the glass, stared at the amber liquid, then swallowed it down.
He stalked to the window and stared out at the view the doctor had found so entrancing. The day was as gray as his mood. As if on cue the heavens opened and another heavy downpour began.
He allowed himself to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. Then he turned for the door.
Marguerite rolled the crumbled sheet between her hands. She had cried until there were no tears left. There was no baby. It should not hurt so deeply. She had never wanted the baby. She had felt cursed that he was on the way. She had turned her whole life around for him – and now this. She dropped her hands to her sides and let her head drop back on the pillow. She wished numbness would fill her.
There was a soft knock on the door.
She turned her head away.
Another knock sounded, louder.
She clenched her eyes tight. She knew she had to face the world, but she still felt so raw. Her hand massaged the now familiar ache in belly.
She heard the door handle turn and then the soft rush of air as the door was eased open. She turned to face it.
She met her husband’s quicksilver eyes.
“I thought you were asleep. I wanted to be sure you were in no distress,” he said as he entered the room.
“No, I am awake. I could not sleep.”
“The doctor said you were resting.”
“Yes.”
“He said that you were doing well, but that . . .”
“. . . that there was no baby.” Marguerite suppressed the broken laugh that rose within her.
“Yes, he said you had lost it. I am so sorry.”
She pushed herself to sitting. Why did she feel such an invalid? There was no reason. “I did not lose the baby.”
She could feel Tristan’s glance move over her, examining. “Forgive me. I must not have heard you correctly,” he said.
“No, you heard me. I did not lose the baby.”
“But the doctor said . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I am sure the doctor said ‘there will be no baby.’ And there won’t be. But, I did not lose the baby.” Marguerite stared down at her hands. They were clenched so tight that the knuckles showed through.
“I do not understand.” Tristan walked forward and sat on the edge of the bed. It sank beneath his weight. She did not look up at him.
“I did not lose the baby, could not lose the baby, because there was no baby. There never was a baby.” If she gripped tighter could the knuckles actually pop from beneath the skin? She had ruined both their lives – for this.
“I am afraid I still do not understand.” Tristan reached out and took her hands in his, easing them open. He stroked her fingers gently.
She did not want gentleness. She tried to pull her hands back, but he held firm. She let her arms fall loose. “I do not know how to say it more simply. I was never with child. It was all the mistake of a foolish girl.”
“But, you are bleeding – surely that means . . .” She could hear the disbelief in his voice, and his fingers raked through his hair displaying his discomfort.
“Women do bleed, you know.” Did she have to sound so bitter, so destroyed? Why was he being so kind? His every soft caress cut her more deeply than a knife.
“Yes, but – how did – I mean – I was not aware that there was a difference. I mean of course there is, but how did the doctor . . . I am not making any sense.”
“Yes, you are – the question is obvious.” Defensive anger filled her. “When the doctor arrived he examined me most intimately. Apparently my womb was not enlarged as it should have been after these months. But, more than that – I am intact.”
The stroking stopped. She glanced up. Tristan’s lips were pursed, his eyes clouded. “Intact?”
She pulled her hands away, folded them neatly in front of her. “I am still a virgin.”
“A virgin?”
“There is no need to repeat it. I do not know who was more shocked among us. You, myself, or the poor doctor. He was left quite without explanation, the poor man.”
“But, how –? Why?”
Marguerite rolled away from him and stared at the wall trying to hold on to her composure. God, she was such a fool. “How did I make such a mistake? Or was it a mistake?