38
After Mrs. Cradshaw left the room with Dr. Quaille in tow, Cook having prepared a light luncheon for him, Julien dragged one of the tubs of hot water into his dressing room, stripped off his bloodied clothing, bathed, and quickly dressed. He walked back into his bedchamber and looked up at the clock on the mantel, surprised that it was only early afternoon. There was no movement from the bed. She was still asleep, a healing sleep, he had assured Dr. Quaille. Reluctantly the doctor had replaced the vinaigrette in his black bag.
Julien tugged his cravat into a more or less acceptable shape, drew up a chair, and sat himself beside his wife. For perhaps the fourth time, the morning’s events made a tangled procession through his mind, violent emotions jostling against each other, so intensely destructive that he began to despair of a resolution that would bring about forgiveness.
She sighed suddenly, then buried her face in the pillow, as if loath to leave her dreamless sleep. Strangely, it was the total absence of pain that forced her to awareness. “How very odd. I’m not dead. At least I don’t think I’m dead.”
“That, Countess, I would never have allowed.” He smiled, clasping her hand in his. “How do you feel, sweetheart? Is there any pain? Do you have any more cramping in your belly?”
Her mind planted itself firmly into her body. She heard his voice— soft and gentle, that voice— felt his warm hand holding hers. “No, there’s no more pain.” The question seemed foolish to her, but she’d answered, out of habit, she supposed.
What she felt was a great soreness, as if someone had battered at her, but of course, she couldn’t speak of it. Her hand moved as if by purposeful design to her belly. It was smooth, empty. He watched her pale as she realized what had happened. He heard her voice break as she whispered, “The child?”
He squeezed her hand more tightly. “I’m so sorry, Kate. There wasn’t anything I could do. Dr. Quaille assures me that the accident hasn’t harmed you in any way, that, if you wish, we can have as many children as you desire.”
Odd, she thought, staring silently away from him, he speaks of children and yet I knew of the child for but one day. The poor wee thing, never really existing. She felt, somehow, strangely suspended in a vague present, where painful memories— ghosts, Julien had called them, and now the loss of the insignificant small being that was inside of her— didn’t quite touch her. The future, the tomorrows that must irrevocably weave themselves into the present, were mercifully clouded. She looked at her husband and turned her eyes quickly away. The past was mirrored in his eyes— wrenching pain, deception, and misery. She didn’t want to remember, to feel. She struggled to pull herself up on the pillow.
“Go easy, sweetheart, easy.”
She gasped, fear suddenly filling her eyes. There was a warm stickiness spreading between her thighs.
“What’s wrong?” He was leaning over her in an instant. “I think I’m bleeding.”
“Lie still.” Before she knew what he was about, he’d jerked back the covers. Small patches of purple stood out starkly against the white of her nightgown. He quickly slipped one hand under her hips and with the other stripped up her gown. His hands stilled. The pads of cloth had simply slipped away in her effort to pull herself up.
“Oh, no, please don’t, Julien, please.”
“Hush, don’t be embarrassed. The bleeding is natural, and nothing for you to fear. Your sudden movement dislodged the cloths, that’s all.”
She tried to draw her legs together as he straightened above her.
“Hold still now. I’m going to bathe the blood from your legs.”
“No, please don’t. I can do it, Julien, please.”
“After this morning’s events, it’s absurd that you should be embarrassed with me. Surely you wouldn’t prefer a stranger.”
She made a choking sound and lay tense and rigid as he gently bathed her. He seemed a stranger to her. All she knew were strangers; she felt alien even to herself.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, not expecting her to answer, and she didn’t. As he tucked the covers about her shoulders, he let his fingers gently brush across her pale cheeks. “Would you like to see Dr. Quaille now? He’s been cooling his heels waiting for you to wake up, but Cook did feed him. After he’s satisfied with your progress, then I’ll fetch you some lunch. All right?”
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