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“Because he should know he has a son!” Godwin growled.
She lowered her eyes. “He was a gypsy and I was so young. I fancied myself in love with him…but he didn’t love me and he left. I was a fool,” she answered.
“As you have made me.” He shook his head. “This is probably the first truth you have ever spoken to me.” He paced a moment and when he returned to look at her, the words were wrenched from him. “I was there, wasn’t I? Ready to play your game…ready to believe every word you uttered.” He had not yet even raised his voice, but it cracked, as did his heart, as did his spirit.
“Try to understand. I needed you…a name for my child. I could not bear to wear the scarlet cloak before all society. You drove all thoughts of him away. You have been my husband, strong and wonderful, and I was pleased to be your wife.”
“But you do not love me. How could you love me and not have confided in me? You didn’t trust me to understand…and I can no longer trust you,” he said, turning on her as the words burst out of him.
“Godwin, no one need ever know,” she said. “Your pride need not come into play.”
“You are beneath contempt! Is that what you are thinking…that I am worried about…my pride?” It hadn’t even occurred to him what his circle would think.
“But, Godwin, we can manage this whole thing…let them know we made love before our wedding night…a forgivable offense, you see,” Sara hurried to explain.
He eyed her, absolutely stunned, and said, “Did I ever know you? What did I see? How could I have been so blind to who you really are? Did you laugh inside yourself and think how clever you had been? Did you laugh as I declared my love for you? Did you laugh when I was so hesitant, so gentle on our wedding night? Did you?”
“No. I was worried that you would discover I wasn’t a virgin…there, there is your truth you treasure so much. Does that make it better?” she snapped. “Oh…leave me be…I am weary and hurting.”
His pain had festered into anger and he slammed his fist into his other hand as he shouted, “You have hurt me, Sara, but you shall never do so again!”
“Godwin…please, understand…I was young, seduced…and then desperate,” she pleaded.
He had turned to leave her, but this stopped him in his tracks. “And what act is this? Sara, you knew me, or I thought you did. Don’t you know that had you come to me and told of your predicament I would have loved you still and protected you? I would have loved your baby as though it was my own.”
“You can still do that,” she cried.
“No, I cannot,” he whispered as he left her room and made his way to his library and locked himself within. He took down a bottle of his finest brandy and poured himself a stiff drink, swallowing it in one shot. He then poured himself another and another.
He was in his cups—his brain was fuzzed with drink, but not so much that he did not hear when Sara screamed.
He was followed by the midwife, who had been in the kitchen having some tea while her ladyship slept.
They found Sara on the floor in a pool of her own blood. It had soaked through her gown, down over her thighs.
Sara tried to raise her head as Godwin came hurrying over and he cried as she slipped into unconsciousness, “Sara, oh, my god, what have I done?”
It was not until the next day that the doctor could be found and brought to Ravensbury. He was able to stop the hemorrhaging, but there was infection.
The doctor kept Sara alive over those next few days, but at the end of the week when he pronounced her no longer in danger, he took Godwin aside and said, “I am sorry, my lord, but she’ll bear you no more children.”
Godwin stared at him. No children? Her sin against him, he had nearly forgiven, or was dealing with it, but this?
The doctor tried to assuage his lordship’s apparent grief. “Look here, my lord, you have a fine strapping child in the nursery. Count yourself fortunate.”
Godwin closed his eyes and said nothing.
A fine lusty bairn to carry his name, but it was a lie…all a lie.
His house would never be filled with Ravensbury children.
The child was an innocent and so he went into the nursery and stared at another man’s son. He stroked the babe’s cheek and felt a wave of pleasure. That surprised him.
He picked up the babe and cradled him in his large arms. “Aye then,” Godwin said. “You are a fine lad.” He named him Roderick of Ravensbury that day, and the one woman who could have told the countryside a tale, the midwife, had been sent up north to family.
Roderick was accepted as a true Ravensbury and Godwin, because of who he was, found he loved the boy.
~ Three ~
