looked at John, then turned back to the doctor, her expression worried.

“I’m afraid there is no way to make this easier…” The doctor took a deep breath. “It was necessary to amputate his other leg, his left leg.”

Devon’s head snapped back to the bed. All color drained from her face. Her bloodless lips moved, but no words came out. She felt as though she were choking on her tongue. Her eyes traveled to John’s face, but he stared fixedly at the wall.

Devon’s vision grew fuzzy as the adrenaline rushed through her. The little black spots returned, parading in front of her eyes. She grabbed the doctor’s arm for support.

“Madam!” The doctor grasped her elbow, certain she was going to faint.

Devon did not see John’s eyes close in pain. Visions of John—healthy and whole—flashed through her mind. It was their wedding day and they were dancing gracefully together. They were walking through the fields that first time at Evergreen. Riding Sirocco, galloping, galloping. Skiing furiously, racing to the bottom of the mountain. He would never do those things again.

Then she remembered some of the wounded servicemen she had seen. Hobbling. Staring with vacant eyes. Driven crazy with the inability to adjust to their injuries. Stories of suicides—of families torn apart. Her eyes flooded with tears and they spilled down her face.

The doctor awkwardly steadied Devon and led her to the flowered armchair. He eased her into it and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher at John’s bedside. He watched her take a few jerky gulps. When some of the color returned to her face, he began to explain.

“It is bad, madam, but he will recover. He will be very much as before.” He looked at John to see if he was listening. The doctor had earlier reassured him in much the same way, but he did not know if it had done any good. It took weeks, even months, before a doctor could truly gauge how a patient would handle an amputation. John’s eyes were open again, but still fixed stubbornly on the wall.

The doctor continued, uncomfortable at referring to John as though he were not present. “He will be able to do many of the things he enjoys. People imagine much worse…” The sentence drifted off. The doctor was at a loss for words. Surgery was his strong suit, conversation was not. He plodded on. “We were able to save much of his leg. The amputation begins below the knee.” The doctor gave one last attempt at softening the blow. “It will not be the handicap you now believe.”

Devon looked over at John. He would not meet her eyes, but she knew he must be terribly distressed by her tears. He had always hated to see her cry. She cried so rarely that when she did, John knew that the hurt was deep indeed.

Devon fought to recover her composure. She would not add to his misery, she resolved. What does it matter so long as he’s alive?

She tore her gaze away from John and looked evenly at the doctor. “Well, Doctor,” she said, her voice still shaky, “if you say he won’t be too hampered, then I believe you.” She paused for a moment, trying to collect herself further. She turned toward John again. He was looking at her. She gave him a tearful smile. “The important thing is that you’re alive.” Her voice grew stronger, full of resolve. “And that you’ll be well again soon.”

Dr. Durier rarely saw people in such situations regain their composure so quickly. He admired the woman for her strength. She was beautiful and strong. That was good, for it would help to speed his patient’s recovery. And the other woman who had come and gone in such haste, the doctor sensed that she mattered very little to the man in the bed—now that the woman in the photograph had finally arrived.

IT was another week before John was able to sit up in his bed and carry on a conversation. When that day finally arrived, he told Devon what had happened with Bebe, sparing himself not one humiliating detail.

“Oh, she came right away, no problem there. I rather think that she imagined herself as the beautiful wartime heroine,” John said wryly. “But I guess seeing me brought her back to reality.”

Devon shifted uncomfortably. It was painful to hear such a story.

“Anyhow,” John continued, “she apparently had been told that I had sustained serious injuries but not the nature of them. She and her father came into the room when I was awake, so before the doctor even arrived I just blurted out a few words to get the message across. I was still in shock myself over the news, so I wasn’t thinking about the impact on her.”

“I gather she didn’t react in the way you would have hoped,” Devon said gently.

“You’re right,” John said with a roll of his eyes. “She had hysterics, which of course brought the nurse rushing in. Not the one you met; the day nurse.”

As he relived the memory, he shook his head like a person trying to get rid of a buzzing fly. He couldn’t wipe from his mind the sound of Bebe’s voice screaming “No, no, no!” repeatedly. It had taken a sharp slap from Henley to quiet her hysteria.

Devon, in the chintz chair that had become her station beside John, leaned over and placed a comforting hand on his. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

“After Bebe calmed down, Mr. Henley asked the nurse to leave so they could be alone with me.” John’s eyes focused on a garden print on the wall opposite his bed as he relived the end of his second marriage. “But do you know that for the rest of their visit she didn’t say one word to me? Not one word. And she never looked at me again. Anyhow, Henley returned the next day by himself.”

“You’re a hero, son,” Henley had told him. “You’ve served your country. I know that’s not much consolation at this moment, but I’m very proud to call you my son-in-law.”

“He tried to explain about Bebe,” John continued. “That she had no mother. How he had been an overly indulgent father. How he had always sheltered her from the realities of life. This amputation was just more than she could cope with. Couldn’t stomach it. Henley told me she would be filing for divorce when she got back to America. He was so terribly ashamed. He said he’d tried to talk some sense into her but… I almost felt sorry for the poor guy.”

“Oh, John!” Devon exclaimed sympathetically.

“Pretty ignoble, isn’t it?” John said with a sigh.

“I don’t know what to say…” Devon shook her head from side to side.

John gave her a wise smile. “That I’m well rid of her.” He paused. “You know, I never really loved her, Devon,” he said, searching her eyes with his own.

“I wondered when I heard about your marriage…” Devon confessed.

John looked at his ex-wife warmly. “And what about you. Are you happy, Countess?”

Devon thought of Roland and a smile lit her face. Unlike John, she had been lucky. Roland was kind and generous of spirit. He was a loving husband who had made Devon love him in return. Was she in love with him as she had been with John? Their life together was one of contentment and satisfaction rather than tumultuous passion. But yes, she was happy with him.

“I can read the answer on your face,” John said tenderly. He was glad for Devon, but he could not help but feel jealous. It was painful to envision her as the wife of another man.

Devon hadn’t been concerned when her period was two days late. That had been back in Cairo. Afterward, the change in temperature, the travel, the stress—all those things could have delayed it even more.

But when the delay stretched into May, she decided to have herself tested. After all, she was at the clinic every day.

“The results are not always conclusive with so early a test, but I believe that you are at least four weeks pregnant,” Dr. Huerscht, a Swiss gynecologist originally from Zurich, told her. Huerscht—a world-renowned expert on obstetrics—was a jolly, fun-loving man, and Devon found him easy to talk to.

“I want this child desperately, Doctor. And I want to go home to tell my husband about it in person. Is it dangerous for me to travel at this point?”

“Well…” Dr. Huerscht did not look pleased at the prospect. “It would be better if you could wait until the second trimester. Is it possible that he could come here?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s in the Royal Air Force, stationed in Cairo.”