Authors: Susannah Merrill
Resting as comfortably as possible under the circumstances, Sarah sat in a winged chair next to the fireplace as Stewart added logs to the paltry blaze. Soon it was roaring and the heat felt good, especially on Sarah’s bare feet. Stewart stayed with her while another pain wrought its torture, and then left to get water and instruments for the birth.
As the contractions increased in frequency and strength through the night, Stewart did his best to keep Sarah comfortable. At one point, he forced her to walk the length of the room for what seemed like hours, until she was crying with both pain and frustration over his cruelty. “Say what you will,” he intoned, after she upbraided him for his coldblooded tactics, “but you’ll never see a healthy island woman taking such anguish lying down. They walk until the baby is ready to arrive.”
In fact, however, Stewart’s bravado was a two-edged blade, and both sides were cutting deeply. Sarah’s suffering was his own doing. He had taken her again and again, only vaguely cognizant of the consequences, which paled in significance to the addictive joy her body promised and fulfilled. He kept telling himself that women had babies all the time, and though Stewart had managed to participate in more than a normal man’s share of birthing experiences, he had always been completely detached.
Detachment in this case was a contrivance he could only hope for. Sarah’s pain was his, and all the worse for he could not suffer it himself, but was forced to live it vicariously in the wounded indigo eyes that pleaded for relief ... relief that he could not provide.
And the other sharper cut was that what she was going through may all be in vain. He had wracked his brain recalculating the pregnancy, but the fact remained: the baby was grossly premature. If it should survive the birth, there was very little chance it would live.
As the night wore on and Stewart alternately attended, forced or cajoled the courageous woman whose life had been so affected by his, he pondered these grievous thoughts and prayed that his worst fears would not be realized.
Though it was morning, the only real light emanated from the fire that was blazing strong yet silently in the hearth. Attracted to the flames, Sarah’s eyes moved slowly toward the light, coming to rest on a silhouette that would forever be emblazoned on her memory.
Two heads, one covered with unruly waves, the other tiny, round and smooth, were pressed together at the brows. The tiny form was serene and quiet. Peaceful. But the larger shape was shaking uncontrollably from the effect of deep, wretched sobs that were torn from lips glistening with spent tears.
Transfixed by the sight and the sharpness of the pain it wrought, Sarah closed her eyes again, hoping that the sinking blackness into which she was falling would culminate in a merciful death.
They buried her on the hill overlooking the low-slung farmhouse, in a beautifully wrought casket that Stewart had labored on for two days, stopping only to tend to Sarah’s meager needs. She had no recollection that he’d eaten or slept.
With a calmness that belied nothing – for beneath the surface was a cool, hard stone where her heart had once been – Sarah finished the gown she’d once put aside and carefully dressed the miniature form for her eternal sleep.
With uncanny determination, she denied herself any sentimental indulgence. The baby was dead, and that fact would not change no matter how perfectly formed she was, nor how beautiful her pale skin appeared, nor how angelic her tiny face looked in repose. She would neither walk, nor talk, nor grow to become the apple of her father’s eye.
She would be denied her mother’s love beyond what they had shared these six months of her existence, and she would never know that she was responsible for the only time her father had ever cried.
They named her Mary, after Stewart’s mother, and Catherine, after Sarah’s, and she was laid to rest in the drizzling rain; the same rain that had started before she was born.
CHAPTER 40
“Sarah, please,” the Duchess begged in an uncharacteristically harsh voice, her frustration at its peak, “you must eat something. You are starving yourself to death, don’t you see?”
Hollow blue eyes trained themselves on the tearful green ones, and the Duchess recoiled in horror, seeing affirmation there. “Oh my darling,” she finally cried out when she had regained her voice, “why are you doing this? Won’t you tell me? Can’t I help you? Sarah, I demand....”
“Mother, please,” Sarah replied tiredly, directing her gaze to the garden below her bedroom window. Where Stewart had first kissed her. She winced and turned back to the distraught figure hovering nearby. “I am not starving myself, Mother. I assure you.” There are much slower ways to die.
