Page 88 of The Summer Country

“Not forfeit, precisely,” began Charles, and broke off at Jenny’s look. “I’d be charged a fine, most likely.”

“You wouldn’t be able to come back.” He didn’t deny it. “You would be a criminal and, worse than a criminal, a traitor.”

“But I would have you and our child.” He sounded as though he were trying to convince himself.

“And Peverills?”

Charles looked away, and Jenny knew, with a sinking feeling, that they wouldn’t be going anywhere, least of all to England.

“Perhaps I should just sell it all to Robert,” said Charles, with an attempt at lightness. “He has the blunt to hear him tell it. We could take the money and sail away.”

“If you sold it to your brother, he would abandon all your plans. Everything you’ve worked for would be torn up within a fortnight.”

“It might take him slightly longer than that. A month, at the least.” When she didn’t return his smile, he abandoned the pretense. “Yes.”

It hurt more than anything she had ever done, to give up that dream of England and freedom. But how could she be the cause of Charles’s misery? “You have people who depend on you.”

“Would you force me to be honorable at your expense?”

Jenny gave a strangled laugh. “I can’t force you to be honorable. You are. It’s in your bones. You would hate me, by and by, if you gave it all up for my sake alone.”

“Not for your sake alone.”

“And if I were to miscarry or our child were stillborn? Such things have been known to happen. There would be no going back.” Every part of her being recoiled from the words, but she forced herself to say them anyway. “Wait a while yet. England will still be there if it comes to that.”

The relief on his face cut through her like a knife. Eagerly, too eagerly, Charles said, “I’ve been corresponding with Henry Brougham—he was a member of Parliament, although he’s out of office at the moment. He says sentiment in England is changing. Emancipation is coming—he’s willing to stake his career on it.”

“Is it?” She didn’t want to ruin his dreams, but, from where she was standing, it sounded like so many empty words. “Mary Anne thinks it’s all nonsense.”

“Trust me,” said Charles. “No one thought they’d abolish the slave trade, and yet that happened.”

Jenny rested her hand on her stomach, still flat beneath the thin fabric of her dress and chemise. “And how long did that take?”

Charles looked slightly abashed. “You’re right. We need action, not dreams.”

“I like your dreams,” said Jenny softly. And she did. She loved him for dreaming them. Attempting to cheer him, she said, “Who knows? If my mistress makes the master angry enough, he might sell me just to get back at her.”

“Will you tell her about the child?”

“I’ll have to. If she discovers it without hearing first from me, she won’t like it.” Jenny put a hand on his arm, trying to sound as reassuring as she could. “Don’t worry. I know how to manage my mistress.”

Or she had once.

Mary Anne’s moods were erratic, her temper uncertain. Jenny weathered the storms and bided her time, knowing that, sooner or later, someone would comment on her lack of bloody cloths, and Mary Anne’s temper would be touched by her silence. It wasn’t enough for Mary Anne to own her body, these days, she needed to own her mind and heart as well, channeling all her fear and discomfort into a fierce possessiveness, clinging to Jenny as she hadn’t since those first, horrible days after the incident of the poisoned chocolate, when their world had collapsed around them.

It was in March that Jenny finally broached the subject with her mistress, as she massaged what had, at one point, been Mary Anne’s ankles. Mary Anne wasn’t quite six months gone, but her feet and ankles had all but disappeared in swollen flesh; it hurt her to walk, so she was carried about on a palanquin laden with cushions, squinting against the light. Jenny had smuggled her the accounts to try to cheer her up, but she complained the words shifted and blurred on the page.

Jenny had consulted Nanny Bell, who told her only that it took women that way sometimes and brewed a pot of dandelion tea for the swelling.

Mary Anne drank it without seeming to notice what it was, and looked for more. “Is there any water left in the jug? I’ll have to use the chamber pot again, but I don’t care. I feel I could drink an ocean and still be thirsty.”

“Here.” Jenny poured her a glass of well water and watched as her mistress guzzled it down, drops falling on her dress. When Mary Anne had finished, Jenny said, “I’ve something to tell you. I think—I’m fairly sure—I’m with child.”

Mary Anne set down the empty glass very, very slowly. “How?”

“The usual way.” She knew what Mary Anne was really asking. “There was a man I met in Antigua. Do you remember the dance at Fairview? The one the Bolands gave in your honor? He was a guest.”

“A white man?” Jenny nodded, trying to read Mary Anne’s thoughts beneath her hooded lids. Mary Anne turned her head restlessly against the cushions. “Did he force you?”