Page 81 of The Summer Country

“Please, Robert,” said Mary Anne, her voice breaking. Her bosom pressed against his arm; her face was lifted to his in supplication. “You wouldn’t.”

Robert’s lip curled and Charles thought . . . he hoped . . .

Robert shrugged, wrapping an arm around Mary Anne’s waist, although whether for affection or to keep from falling, Charles wasn’t quite sure. “My wife has spoken. I wouldn’t want to upset her while she’s with child.”

Robert’s hand rose, pointedly, to her breast. Mary Anne glanced up at him with slitted eyes, and something crackled between them that was both anger and desire.

Charles looked away, sickened by it all, not sure whether to charge to the rescue or beat a tactful retreat. “If you ever change your mind . . .”

“You couldn’t afford the fee. Brother.” Robert gave Mary Anne a light shove on the small of her back. “Shall we go down?”

“Yes, of course.” Mary Anne looked back over her shoulder. “Jenny . . .”

“Leave her,” said Robert sharply, and Mary Anne had no choice but to accompany him, head down, eyes mutinous.

Charles waited until they had gone, and then, softly, closed the door.

They didn’t need words; they came together as one, holding each other like mariners in a high wind clinging to a spar, as though that was all that stood between them and oblivion. It was torture to be so close after so long apart, and to know that it was only a moment, that Charles would have to go downstairs and be charming to the Bolands, and Jenny would have to smooth her hair and stand behind her mistress, and neither could give any sign of what they meant to each other.

“We have to be more careful,” murmured Charles into Jenny’s hair.

“I know. We shouldn’t be here together now.” Jenny lifted her head, looking at him with a dazed expression that tore his heart to shreds. “Oh, Charles. I had thought, earlier today, that she might mean to free me. But she doesn’t, does she? She doesn’t mean to give me up. Not now. Not ever.”

Charles held her all the tighter. This wouldn’t be forever, he promised himself. He’d see this sorted. Somehow. “Not now, no. But we can keep trying.” Half-jokingly, he said, “Maybe we can make Robert angry enough to sell you against her wishes. It’s only a matter of time.”

“What if we haven’t time?”

She seemed so defeated, so unlike herself, that Charles grasped her shoulders with alarm, holding her away from him. “What is it? What’s wrong? Has he hurt you? Are you ill?”

“No.” Jenny’s mouth worked as though she was trying not to cry. “I’m with child.”

Chapter Seventeen

Christ Church, Barbados

May 1854

“With child?” Emily looked at Dr. Braithwaite in surprise. “No, that’s—”

Retching. Lethargy. Yes, Laura liked to read novels and daydream, but not like this. So many times, Emily had come upon her with her book fallen facedown on her lap, her eyes closed and head thrown back, as if simply being was eating up all of her resources.

Not being. A being. A baby.

“Yes?” prompted Dr. Braithwaite.

“That’s entirely possible,” Emily finished weakly. “But why wouldn’t she have told me?”

“Natural delicacy?” suggested Dr. Braithwaite. “Or she might not know herself.”

Emily remembered the way Adam had shut the door, the way he had told her not to fuss. No, they knew, she was sure. They had simply chosen not to share the news with her, and the realization burned like the handle of a hot kettle, too quickly grasped in a bare palm.

“Maybe,” said Emily unhappily.

She was spared further comment by George’s appearance. Jonah carried two buckets of water.

“There,” directed George, pointing to the hearth. “Is there any other task we might perform?”

“That should be sufficient,” said Dr. Braithwaite, politely enough, but there was an edge to it, a tension that crackled between the two men.