Susan Speers (31 page)

“Do you still play Chopin?” he asked, his voice soft, his eyes bright.

“I could only play that for you,” I said.

He looked full at me and in that moment I saw him recognize my pregnancy. A smile filled his eyes like a sunrise. “I’m so happy for you, Mrs. Gordon,” he said.

I was happy, too. Before my eyes Jeremy became the man Lawrence said he could be.

“Will we go to tea?” Arthur prompted, bored by adult conversation. “Say,” he looked at me and frowned. “Aren’t you Cousin Clarissa?”

“Do you remember me?”

“You showed me a funny little house at Hethering.”

“Yes, I did. I married a London gentleman named Gordon so I live here now.”

“Dr. Redstone says I’m well enough to go back to Hethering.” Arthur was pitifully thin, with great shadows under his eyes, but he had energy and spirit. “Will you take us Papa? Dr. Redstone and I?”

“I will, very soon.” Jeremy said. As Arthur twirled about the small room Jeremy said to me: “The doctor is Arthur’s good friend. I don’t mind, really, the man’s a saint.”

With one hand, Jeremy put gentle pressure on Arthur’s shoulder to stop his cavorting. I could see the little boy’s lips were blue.

“Will you come to tea with us?”

I thought for a moment. I could be Cousin Clarissa. I could know Arthur and Jeremy could know my child. But this was sheer fancy. Caroline would never allow it and two innocent souls would be confused at best, damaged at worst. I could never trust Jeremy’s wife near my child. I’m sure she felt the same about Arthur and me.

“I’d like that,” I said. “But I don’t think so.”

Jeremy nodded. “Another time, perhaps.” He put one warm hand on my swollen abdomen in blessing. “You must have a portrait made with your little daughter.”

“You and Chase have decided this baby is a girl,” I said, but my husband never touched our child in curiosity or with such grace.

“Loving you as we do, we can’t imagine anything else.”

Jeremy and Arthur left me seated on the curlicue bench beneath Lady Anne’s serene gaze.

*****

As time grew nearer to the baby’s arrival, Chase drew farther and farther away from me. We never had an evening at home, never missed a gathering or refused an invitation. I got tired of sitting in a corner like a potted palm, subject to the vague kindness of people whose eyes followed bright conversations and dancing across the room. I begged off the social round, but insisted Chase go without me. He always did.

He’d return to sit up until dawn at our piano, come to bed after I rose, then work in his new studio before dressing for an evening out. We still waited for our larger living quarters. We dined together, but even then my husband’s attention drifted. He was always kind, but his eyes were fixed on points behind me, points where his hat and coat hung beside our door.

“Do you have any new music for me?” I asked him more than once.

“Not really,” he’d say. “It isn’t going well. I can’t seem to capture my feelings.”

*

Daisy paid a visit. She was very sweet and brought me a lace matinee jacket for the baby, a beautiful garment stitched by nuns in a French convent.

“I didn’t waste my time with the embroidered layettes,” she said. “Nothing could be as fine as your own handiwork.”

I was ashamed to think I hadn’t set a stitch for the baby. I remained superstitious, though I could feel my little one roll and kick with vigor.

“You’ve landed happy,” Daisy said, her eyes on Chase’s piano, gilded by the afternoon sunlight. “It’s a pity Jeremy is so miserable.”

I looked away. My better half told me not to listen. My human half was sick with curiosity.

“He travels abroad as much as possible, and when in London stays at his club. Meanwhile Dr. Redstone cannot be shaken loose.”

“He saved Arthur’s life,” I protested.

“The Tsarina clung to nasty Rasputin for much the same reason,” Daisy said, “and look what happened to her.”

I could not answer.

“I love Chase’s new song,” Daisy scooped up the last cream cake on the tray.

“New song?”

“
Irresistible
. You are a lucky girl. Few men find a pregnant woman irresistible.”

The song wasn’t about me.

“Say,” she said, “you look a little queer. I’ll go and let you rest.”

*

I lay on the chill surface of my satin coverlet, waiting for Chase to come down from his attic studio. As the sky turned dark, I decided to go and fetch him. The lift was slow to arrive and slow to ascend. By the time it reached the top floor, I was perspiring and dizzy.

