Gifts of the Heart Read online

  “No. Don’t say it.” He looked up at her, and for a moment there was such exquisite pain in his eyes she wanted to cry out. “There’s really nothing more to say, is there?”

  “No,” she said, and blindly stumbled out of the room.

  In the hall Laura rushed up to her. “Mama? Is Papa leaving?”

  “Yes, Laura.” Eliza touched her hair. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Ahem. Me lady.” Shannon cleared his throat. “About Mr. Evans.”

  “Mr. Evans?” Eliza said blankly, and then remembered. Robert’s cousin, who would now be the village schoolmaster. She had forgotten about him, so much had happened. Yet the bell hadn’t even rung yet for nuncheon. “Ask his lordship about him. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Mama.” Laura followed beside her, clutching at her hand. “Why is he leaving? Why?”

  “He has business in London, Laura. I’m sorry.”

  “Make him stay!” she begged, her voice high and tight. “Please, don’t make him go.”

  “Laura, I can’t stop him.”

  “But I want you to.”

  Clumsily Eliza crouched to embrace her. “I can’t, honey. He has to go—”

  “No, he doesn’t!” Laura pulled away and Eliza rocked back, throwing out her arm to keep her balance. “You’re making him go. I hate you!”

  “Laura—”

  “Leave me alone!” Laura cried, and ran.

  “Laura,” Eliza said, stepping forward, and stopped. There was no reasoning with her when she got upset like this; in this, they were much alike. If only she could make the child see—but how could she, when she didn’t understand, herself?

  There had been no sound, but something made her look up. Delia, very pale, stood on the stairs, her hands gripping the banister so hard the knuckles were white. “Delia?” The girl started. “Delia, I’m sorry,” she began, and Delia turned, running up the stairs.

  Eliza stared after her, and then, her shoulders slumping, turned away, quite, quite alone. She had, she realized, sinking down onto the bottom stair and putting her head in her hands, made a mull of it this time. Now what was she going to do?

  Chapter Seven

  The traveling carriage had been ordered brought ‘round, and in the marquess’s chamber his valet was busily at work, packing for the long journey ahead. The servants went quietly about their routines. Arguments between the lord and lady were not uncommon, Lady Stowe having the temper she did, but there was something different about this one. Though no one knew exactly what had happened, a sense of foreboding filled the air. It seemed nothing would ever be the same again.

  Eliza had passed a restless night, and now she sat alone in her sitting room, away from Robert, away from her daughters. Last night Laura had broken down and cried in her arms, but Eliza knew she hadn’t quite been forgiven. When the girls were older they would understand that sometimes things happened that were no one’s fault, and everyone’s. Someday they would know that some problems had no solutions. For now, though, they were better off with Miss Stevenson, returned from her holiday, and her brisk, unsentimental caring.

  When had things gone so wrong? The question returned again to torment her. Back when she had first refused to travel to London, when Delia was but a babe? When Robert had begun staying away for longer than Parliament’s session, doing work he considered more important than his family? She didn’t know. In all that time life had gone on, deceptively serene, each of them seeming to accept the pattern it had taken. Only yesterday had that deception been revealed, and only because of the child she carried.

  Poor little mite. She laid her hand on her stomach, as if the child understood what had happened and needed comfort. She loved this baby with the same fierce protectiveness she felt for all her children, and until yesterday she’d thought that Robert would someday feel the same. No matter what else he was, he was a good father. Now she was no longer so certain. He would accept the child, of course, perhaps even feel some affection for it, but he would never love it. Never. The baby she had hoped might bring them closer together would, instead, be the wedge that drove them, finally and inexorably, apart. Yesterday Robert had repudiated the child, making it clear that he blamed her for it.

  Dear God, that hurt. As if he had nothing to do with it! She hadn’t known on Twelfth Night that she might conceive, not after nine childless years. Nor, remembering that mad moment, did she think she would have cared. It was only later, when she had realized that she was pregnant, that she had felt—what? Astonished, because she had thought her childbearing days were behind her. A little frightened, as she always was at the awesome responsibility of raising a child, and deeply happy. And, somewhere deep inside, so deep that she hardly admitted it, relieved.

  The sound of carriage wheels on the drive outside made her look up, and she drifted over to the window. There stood the traveling carriage, its paintwork of burgundy and gold gleaming in the faint sun. She didn’t have to travel in it, and that thought brought with it a mixture of sorrow and that strange relief. Relief that Robert was leaving her? No, of course not. Relief, though, that she didn’t have to go, that she could stay behind? Yes, and for that she should be ashamed of herself. It meant that everything Robert had said to her yesterday was true.

  It was a lowering thought. Eliza sank down onto the edge of a chair, staring blankly ahead of her. She didn’t want to go to London. It was high time she admitted that, if only to herself, and stopped using the children as an excuse. But, why? She had enjoyed London, had enjoyed her season. Well, most of it. Long since she had learned to snap her fingers at others’ opinions of her, and yet there had been a time when they mattered. In London there were people who’d made her feel inadequate and plain as a girl, and even after she was married. There was her mother-in-law, looking at her with open disdain. The wives of party leaders and cabinet ministers, who had treated her with indulgent courtesy for her ignorance of political matters. And Robert, so involved in his work that he hadn’t seemed to see her anymore. She was nothing in that world, not even to herself, and so she had seized on the excuse to stay in Devon. True enough it was that the children had needed stability, and that they had needed her. True it was, too, that she had also been glad of a place to hide. Robert was right. All this time she had been lying to herself, and to him. She didn’t want to go to London with him.

