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He had seen, he had understood, and now he would leave.
Chapter 30
Joshua had been staring unseeingly ahead for what seemed like hours until he realized what he was staring at. The shadows in the folds of the white fabric in Cassandra’s workbasket began to form themselves into shapes. Shapes that danced before his eyes, like the little animals she meant to have painted on the nursery walls.
But how like him, these days, to look at something and not see it. How adept he had become at not noticing everything beneath his nose.
He put aside the pages, the plans she had made to bring him into her house. Perhaps she wanted a father for her child. Perhaps she was merely doing what she believed was right. It was so appealing, but it wasn’t real. His real life was in Birmingham.
The floor was as unsteady as a ship in a storm as he crossed to that workbasket, with its taunting pieces of fabric. He pulled out the first piece and almost laughed at himself. It was merely her nightcap, and the jokes they had enjoyed, oh, how he would tease her and—
It was a nightcap, but it was not hers. He made a fist with one hand and settled the little bonnet on it. Pins and needles poked out here and there, for she had not finished making it. It would not take her long; the bonnet was very small.
“It’s too small for you,” he said, and wondered when he had become so stupid. All that country air and domestic bliss had addled his brain. There was comfort in being obtuse, freedom from making decisions.
She didn’t respond, though he could feel her hovering somewhere behind him. Her every move stirred the air, it was so still and thick and warm.
He laid the little bonnet on the window seat and tied its little yellow ribbons in a bow. Samuel had had one just like it, covering the dark fuzz on his pink head. The ruffles used to wobble furiously when he screwed up his face and cried.
Joshua reached into the workbasket again. Another piece of fabric. Also unfinished. A little white dress or petticoat or whatever it was called. Samuel had worn these too, his chubby baby legs kicking around in them. Until the day when he was four, and Rachel had taken him out of skirts and put him in breeches for the first time. How proud of himself he had been, running and stomping and jumping, as if discovering his legs anew.
This, too, Joshua laid out on the seat, below the bonnet. This, too, was not finished: She was embroidering it with masses of little flowers.Waste of time, the baby won’t care, he wanted to tell her. But he knew why she did it: She was impatient too, and this eased the waiting.The baby will only break your heart, he wanted to say, but she wouldn’t listen to him. She was as unwilling to listen as he was to see.
And back into the basket, wool this time: another bonnet, half knitted. He did some arithmetic—he learned enough from Rachel to perform that count—and calculated that the baby would be born in winter, so yes, they needed a warm hat. And warm, woolen stockings, their ends still hooked around needles. Tiny little stockings, to warm those precious little legs. Only partly made, like the baby.
He arranged them below the dress.
A baby. A half-made shadow baby.
This is what she wanted to tell him, although behind his willful stupidity, he already knew. He could have looked at a calendar and counted the days. He could have wondered why in the past month she had never needed a few nights alone. Or why she rested most afternoons now, when she never had in London. Or why he saw her eating at odd hours and sometimes not eating at all. He could have wondered any of those things, but he had not, because he had not wanted to know. He who wanted to know everything did not want to know this.
“I thought Charles for a boy,” she said, in a voice too thin to be hers. “Maybe Charlotte for a girl, or something else. If you agree.”
“So you are sure?”
“It is still early but the signs are there and—”
“Are you sure or are you not sure?” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.
“I’m sure,” she said in half a voice. She swallowed and coughed and tried again. “I’m sure.”
This was his. It could be. All of it. This lovely woman, who made his heart swell and brought him peace. This baby. This house. This family. All of it—laid out for him on a silver platter. His to have, his to hold, his to love, his to lose.
All he had to do was take it. Turn around, take three steps, pull her into his arms, and say yes.
He didn’t move.
“You got what you wanted,” he said.
“I want a husband.” Her voice was harder than usual, and sharp and trembling. He turned to face her. He could be that husband. He could stay. He simply had to pull her into his arms and say yes. “A whole one. Not one who is always leaving me.”
But his feet didn’t move. His arms didn’t move. He opened his mouth to say, “I am your husband,” but what came out was, “I need to go to Birmingham.”
And he saw it then: He saw the moment he lost her.
Loving, warm, welcoming, steadfast Cassandra, who had taught him how to use his heart again, who had brought joy to his days and hope to his plans: She turned on him before his very eyes. Withdrew inside herself, pulled away.
She had felt him like lightning. He had felt her like a fire in winter.
