Regret Not a Moment (41 page)

“Ah, yes.” The doctor nodded sympathetically. “Well, I think it is important for you to settle somewhere for your confinement. You are thirty-seven years old. Not too old to have a baby, of course, but old enough for there to be hazards. Return to Cairo now, if that is where you think you will stay for the duration of your pregnancy. I would advise against further travel after that.”

A few minutes later, Devon was in John’s room. An instinct of propriety stopped her from sharing her news with him. After all, she should tell her husband first, she believed. Also, for a reason she could not identify, she was almost embarrassed to tell John. It was as though he still had a claim to her, and to admit her pregnancy was to admit her lovemaking with another man. It was silly. John knew, of course, that she was married to Roland. But a baby was such tangible proof of that relationship, and she sensed John’s vulnerability to that news.

John sat up straighter at the sight of Devon, a grin on his face. “Hello there!” he said jovially.

Devon smiled back and sat in the chair by the side of his bed. His arms were still in a cast, but the bandages had been removed from his face. He would have a scar on his cheekbone and another, smaller one above his lip, but Devon was almost convinced they would enhance his good looks.

“John.” Devon hesitated, not sure how he would react to her leaving. “I have to go back to Cairo.”

John’s face clouded over, but he quickly replaced his expression of disappointment with a hearty grin. “Of course, you must have a million things to attend to. You’ve been generous with your time to stay as long as you have.”

“You have so many visitors all the time,” Devon said, “that you probably won’t even miss me.”

“That’s not so,” John said wistfully. “You’re the only family. At least until Mother arrives.” John’s father had died of a heart attack the year before. John’s mother, who had been visiting friends in Palm Beach at the time of John’s accident, had only just been located by the government and was en route to Geneva.

Devon’s heart melted at his words. She was tempted to stay just a few days more, but she had already been gone two weeks. Roland had been generous to let her come, but she did not want to take advantage of his good nature. And then there was the baby. She was eager to share the good tidings with her husband. Unlike John, Roland had many times expressed his desire to have children. His first wife had been unable to conceive, a fact they had discovered during the testing that identified her cancer.

The only heir to Roland’s title and fortune was a nephew, his sister’s son. Roland would have liked a son of his own to inherit his estates and title, but more than that, he wanted children for their own sake. He would be elated at Devon’s news.

Devon looked down at the man in the bed. The magnetism that emanated from him was strong. Vulnerable, incapacitated, needy, heroic, and more handsome than ever—she was undeniably drawn to him, as she had always been. She could almost, almost but not quite, admit to herself that she still loved him in many ways. But he was not the father of her child.

“John, you don’t need me here anymore. You’re going to be just fine. The doctor says you’ll be able to do everything you did before. Even without the—” She cut herself off, not sure whether John wanted to be reminded of the amputation.

“Leg is not a dirty word, Devon,” John reassured her. “I can’t avoid the fact that it’s gone, but neither will I surrender to it. I intend to resume all the activities I enjoyed before. The absence of a leg does not end my life. Thankfully, I can continue my work, I can continue to do everything I did before, except perhaps ski. And maybe I’m deluding myself,” he continued, “but I don’t think every woman will find me as repugnant as Bebe did, simply because I’m missing part of a limb.”

Devon was glad to hear the genuine confidence in his voice. No indeed, women would not find him repugnant—she could see that all too well.

“DEVON, you’ve given me the greatest gift of my life,” Roland said, taking his wife into his arms. He blinked rapidly to restrain the tears of joy. They were going to have a child! He had never been happier.

Devon hugged her husband with all her might, involuntarily comparing his reaction to John’s that long-ago day in Paris. How wonderful for their child to be welcomed into the world with unadulterated joy!

“Do you care very much whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Devon asked anxiously.