  The admission reverberated inside her, stunning in its power, and yet it felt familiar, something she always known about herself. Until now she hadn’t admitted it, though. Instead she had occupied herself with other matters, as if by not thinking about it she could absolve herself. She knew differently now. Her marriage was in serious trouble. Once Robert left, things would never be the same between them, and she would be to blame. Not completely, of course, but at least Robert had always been open about what he wanted. She was the one who had lied, to him and to herself. The problems in her marriage were partly her fault.

  I can’t let him go. Jumping to her feet, she nearly ran from the room. Though she wasn’t certain what she would say, she knew that she couldn’t let Robert go without talking to him about this. Surely if she admitted her feelings to him, he would listen. He had to. If he left her now, with their marriage in shreds, they would never repair the damage.

  Robert’s valet was just closing the last of the trunks when she burst into the room. Both men turned to look at her. “Yes, Eliza?” Robert said, his voice mild.

  “I—I need to talk to you, Robert.”

  “The carriage is waiting.” His face was expressionless. “We’ve said all there is to say.”

  “No, we haven’t! Please, Robert. This is important.”

  He stared at her for a moment and then turned toward his valet, who was watching them with undisguised interest. “Very well. Walters, leave us.” He waited until the valet had gone before turning to her. “Well?”

  “I—” Eliza began, and stopped, flushing as she looked away. Under the coolness of his gaze her courage evaporated. She felt
young and gauche, as she often had in the early days of their marriage. Robert was steady and dependable and did things according to some inner plan. She, on the other hand, was a creature of impulse. There were times when that could be disastrous. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Robert’s face was not encouraging. “Yes?”

  “About what you said—it’s true. I haven’t wanted to go to London. But that doesn’t mean I can’t change!” she burst out, as he abruptly turned away, his hand flicking out as if to ward off pain. “Oh, Robert, please, let’s talk about this—”

  “How would you feel if I told you I don’t like coming home?” he accused, rounding on her.

  She closed her eyes. “That’s not true.” She knew how she’d feel. She’d feel exactly as she did now, hurt, abandoned, angry, bewildered. “Robert, it’s not you. It’s London I don’t like.”

  He paused, and then shook his head, bending to pick up a valise. “It’s too late, Eliza.”

  “Don’t go.” She followed him out of the room, into the corridor. “Please. Stay so we can talk about this. One more day won’t make a difference. Please.”

  “I can’t, Eliza. I left work undone.” He looked pointedly at her stomach. “And you won’t come with me, will you.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Then I don’t see we have anything more to talk about.” He turned and headed down the stairs.

  “Robert!” Eliza started after him, and then stopped. He was right. There was nothing more to say, nothing that hadn’t already been said. There was too much between them, too much hurt, too much distance. She wouldn’t beg. It was too late. “You’ll take care of yourself?”

  He looked up in surprise from the bottom of the stairs. “Of course. You, too?”

  “Yes.” She came down a few more stairs, encouraged by the mildness of his voice. “Will you—will you be home for the new baby?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. I’ll be back around the end of August.” They gazed at each other in silence, wanting to say so much; unable to say anything. “Well,” Robert said, and turned.

  “Robert.” She couldn’t let him go, not like this. Nothing she could say would heal the breach between them, and yet she had to say something. She had to tell him how much she loved him. With eyes only for him she hurried down the stairs. “Wait!”

  Robert turned. “What?”

  It all happened so fast that later Eliza was able to reconstruct what had happened only with some difficulty. Intent on reaching her husband, on convincing him of her feelings, she forgot everything else. Forgot the hollows in the oak stairs, worn smooth by the passing of hundreds of years and thousands of feet. Forgot the slipperiness of the old wood boards; forgot, most of all, the change in her own sense of balance. As she rounded the turn of the stairs, she slipped. At another time she might have recovered and saved herself; at another time, the results might not have been so disastrous. As it was, her foot went out from under her. With a little cry, Eliza fell headlong down the last few stairs onto the polished flagstone floor of the hall.

  Chapter Eight

  The doctor had arrived, and now there was nothing for Robert to do but wait. Pacing back forth in the corridor outside his wife’s room, he relived yet again that awful moment when he had seen her hurtle down the stairs, and he had been unable to save her. He remembered the dazed look in her eyes turning to panic, and his own sharp fear, thrust aside for the moment. He always had been good in a pinch, and this certainly was that. She was lighter than he’d expected her to be, he’d thought as he lifted her, and she clung to him with a mixture of desperation and trust that pierced his heart. In spite of the hurt between them, Eliza had turned to him. He only wished there were some way he could make everything right.

