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“I couldn’t bear being his whore, but Ulrick forced me. I thought if I told him I was pregnant he’d leave me alone.”
“So you are…with child?”
“Not Wentworth’s, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He put his head on one side, his confusion heartbreaking to witness. “What are you saying, Phoebe? You seduced me, Phoebe. I remember it clearly. Was there a reason other than my charm?”
She wanted to hold him and reassure him, but of course she couldn’t. He’d leave thinking the worst, and she’d die without ever having a final piece of comfort of the man she loved.
“I’ll be honest. When I realized I wasn’t carrying Wentworth’s child, I was afraid. Then it occurred to me that if I were with child, I could delay the noose, and perhaps win the time needed to find witnesses to speak in my defense or evidence to exonerate me.”
Hugh’s expression narrowed. “So when you seduced me, I was nothing more than a means to an end. Of course, later you thought otherwise hence the need for precautions.”
“I realized it wasn’t fair to trick you like that: not fair to you, or the child that might result.”
Calculating the months, he asked again, “Are you with child?”
“I’d rather not answer that.”
He blanched but instead of pressing her, said, “Tomorrow, sentence will be handed down. It may not go well for you.”
She bowed her head. “I fully anticipate it will not.” Hugging herself, she turned toward the center of the room. “I’ve had some days of silence and the energies of a confessor to prepare myself.” Turning back, she smiled. “I would have hoped to have retained your regard, though, Hugh. I thought, perhaps, you might understand my helplessness, my friendlessness. That would have meant a lot to me. You have been my only friend, and that sustains me.”
His voice was low. “If there were anything I could do to help you, I would. You haven’t lost my support, Phoebe, though I still don’t understand how you could have associated yourself so completely with Wentworth. But…” she heard the pain in his tone, “…if you are with child, your sentence will be stayed until after its birth.”
She flung open her arms, frustrated. “And then in nine months, a preordained orphan will enter the world. One who will have to bear the stain of its mother’s crimes, and its bastardy, for the rest of its life. No, Hugh. Much as I have craved your comfort, I am not so cruel that I would visit that on my own flesh and blood.”
He looked shocked. “It would give you a stay of execution at the very least.”
“If that is the best I have to look forward to, then I would decline.” She waved him to the door. “Thank you for visiting me, Hugh. And thank you for all your kindness in the past. You were loving and generous in every sense. I’ve never known a man as generous. Ulrick, who never loved me, took pleasure in making my life a misery, and Wentworth traded on his charm to make a fool of me, then worked me to his own ends. You were the one bright spot in my short and, until recently, unremarkable history.”
She steeled herself to resist him when he would embrace her, pushing him away before retreating. “No, Hugh. It’s not fair to either of us. I lied to you and pretended things I’m not. That’s why I couldn’t write to you when I was detained here. I might not be guilty of intent to murder, but my vanity and foolishness made me as culpable as if I were. Please go, Hugh.”
But he did not.
19
Instead he put his hand on her shoulder to stay her and whereas a moment before she’d longed for his touch, now she wasn’t ready for any chink in his mistrusting demeanor. He’d made clear that he believed that, if not guilty of murder, she was clearly capable of it. Her lies had paved the way for his loss of love, and what he’d seen in court today was too raw. She understood that.
She didn’t need his pity. “Just go. There’s nothing you can do for me now.”
“I can’t. Not like this, Phoebe. Whatever happens tomorrow, you don’t deserve to die.” His voice cracked.
“Even though you think I’m guilty?”
He shook his head, unable to speak.
“But you don’t believe me entirely innocent?”
“You committed adultery with Wentworth.”
Phoebe shook her head slowly at the pain in his eyes. He pressed his lips together. “While your husband was dying, you were…making love to another man. To Wentworth.”
“I’d hardly call it ‘making love’ though I’m happy to accept a charge of adultery. Not murder.”
“Why, Phoebe? Why Wentworth?”
“Don’t think about it if it troubles you so much,” she muttered, turning her back on him and moving into the center of the small sitting room.