“You’ve told none of us anything that explains your behavior these past four months. I can only assume your captivity was radically more terrible than your account,” the Duchess sobbed, wringing her slender hands.
“Believe me, through clenched shadowed, sunken eyes, “I have told you everything
Mother,” Sarah answered teeth, absently rubbing her there is to know about the hijacking, and you have the letter from Captain Slade to verify the events.” By rote, she added, “I have lost Tegan and I suffered an illness on the boat. It simply takes time to regain one’s strength....”
Sarah’s mother interrupted. “That would explain your weight, perhaps, but not that look in your eyes. No, Sarah, you have changed; you are a stranger to all of us – and I will not rest until we learn its cause.” Imperious though she sounded, she was not prepared for the effect of Sarah’s icy hand grasping her forearm suddenly.
“You were not supposed to know,” the Duchess wept, “but we had to do something. Don’t you see, Sarah? We want our daughter back.”
Sarah ignored the heartfelt plea, but a creeping sense of dread forced her to pursue the other remark. “Tell me, Mother,” she ground out, her hands shaking, “what have you done?”
“Who, Mother?” Sarah implored recklessly, frightened, angry, and filled with speechless dread. “Who?”
Though she was expecting it, the name hit Sarah like a blow to the stomach. Sheer survival instincts alone allowed her voice to maintain a semblance of calm. “You are wasting your time – and Mr. Chamberlain’s – indeed if he does deign to come.”
“He’s coming, Sarah,” the Duchess uttered as a parting comment, her words bolder in direct relation to her proximity to the bedroom door. “His business relationship with your father is at stake.”
“Then you are being autocratic – and foolish,” Sarah snapped back. “Stewart has nothing to do with me. If you’d but leave me alone, I would be fine!”
But there was no rejoinder as her mother solemnly quit the room. In frustration, Sarah tore at her dull, lifeless hair, a wave of nausea threatening to overcome her. My God! her brain screamed. Haven’t I suffered enough?
“My God! Haven’t I su ffered enough?” She’d said those words once before in a fit of abject misery, and the utterance had closed, locked and barred the door against any future she might have had with Stewart Chamberlain.
Herbody,ashadowy,fadingappendageof an all but lifeless soul, was experiencing the tingling, painful rising of the deep hurt once again. Sarah dug her fingernails into her palms as she tried to stifle the awful thoughts, but this time, even the drawing of blood would not make her memory recede. “My God! Haven’t I suffered enough?”
After Mary Catherine’s simple burial, the farmhouse ceased its role as a haven for either of them. Sarah and Stewart became less than strangers; it was as though both had been struck deaf and mute. The pain was so sharp, it seemed neither could bear the risk of sharing it, and as the days wore on, Sarah felt in the deepest recesses of her heart that healing depended on her leaving ... leaving this house, this country. Leaving Stewart.
Herpresencewashiscross,andSarahloved him too much to serve as a constant reminder of a dalliance gone awry. He had never misrepresented his feelings for her; yet he was willing to fulfill his obligations when they seemed inevitable. She loved him for that, and for his strength and comfort supplied so surely whenever she had needed it – until now.
The fact that he was now so distant proved his feelings of guilt, and Sarah could not bear to see him suffer so. She had to leave, so at least he could go on with his life, and she could ... exist.
So on a day that was incongruously bright and sunny, a day that marked two weeks since Mary Catherine’s birth – and death – Sarah, with fear and trepidation, forced herself to confront Stewart with her logical, immutable plans.
She joined him for breakfast, an unusual occurrence in itself, and if he were surprised, he hid it well. Sarah, on the other hand, was visibly taken aback by his appearance. There were dark circles under his dull brown eyes; his face was gaunt. Though still handsomer than most, it was as if he’d aged before her eyes. For the first time, she noticed traces of gray in his dark, shaggy locks.
