In March, a year after they had moved to New York, Kate felt unwell. David persuaded her to see a doctor.
“His name is John Harley. He’s a young doctor with a good reputation.”
Reluctantly, Kate went to see him. John Harley was a thin, serious-looking young Bostonian about twenty-six, five years younger than Kate.
“I warn you,” Kate informed him, “I don’t have time to be sick.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Mrs. Blackwell. Meanwhile, let’s have a look at you.”
Dr. Harley examined her, made some tests and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’ll have the results in a day or two. Give me a call on Wednesday.”
Early Wednesday morning Kate telephoned Dr. Harley. “I have good news for you, Mrs. Blackwell,” he said cheerfully. “You’re going to have a baby.”
It was one of the most exciting moments of Kate’s life. She could not wait to tell David.
She had never seen David so thrilled. He scooped her up in his strong arms and said, “It’s going to be a girl, and she’ll look exactly like you.” He was thinking, This is exactly what Kate needs. Now she’ll stay home more. She’ll be more of a wife.
And Kate was thinking, It will be a boy. One day he’ll take over Kruger-Brent.
As the time for the birth of the baby drew nearer, Kate worked shorter hours, but she still went to the office every day.
“Forget about the business and relax,” David advised her.
What he did not understand was that the business was Kate’s relaxation.
The baby was due in December. “I’ll try for the twenty-fifth,” Kate promised David. “He’ll be our Christmas present.”
It’s going to be a perfect Christmas, Kate thought. She was head of a great conglomerate, she was married to the man she loved and she was going to have his baby. If there was irony in the order of her priorities, Kate was not aware of it.
Her body had grown large and clumsy, and it was getting more and more difficult for Kate to go to the office, but whenever David or Brad Rogers suggested she stay home, her answer was, “My brain is still working.” Two months before the baby was due, David was in South Africa on an inspection tour of the mine at Pniel. He was scheduled to return to New York the following week.
Kate was at her desk when Brad Rogers walked in unannounced. She looked at the grim expression on his face and said, “We lost the Shannon deal!”
“No. I—Kate, I just got word. There’s been an accident. A mine explosion.”
She felt a sharp pang. “Where? Was it bad? Was anyone killed?”
Brad took a deep breath. “Half a dozen. Kate—David was with them.”
The words seemed to fill the room and reverberate against the paneled walls, growing louder and louder, until it was a screaming in her ears, a Niagara of sound that was drowning her, and she felt herself being sucked into its center, deeper and deeper, until she could no longer breathe.
And everything became dark and silent.
The baby was born one hour later, two months premature. Kate named him Anthony James Blackwell, after David’s father. I’ll love you, my son, for me, and I’ll love you for your father.
One month later the new Fifth Avenue mansion was ready, and Kate and the baby and a staff of servants moved into it. Two castles in Italy had been stripped to furnish the house. It was a showplace, with elaborately carved sixteenth-century Italian walnut furniture and rose-marble floors bordered with sienna-red marble. The paneled library boasted a magnificent eighteenth-century fireplace over which hung a rare Holbein. There was a trophy room with David’s gun collection, and an art gallery that Kate filled with Rembrandts and Vermeers and Velázquezes and Bellinis. There was a ballroom and a sun room and a formal dining room and a nursery next to Kate’s room, and uncounted bedrooms. In the large formal gardens were statues by Rodin, Augustus Saint-Gaudens and Maillol. It was a palace fit for a king. And the king is growing up in it, Kate thought happily.