to everything he himself had done that had forced Tom from her life.
“I’ll be here for you,” he promised instead, hoping that was enough. “And the child.”
Her fingers stiffened in his. “How do you . . .”
“I’m a doctor, Elizabeth. It’s my job to know. But I promise that I’ll raise this child as my own if you stay with me. It’ll never want for anything, and it’ll never doubt my love.” He took the ring that had never once left his pocket since the day of their picnic and held it out for her. Tom was gone and she was having a child; what other choice did she have? This time she placed it on her finger.
* * *
They were married within the month. James wanted to order her a dress from France, and when she refused he insisted on a trip to London at the very least, but Elizabeth said she didn’t want to waste time waiting, which helped settle any lingering concerns. Mrs. Clements stitched a fine example of an elegant tea dress and underneath fashioned net curtains to give the skirt volume to cover up the burgeoning bump. Elizabeth had insisted on no invitations or reception, but word had gotten out and still a fair number of people turned up from the village. Elizabeth suspected that it had all been planned.
That night, when they found themselves alone, they retired to their separate bedrooms. But once James was asleep, Elizabeth left the house and walked to the lookout, cut down to the rocks, carrying her simple posy of white roses and cream ribbons in a tightly clenched fist. Spray brushed her face as she stood on the edge of the rock from which she had fallen only three months before, listening to the power of the sea. It had claimed her mother, in many ways her father, and now Tom. She wouldn’t let it claim her too. The posy broke apart as she tossed it into the water, sent it crashing against the rocks. It was the only way she could tell Tom, and herself, that it was done.
* * *
James knew that she had married him out of a sense of duty, to both her father and her unborn child. But he told himself he didn’t care and tried his best to maintain the visage of a contented newlywed. As for Elizabeth, she had found the juxtaposition of her feelings and her outward persona a difficult beast to tame. The idea of consummating the marriage loomed over her, because as kind and generous as James was with his patience, that, just like her time with Tom, would eventually expire. And so, one night in the second month of marriage, she ventured to his room and slipped under the sheets. He started to speak, but she placed a cold finger against his lips, followed by a kiss. She knew roughly what to expect, and James was a gentleman, but that was also half the problem. Making love to Tom had felt natural, with no hesitations or shaky, diffident touches. He hadn’t questioned himself or what Elizabeth had wanted. Poor James knew her mind was elsewhere, and he spent most of the time trying not to make the experience any more unpleasant than he felt it must have been for her, especially what with her growing bump. Afterward they slept beside each other, but that was the extent of their connection, tangled roots but still not part of the same tree.
Things would have perhaps remained that way if she hadn’t found him alone one night, crying in her father’s study. Surprised he didn’t try to conceal his tears, she took a seat on the desk alongside him. It was an unexpected comfort to witness his unabashed emotion, because it meant he was nothing like her father, whom since the day he’d left she never allowed to enter her thoughts.
“What’s the matter?” she asked as she handed James a handkerchief. He blew his nose then wiped his eyes, reddened from tears and dark with grief.
“I am wondering if it’s going to be like this forever,” James asked. Nervous fingers busied at a pot of pens. “If this is all we will ever have, or if you will ever find it in your heart to give me a chance to be your husband.”
His efforts had been admirable: always a kind word; a gentle touch; home on time, and often with gifts. She spurned them at first, didn’t want to betray