“Not a bit! Though only a boy can inherit the title and estate.” Roland lifted her off her feet and onto the plump flowered sofa that matched the drapes in their bedroom. It was a cheery, thoroughly English room. Devon had created it as a surprise for Roland, basing it on photographs of the conservatory of his country estate. The sun-filled room had been Roland’s favorite, with its hunter green walls, white trim, and yellow-pink-and-green-flowered furniture. The bountiful Egyptian sun spilling through the long windows made the room a burst of happy color, which perfectly suited the mood of the moment.

Roland surrounded Devon with his embrace. How he loved her! He had never imagined he could be so happy. He drew back and drank in the radiance of Devon’s face for a quiet moment. Then he asked, “When will we have our child?”

What a wonderful way of putting it, Devon thought. Aloud, she said, “Late December, I think.” Just like Morgan, she thought, with a surge of melancholy.

“Christmastime…” said Roland dreamily, not remembering, in his happiness, the sad memories that Devon associated with that time of year, “how wonderful!”

Devon looked into her husband’s happy face and her sadness vanished. Never had she felt so appreciated, so much at one with another person. The baby was a new and beautiful aspect of her love for Roland. It added infinite dimension to her feelings for him.

“I wish you could have the baby at home,” Roland said.

Devon knew he meant Abersham. She, too, would have liked to have the child in her husband’s ancestral home. Or at Willowbrook, with her mother nearby. But she knew that it was best for the baby if she remained in Cairo until it was born. She told Roland of Dr. Huerscht’s warning.

“Then by all means, you must stay here,” he said firmly. “I’ll see if I can’t arrange it so that I remain here until the baby is born.”

“What do you mean?” Devon asked, suddenly distressed.

“Darling,” Roland chided gently, “its no secret that our work here is mostly done. They need us in the European theater.”

“But they can’t send you now!” cried Devon.

“They can indeed. You know many men are separated from their loved ones. I can ask to remain here, but I may have to go nonetheless.”

Devon disengaged herself from Roland’s arms and stood up. Of course, he was absolutely right. She could not be selfish. At the same time, it broke her heart to think of being separated from her husband when their child was born.

Turning back to Roland, she squared her shoulders and put a brave smile on her face. “I understand that you may have to leave,” she said calmly. Then she sank onto the couch and took his hands, adding a plea that was not at all stoic, “But please, please try to stay!”

Roland left the villa a bit earlier than usual the next day. On his way to headquarters, he stopped at the Thomas Cook office to arrange a wire to his solicitor in London. That dispatched, he prepared himself to face his commanding officer with his request to remain in Cairo for the next nine months.

The news, however, was not good.

“You’ll be here for a few more months, of course, but every good man is needed in the European theater. I’m afraid you’ll be off just about the time that it’s most important to your wife that you be here,” the older man said, regret in his voice. “What we can do, however, is try to arrange some leave for you close to the due date. Nonetheless, I can’t give you any guarantees, old chap.” He looked regretfully at Roland, fully understanding the Earl’s wish to be near his wife for the birth of his first child.

Roland, always correct, revealed none of his distress. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “that’s all I can ask.”

DEVON stood on the balcony and watched the jeep drive out of sight. She had withheld her tears in Roland’s presence—it was already too difficult for him to leave her—but now they spilled unchecked down the smooth lines of her face.

I should be grateful they let him stay this long, she told herself. The baby was due in only two months. Then she, like Roland, would go to England with the child. She knew it was far wiser to remain in Cairo until then. England was cold and wet in October, Cairo sunny and warm. Her obstetrician was a Swiss doctor of impeccable medical credentials to whom she had been referred by Dr. Huerscht, whereas in England the best doctors were serving the war wounded. Here, she had her sister. In England, she had no one. And even the English countryside was subject to bombing raids, while Cairo was now safe from any German threat. Still, Devon wished desperately that she didn’t have to be so far from Roland.

She sank into her flowery couch facedown and indulged in a few moments of sobbing. Then, slowly, it subsided. She sat up again and looked at the tear-covered pillow, ashamed at her self-pity. After all, she told herself, her circumstances were no worse than thousands of other women’s.

Devon got up and rang for Alice, who arrived moments later with a silver tray bearing several letters and invitations.

