indications were there. Only, the doctor said it is not uncommon for women to . . .” Despite her bitterness Marguerite could feel blood rush to her face. She had never expected to have such a conversation with a man, indeed with anyone. How was she supposed to explain this to him? She tried to pretend the words were only in her head, that she was alone. “For women to miss their monthly courses when they are upset. He said that – the doctor said that in his observation it is even more common among women who are young, small, or particularly slender. I seem to fit all these criteria. He described it all as being due to hysteria. Nausea is simply another symptom of such a mindset.” Was she screaming? A deep numbness had begun to settle over the anger, moving her from it. She could still feel it, hear her voice rise in vehemence with each word – but it did not touch her. She was separate, alone.
“He, the doctor that is, asked if I had suffered some loss or faced emotional disturbance. He wanted to know if I had always been given to panic and frenzy.” Marguerite’s voice cracked.
Tristan’s hand reached out again to stroke her, calm her, but then dropped down. His eyes, normally so reflective, revealing nothing, were deep and dark. They burned with buried emotion – but what? She did not know him well enough to read the secrets buried there. Why did he not rage at her?
“What did you tell him?” His lips barely parted as he spoke the words.
“What could I say? I think I was attacked, but I don’t really remember. Or, I was being forced to marry the man I believe ravaged me. I couldn’t even explain our situation.”
“Our situation?” His voice was clipped, but still hideously calm.
“Do you not think the doctor was curious that after weeks of being married to you I was still a maid? Or that he did not wonder how given such a circumstance we could both believe I was with child?”
“I didn’t even consider –” Finally, his face flushed with color.
“Neither did I until the doctor started with his questions. He wanted to know if you could . . . If there were problems when we . . .” She still did not know what terms to use.
Tristan paled, his lips drew tight. “I had not considered such he might consider such a thing. What did you tell him?”
“I did not say anything. I avoided the question. But, is that what matters to you – how your – masculinity is perceived? We are caught tight in this dreadful situation and all you can –“
“There is nothing else to say.” Tristan stood abruptly. He began to pace about the room. “The simple fact is that I have not visited your bed, but that is no one’s business, but our own. I daresay that Dr. Howe will not inquire on the matter again.”
Marguerite swallowed. She hoped he could not hear. The rage had been seeping from her body and there was nothing left to replace it. How could they not speak about such a thing? Their whole lives had been changed in an instant and he wanted to tuck it away in a closet out of view. No matter what he might pretend, the whole world was a different place than it had been that morning – she shied away from looking any further back. Loss welled up within her and she wrapped her hands tight about her belly – her lifeless belly. She rolled away from where he paced back and forth across the room.
“I am tired now. Perhaps, it would be best if you left.”
His footsteps stopped immediately. He was silent and she imagined the words he did not say. He must feel fury, fury at her foolish mistake that had led them to this impasse.
Still, he did not speak.
She huddled deeper under the covers, her knees overhanging the far edge of the bed to which she clung.
He drew in a breath, the rasp of air ringing loud in her ears. “If it is what you want, of course I will go. I would not wish to cause you distress. Ring if you need anything further. I will not leave the house this day in case you have need.”
Still he acted the gentleman. What else had she expected? She did not hear another sound, but felt him leave. When he was gone she turned