His door was locked. My pains began on the endless trip down to the lobby. The concierge called for an ambulance and promised to find Chase and send him after me to the lying in hospital.

My night was filled with pain that grew worse every hour and bewilderment that Chase did not come. I was alone, fighting for breath. The nurses were rushed, every baby in London was bent on arriving that night. My doctor’s infrequent visits increased toward dawn, the expression on his face changed from impatient to concerned.

“Twilight sleep,” he said to the nurse.

“No, I want to see my baby,” I said, but nurses follow doctors’ orders. I sank into darkness, my eyes on the forceps in the doctor’s hand.

*****

When I opened my eyes, all was quiet. The pain, a clamoring, unbearable noise, had stopped. It left aching emptiness within me.

Chase stood a distance away from my bed. His eyes were red, his clothing rumpled, his tie undone. I smelled sour champagne. We stared at each other for a full minute.

“Are you awake?”

“Where’s my baby?”

“The baby’s gone, Clarry, she didn’t live.”

“You’re lying.” I was sure of it.

“No, darling, I’m not. She — the birth was too hard. She died before the doctor could —”

“You never wanted our baby, you sent her away!” I couldn’t stop myself, and saw guilt crease his face.

“I swear not, Clarry. I saw her, for the tiniest moment. She was beautiful, but so still. She never breathed.” His eyes watered, but he held my hand tight and he didn’t look away.

“I don’t believe you!” I grabbed for the bell and my flailing hand knocked it away. “Call the nurse,” I said, “or I’ll scream this place down until I see my child!”

I made enough noise to wake every infant on the ward and their pitiful cries maddened me. I was determined to escape the room and search until I found my little girl. Two nurses held me down and a third gave an injection.

My last sight was Chase backing out the door.

I woke in a different room, curled away from the window, my body cold and leaden. I was paralyzed with misery.

But as I lay there, I felt a blessed warmth, a sensation so gentle, that at first, I thought I imagined it. I saw my fingers curl and felt my limbs relax into the soft mattress beneath me. The warmth didn’t falter, it grew in strength until I was completely warm, come alive again despite myself.

I turned toward the window, the light, the warmth, and he was there, as close as he could manage. Jem sat motionless until he saw me recognize him, and then his dark eyes smiled.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“How long —”

“As long as you need me.”

“How did you —”

“Shh,” he said. “Rest now. I won’t go, I’ll be here when you wake.” Warm and safe, I could relax into sleep. Chase ran from my hysteria and never came back, I knew that by instinct. But Jem would watch over me until I could survive this unspeakable loss.

Hours later, he fed me spoonfuls of broth, and I took it from his hand when I would have refused a nurse. I could manage only a little.

“No more,” I said.

“Later, yes,” he said. “I find a certain satisfaction in feeding you like this.”

Whenever I woke he fed me more. “You need to be strong,” he said.

“I will be.” In time, I thought, with his help.

“You need to be strong now,” he said. “Dr. Gifford is here.”

“I don’t want him!” Dr. Gifford was the hospital’s director, a learned man, whose learning had failed me utterly. “I can’t — I’ll never have another child, I know what will happen. I’m a Marchmont, after all.”

“You will see him,” Jeremy said. “I can’t help you with bread poultices and birch bark tea.”

*

Dr. Gifford was kind but matter of fact, and that calmed me. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, “and I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, but your cousin raised a question that demands an answer for your peace of mind.”

I couldn’t speak for the ache in my throat. I kept my eyes on Jeremy’s hand holding mine.

“Your baby died in the violence of birth, Mrs. Gordon, because her umbilical cord was depressed, pressure from the contractions of labor cut off her vital oxygen.”

“What does it matter now,” I whispered past lips stiff with bitter sorrow.

“Mr. Marchmont believes you blame yourself, or rather you blame an inherited trait of weakness.”

I nodded and a tear escaped my fierce control.

“That is not the case, Mrs. Gordon. Your baby died from an accident at birth, not through any inherited defect. These accidents are not common, thank God, but they do happen. It was an accident.”

I closed my eyes, and he left me to my sorrow after a brief conversation with Jeremy outside the door.