Alice bustled around the room as Devon perused her mail. “You didn’t eat your breakfast,” she chided Devon, clearing the little round table on the balcony. Devon and Roland almost always breakfasted in the warm morning sun.

“No…” Devon said absently.

Alice threw her a worried look. She knew Devon was distressed at Roland’s departure. But Devon’s next words reassured Alice with their normality.

“Grace has invited me to a luncheon for Cecile de la Montaigne. You know, she’s marrying Lord Penderbrook. Can you prepare my lavender silk?”

Alice went to Devon’s dressing area and located the suit. She checked the hem and cuffs to ensure there were no dangling threads. “I think the skirt needs a bit of pressing,” she murmured, throwing the garment over her arm and going toward the bell pull. A few moments later, a young Arab servant arrived. Alice handed her the skirt, explaining what needed to be done, then dismissed her.

Devon looked at her in amusement. “I didn’t know you’d learned Arabic,” she said, chuckling.

“It’s good management practice to make an effort like that,” Alice said with a businesslike nod of her head.

“I suppose you’re right,” Devon said, respecting Alice for her insight. Alice was in her sixties, but her energy had not abated. The household servants respected her and she, in turn, treated them with kindness and respect.

It was much the same way she, Devon, treated the stable workers at Willowbrook. A wave of homesickness suddenly engulfed her. She had never intended to stay away for such a long time. She knew that Willy was a capable manager, but she still wished she could see the farm again. After the baby was born, she’d visit, she promised herself. And after Roland returned from the war, they would all have to spend several months each year at Willowbrook. She knew that Roland would want to live in England, but he had already told her that he would be happy to spend considerable time in the Virginia countryside that so resembled Abersham. She remembered briefly how bored John had become at Willowbrook. Roland would be more suited to life there, Devon thought happily.

She suddenly had a vision of them many years hence. Roland would be gray, her own hair white. They would still be active, would take rides in the woods, work in the garden. They would have grandchildren by then. A lot of them, she hoped. Perhaps she and Roland could have another child next year.

She wondered if Laurel and Chase had received the letter—sent by Grace in the diplomatic pouch—announcing the news of her pregnancy. Devon had waited until after the fifth month to notify them, not wanting them to be disappointed in case of a miscarriage. Devon missed her parents. She wished Laurel could be beside her when the child was born.

Then she shook her head to clear it of such regrets. She forced herself to think of other things. Deliberately, she shifted her thoughts to Roland’s sister. Devon wondered what she was like. Hopefully like Roland, kind and witty and good-natured. Roland did not often mention Regina, however, and when he did it was always with restraint.

Well, no matter what, Devon told herself, Roland and I have each other.

DEVON was elated that Roland was able to arrive in Cairo the day after the birth of their daughter. Like Morgan, the child was born close to Christmastime, but in the case of this second child, the birthdates followed Christmas rather than preceded it. Her birthday was January 2, 1944.

“Are you disappointed that she’s not a boy?” Devon asked, knowing the answer in advance. She was already sitting in an armchair next to the bed, dressed in the lavishly trimmed red caftan purchased at the bazaar. It was both modest and festive, thus perfectly suited to receiving guests in comfort after the birth of her child.

“Not possible.” Roland beamed. “My only regret is that she won’t be able to inherit Abersham.” The English law of primogeniture often encumbered old properties with prohibitions against female heirs. A male relative, no matter how remote, took precedence over a female direct descendant of the property owner.

“It doesn’t matter,” Devon said, “she’ll have Willowbrook. And,” she added, “I fully intend that we should have another child. A boy maybe?”

“That would he grand, but it doesn’t matter a bit if it’s not.” Roland sat on a pouf at the foot of her chair. From his position, he was able to remain as close as possible to his wife and child. “Darling, I have a very exotic name request,” he said, looking at Devon with a bit of apprehension.

“Exotic?” Devon gave Roland a sidelong glance, then returned to feeding her child.

“What would you think of the name Francesca?” he asked.

“Well…” Devon reflected a moment. “Its certainly not very British.”