  “Papa?” a frightened young voice said behind him. He turned, to see his daughters running down the corridor toward him. Laura’s blue satin sash was twisted at the waist of her white muslin dress, and Delia looked both very adult and very young. Instinctively he opened his arms and they crashed into him, burrowing against him for safety and reassurance. His arms closed around them, and for the first time the weight of the burden Eliza carried struck him. In other circumstances they would turn to their mother for comfort. Instead, they’d come to him, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do.

  “Hush,” he said, more out of a need to speak than in hope of quieting Laura’s noisy sobs. “Come, let’s sit down.” Holding them close, he led them over to the stairs, the damned, treacherous staircase, and sat on the top one, a daughter on either side. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Miss Stevenson said Mama’s hurt,” Delia said.

  “She fell on the stairs.” He sounded surprisingly normal. “Dr. Fuller is with her now.”

  “I’m scared, Daddy.” Laura burrowed her head against his shoulder. “Are you going back to London?”

  “No,” he said, and then repeated it, his voice more definite. No, he was not going back to London. What was there for him, after all? The dearest things in the world to him were in his arms now, and behind the closed door just down the corridor. His family. Until this last month he hadn’t realized quite what they meant to him. Now he did, and all because Eliza had unexpectedly gotten pregnant. Because he’d gotten her pregnant, he amended. Now the baby’s life was in danger, and that filled him with a fierce grief that was stunning.

  “It’s my fault,” Laura sniffled, and he looked down at her in surprise.

  “What is, muffin?”

  “I was mad at Mama because she was making you go away. I made something bad happen to her.”

  “What?” It was Robert’s first encounter with a child’s irrational sense of power over the world. How did one respond to such a statement?

  “Don’t be silly,” Delia said. “You weren’t even there when Mama fell.”

  “But I was mad at her.”

  “Well, so was I, and mad at Papa, too, but we didn’t make anything happen. We’re just children.”

  “Laura. Delia. Enough,” Robert said, intervening before the bickering escalated. He felt like yelling at something himself, but he couldn’t. “What happened yesterday and today was between your mother and me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Delia drew back to look at him. “Are you really staying?”

  “Yes, I’m really staying.”

  “And you won’t go away ever again?” Laura begged.

  He hesitated, torn between the work that meant so much to him, and the love and purpose he had found where he least expected it, here in his home. Giving up his life in London would be hard, but he would do it, for his family’s sake. He had to. “I think I might,” he began, and at that moment a door opened behind them. Forgetting everything else, he got to his feet and turned to face Dr. Fuller.

  “All is well,” the doctor said, nodding at them, and Laura let out a whoop of joy.

  “Laura,” Robert reproved, but he grinned at her, lightheaded with relief and hope. Thank God. Oh, thank God. Only now did he admit how scared he had been, not just for Eliza’s sake, but for his own. Had something happened to the child Eliza would probably never have forgiven him. Nor would he have forgiven himself. Now, though, they had a second chance. He rather liked the idea of being a father again.

  He rose, placing his hands on his daughters’ shoulders. “Go along, now. Everything’s all right.”

  “But, Papa,” Delia protested, still looking worried.

  “Go on. I’ll come talk with you later.” He watched them go, Laura skipping, Delia looking back at him over her shoulder. He felt rather like skipping himself. That his life had changed was something he would think about when Eliza was well. Nothing else quite mattered, he thought, and turned to talk to the doctor.

  Eliza could hear Robert’s voice in the hall. He hadn’t left, then. Not that she’d expected him to, but likely he would, now. The crisis was over. She pressed her hand to her swelling abdomen. All was well, thank God. So why did she feel so like crying?
/>   Robert’s voice grew momentarily louder as the door to her room opened, and then ceased. Opening her eyes to slits, she watched him speak in a low voice to her maid, dismissing her, and then cross the room. Quickly she closed her eyes again, postponing the evil moment when he would leave. “I know you’re awake,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed.

  Eliza opened her eyes, reluctantly. He was smiling, but there was a crease between his brows and his eyes were shadowed. “I’m sorry.” She held out her hand to him, clinging to his warm fingers. “I didn’t mean to do such a stupid thing.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He bent and kissed her hand, and then enfolded it in both of his. “If we hadn’t been arguing—”

  “Yes, well, that’s past, and everything’s fine.”

  “Except you have to stay abed for a week.”

  Her face twisted. “Yes, well, I shan’t like that.”

  “And you were supposed to be careful, anyway.”

  “Well, I’m not as young as I used to be,” she said, watching him warily. Now just what had Dr. Fuller told him?

  “So I understand. You might very well have trouble this time.”

  “And I might not.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

  “It never came up. I felt fine, and I thought—”

  “That I wouldn’t care? Did you really believe that of me, Liza?”

  “I never thought that,” she protested. “Whatever else has happened, Robert, I know you care.”

  “What, then? Do you realize that since I’ve been home you’ve tried to shut me out of your life?”

  “I haven’t—”

  “And for the life of me I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

  “You’re going to leave me again!” she cried, and fell back against the pillows, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Liza, don’t. I’m sorry.” He bent over her, laying his face against hers. With a sob she slid her arms around his neck, clinging to him and giving into weak, hateful tears. “Don’t cry, darling.”