Jemmy came back to take my hand. Part of me was glad I was too weak to pull away. “Damn you,” I said.

“You had to hear it, Clarry.” He paused. “What is your baby’s name?”

It meant so much that he asked. “Léonora,” I said. My lost one, named for Willow’s lost Léon.

Jem stayed with me through the next day and night then took her body home to Hethering, where he stood with the Picketys at her burial.

*****

My husband returned to the hospital in Rutherford’s custody, my uncle’s bombast silenced by my grief. For the next two weeks, Chase paid dutiful afternoon visits, but Jeremy came to sit with me through the sleepless nights. I had flowers and hothouse grapes from my husband. I had comfort that kept me whole from Jeremy. I knew we’d part again, but I carried the memory of his enduring love to warm me in my cold home.

*

Chase brought me back to our original hotel suite, all mention of moving forgotten. He was very kind, he treated me with the care he’d give a piece of spun glass. He spoke in quiet tones, he ordered light but interesting fare to tempt my appetite, he played soothing melodies for hours. He slept in the spare bedroom “to not disturb your rest”.

He didn’t go to parties. When I slept or lay on my bed in dry eyed misery, he went upstairs to his little room under the eaves and worked hard. Sometimes he played the result for me and it was very good.

I was numb, my grief a frozen mass within me. Bit by bit as the numbness surrendered to feeling, I wept, but never when Chase could hear. He looked guilty and unhappy, several times he’d stop playing, and I thought he might say something, but he just began again without a word.

One morning he came down from his studio to find me sitting by a sunny window. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think.” It was true. I didn’t dread opening my eyes in the morning anymore. I knew my day could be difficult, but I was finding solace in music and stitchery again and visits from friends. Maybe I would go back to work on Willow’s story. I’d left it in the little room where Chase slept.

“I’m leaving you, Clarry,” Chase said. “I’m going home to Boston to study composition at Harvard.”

“I see.” I was so calm.

“You’re not surprised, are you?”

“No.” I was grateful he had the strength to end this travesty of a marriage.

“You need a different sort of husband,” he said. “Even if the baby hadn’t —”

“Léonora. Her name was Léonora.”

“Yes,” he said, and looked away. When he turned back, his eyes were red, but he had schooled his face into an expression of pleasant regret.

“Even if I was a different sort of man, a man who could have comforted you better,” he said, “I’m not Jeremy.”

“I never said you had to be —”

“Clarissa, you love him,” he said. “You’ve always loved him, you always will love him.” He sat down beside me. “I read your book while you were in hospital. That’s not Willow’s story, it’s yours. The love, the loss, the regret, the dedication.”

His perception surprised me.

“I understand his marriage is in a bad way,” he said. “And I wish you luck with all that, but I can’t stay to watch you leave me. You’re already quite a bit gone, aren’t you?”

“Please don’t write a song about this,” I said. “I couldn’t listen to it.”

“No songs,” he promised. “Maybe, one day, an aria. This is heartbreak, after all, not sentiment.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Chase, you were —”

“The very good time you needed,” he said, “the light touch. But you want more than I can give. You always will.”

I nodded with a measured tempo. He was right.

“I guess I’ve always known that,” he said, “but I couldn’t stop myself from trying. My dream of you was irresistible. Let’s say goodbye before it gets — difficult.”

“I’ll never forget you,” I said.

“Don’t think I’ll ever let you.”

I did better on my own than I thought I might. Chase left for America and we only told our friends where he’d gone, not why. We could arrange a quiet divorce in due time. An annulment didn’t matter, for I was done with men and marriage. I had my writing, I had my painting, I had my embroidery.

I put Chase’s piano in storage and bought myself a cream colored baby grand. I drew flowers over its light wood and painted them in the pastels of spring blooms. I began to learn Bach’s two-part inventions and their regular patterns of quiet beauty eased my grief.

Laura wrote from Australia. She’d married a private duty patient whose family owned a sheep station in the outback. “
Two sad losses will have you feeling peaky
,” she wrote, “
though I don’t count that lightweight husband as one of them
.” I suppressed a smile at her refusal to mince words.