Widow in White

Chapter Twenty-Four: Fondness Despite

The past was better not thought of, not at all, but that night, Laura spent many waking, fretful minutes thinking of it. She was angered more than she was saddened, until the moment when she was so crushed by sadness she could hardly breathe, and all that could lift her out of it was the burning anger inside her once more.

She would never have a child. She would never marry again. All she had was that poor dead thing that had come out of her, and the ghost of the husband who had turned upon her for it. That a woman like Elizabeth existed in the world — a woman who had children and could leave them, ill and hurting, without a backward glance — hurt her. It wasn't fair. That Richard, a man who would surely have been a good father, could not have children, that he could not give her a child, hurt her more. In the depths of her grief, she wished for all that could not be. And after dropping into a restless sleep shortly before dawn, woke to the double mortification of blood on her sheets and between her legs.

The fit was over by then, however. Laura was now less angry and hurt than embarrassed. She had allowed Elizabeth to get the best of her, and worse, had been unjust and cruel to Richard, who was everything good and never deserved it.

She cleaned herself up and went for a long walk around the garden to avoid seeing either of them that morning, but when she returned and slipped late into the breakfast parlour, she was dismayed to find that they were both still there. It seemed they were waiting for her: Richard still drank coffee, but the cold remains of their meals lay on the plates in front of them. As she came in, Richard stood for her and held out her chair. There was something stiff and hurt about his expression. Laura's smile of thanks wilted beneath it.

"Elizabeth," Richard said warningly as he sat down again.

Elizabeth looked briefly up from the egg-shells on her plate but said nothing. Richard's mouth tightened, and Laura had the faint relief of realizing that at least some of his disappointment was not for her alone. She got herself some cold, dry toast and spread butter on it mechanically. Richard resumed his coffee. Then Elizabeth said abruptly,

"I'm sorry for what I said last night."

Laura stared at her toast. The pain came dully back to her and she felt momentarily sick with sorrow. Then she realized, by Elizabeth's jerking, nervous movements further down the table that she was supposed to reply, and said, with effort,

"I'm sorry too." Laura didn't think she really was, but she wanted nothing more than for this moment to be over. "I said some things that were... wrong."

Perhaps neither of them really meant it, but Laura wearily hoped it signified a truce. Sparring with Elizabeth alone she might savagely enjoy, but bringing Richard into it was only going to hurt his feelings — they'd been hurt enough already.

Elizabeth seemed to think it was over at least. She collected her cutlery neatly on her plate and stood up. But at the door she stopped and turned back.

"There's something I must say. To both of you."

Richard sighed over his coffee. "Then please do."

Elizabeth straightened her skirts. "I am praying," she said severely, "praying every night that there will be no child out of this. You've no right, either of you, to bring a child into this mess. That's all."

A hot flush spread over Laura's cheeks. Richard's mouth opened and then shut.

"That's not something you need to worry about," he said at last.

"It's for you two to worry," Elizabeth said, sweeping from the room.

The door shut behind her, and the room was momentarily silent.