Unnerved by the sight of him she plunged into her speech before she completely lost her will. “The Kempers will be returning next week,” she spoke quietly, somewhat hoarsely, watching the wake caused by her spoon stirring the cup of tea he had brought her. “I would like to be gone before they arrive.”
Heraisedhiseyes,unleashingalookofpure anguish before they glazed over with studied indifference. “Gone?”
Steeling herself, she continued, “Their daughter-in-law will have had her baby, and I think it will be difficult for them to restrain their joy in view of ....” her voice trailed off. “And I would not want them to. It would be better if I were gone.”
“It’s too soon for you to travel,” he replied through gritted teeth, studying the plate in front of him.
“The bir ... the delivery was not traumatic,” Sarah countered. “You told me yourself that very little harm was done. I feel capable of making the journey.”
replied, his voice taking on a monotonous, stubborn tone.
persisted, detesting the need to resort to the second volley of her carefully planned argument. “The Kempers don’t know ... about us. They think the father of the child is dead – a naval officer. I care too deeply for them to bear facing up to the truth. ‘Twould be better if I were gone to avoid ....”
How could she explain that she’d made up the story for his sake as much as her own? The Kempers loved Stewart as if he were their own son. How much of their respect for him would have been lost had they known that the baby she was carrying was Stewart’s illegitimate child? She could not have done that to him, or to them. With her gone, it would be his choice whether to reveal the truth.
“I thought it best not to complicate matters,” she replied evenly. “Peggy and Jeremiah are the only ones who know, and I would prefer we leave it that way ... Not that it matters any longer ....”
Stewart was livid, and Sarah trembled, fearing that she’d unleashed all the recriminations that seemed to haunt this house. “Where will you be?” he challenged.
“I want to go home.”
Even though she had suspected that his guilt would force him to consider this option, she was shocked that he actually meant to go through with the marriage now that she’d supplied him with an exit. Her control snapped as she fought desperately against the irrational thing he was doing.
“I don’t believe you!” she cried. “Your proposal – no, damn it – your decision that we marry was because I was carrying your child. That child is dead,” she railed, tears suddenly streaming down her drawn cheeks. “And I will not be bound to you for the rest of my life as some warped form of penance you feel you owe to me – or to her – or to God himself! Let me out of your life!” she commanded in a sobbing decree. “My God, Stewart, haven’t I suffered enough?”
As soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth, Sarah knew she had burned her bridges. It was true; she had suffered. But not because of anything he had done; rather what he had not done. He had not fallen in love with her. And for that he was not to blame.
But in her own pain, she had sought to hurt him, and saw with a deep sorrow that she had succeeded. She knew he had not been immune to her suffering but it was her only means of escape, and cowardly, hurtfully, she had taken it.
The muscles in Stewart’s cheeks were vibrating with tension, and as he swallowed deeply, his eyes reddened. Then clawlike fingers raked through his thick, unkempt hair before they slid down his face as he emitted a totally defeated sigh. “We’ll leave in the morning.”
He had arranged passage for her to England immediately after their journey to Boston. She refused to stay the one night of waiting at either his home or Peggy and Jeremiah’s, insisting that he not disclose her proximity. He honored her every request without discussion, even when she asked for a hired livery to take her to the ship. There were no words left to speak between them, and she did not want to make or hear an attempt when departure was imminent.
So, in the end there were no goodbyes. But when the ship set sail, she spied him standing off to the side of a crowd of well wishers, his widebrimmed hat crushed tightly against his chest, his jaw set to the point of glacial hardness. Her heart leapt painfully at the sight of his ruffled hair and billowing coat, and she cried for nearly three days before it was possible to begin erecting the impenetrable shell that had so faithfully served her ... until today.
CHAPTER 41
“No,no no!” Sarah screamed, covering her eyes in defiance, squeezing her lids shut until droplets sprung from her sooty lashes. “I will not see him, even if King George himself commanded it!”