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“No—it was not.” Thank God she could say that. “Her pregnancy was too far advanced. He refused to operate.”
“Then I cannot see how raising the matter now can serve any purpose whatsoever, except to open old wounds.”
“Lady Stanhope …” Callandra hated this. She could feel her stomach clenching so hard her whole body hurt. “Lady Stanhope—do you know who was the father of Victoria’s child?”
Philomena’s voice was strangled. “That is hardly your concern, Lady Callandra.”
“You do know!”
“I do not. Nothing I could say would persuade her to tell me. The very fact that I pressed her seemed to drive her to such terror and despair I feared she would take her own life if I continued.”
“Please sit down.”
Philomena obeyed, not because Callandra asked her but because her legs threatened to give way if she did not. She stared at Callandra as at a snake about to strike.
“She did tell the surgeon,” Callandra went on, hearing her own voice in the still room with its dead atmosphere and loathing it. “Because it was one of the circumstances in which he might have considered the operation, had he been consulted sooner.”
“I don’t understand—Victoria was in excellent health—then …”
“But the child was a result of incest. The father was her brother Arthur.”
Philomena tried to speak. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She was so pale Callandra was afraid she was going to faint, even sitting as she was.
“I wish I could have spared you,” she said quietly. “But you have other daughters. For their sakes I had to inform you. I wish it were not so.”
Still Philomena seemed paralyzed.
Callandra leaned forward and took one of her hands. It was cold to the touch, and stiff. Then she rose and pulled the bell sharply and stood facing the door.
As soon as a maid appeared she sent her for brandy and then a hot, sweet tisane.
The maid hesitated.
“Don’t stand there, girl,” Callandra said sharply. “Tell the butler to bring the brandy and then fetch the tisane. Hurry yourself!”
“Arthur,” Philomena said suddenly in a harsh voice thick with anguish. “Dear God! If only I’d known! If she’d told me!” Slowly she bent forward, her body shuddering with terrible dry sobs and long cries, straining for breath.
Callandra did not even look to see if the maid had gone or not. She knelt and put her arms around the agonized woman and held her close while she shook with a storm of weeping.
The butler brought the brandy, stood helpless and anguished with uncertainty and embarrassment, then put the tray down and left.
Eventually Philomena’s strength was spent and she clung to Callandra in motionless exhaustion.
Gently Callandra eased her back into the chair and fetched the brandy, holding it to her lips.
Philomena sipped it, choked, then drank the rest.
“You don’t understand,” she said at last, her eyes red-rimmed, her face smeared with the signs of weeping. “I could have saved her. I knew where to find a woman who could have got her a proper abortion, a woman who knows where to find a real surgeon who would do it—for sufficient money. If she had felt she could trust me, I would have taken her to that man in time. When she got there herself—it was too late.”
“You—” Callandra could hardly believe it. “You knew how to find such a woman?”
Philomena misunderstood her emotion. She colored deeply. “I—I have seven children. I …”
Callandra grasped her hand and held it. “I understand,” she said immediately.
“I didn’t go.” Philomena’s eyes opened wide. “She would not refer me. She—she herself—gave me …” She faltered to a stop, unable to say the words.
“But she knew how to find him?” Callandra pressed, the irony bitter inside her.
