Without any conversation, he drove them out of the city onto the darkened highway. And all Chloe could think of were the memories of the night back in May—surely a century ago—when Roarke had been driving her away from Ivy Manor. Tonight he was driving her toward it. She shivered once, sharply.
No.
“When did you get drafted?” she asked at last, trying to sound normal.
“Over two months ago. I did my officer’s training and I’m home for a week before I ship out.”
“So soon.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement.
No. Please, no.
“I’m glad I was here when you needed me. But if I’d been gone, my father would have come for you.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away. Maybe he wouldn’t see them in the dark.
“I won’t distress you by talking about Theran.” Roarke passed a slower car. “But we—my parents and I—were saddened to hear about your loss . . . about the loss of your husband. He was a brave man.”
She thought if she said one word that she’d shatter like one of her mother’s translucent English china cups. She tried to nod, but instead stared straight ahead, quivering inside and fighting it.
“Kitty will be home from law school in a few weeks for Thanksgiving,” he continued, “I think that will make it—my shipping overseas—easier for my parents.”
Chloe nodded. Roarke overseas. Black-and-white images from war newsreels flashed in her mind. She closed her eyes. Warm tears still flowed.
“When I talked to Kitty earlier tonight—before leaving home to come get you,” Roarke went on, “she was surprised that you were leaving New York.”
Roarke said the words without any overt inflection, just a plain sentence. Still, Chloe recognized it as a question. “I didn’t tell anyone but Minnie.”
I couldn’t bear to tell Kitty. Kitty is sunshine and apples, not sad good-byes and black crepe.
“I see.” He let her sit in blessed silence for the next few miles. The Model-T’s headlamps cast a ghostly light on stark, leafless trees.
She struggled to quell the shuddering, the insecurity, the feeling of falling apart.
Then he cleared his throat. “Chloe, I thought . . . you were . . . Why have you come home?”
She mangled her pale, embroidered handkerchief. She’d been forced to tell Minnie and Madame Blanche why she was leaving. But didn’t Roarke deserve the truth, too? “I’m pregnant.” The admission was like pulling a plug.
“I see.” Again his tone was colorless. She knew this wasn’t because he didn’t care that she was pregnant and didn’t care that Theran was dead but because of his exquisite politeness. Roarke had always been that way with her—thoughtful, gentle, easing her way. In a stroke, her anguish broke through the last thin tissue of her composure. She began to cry, loudly enough for him to hear. She fought it.
I can do this. I have to.
But her calm acceptance, only a veneer, shriveled up and blew away.
Roarke made no sign that he heard her weeping. Again, it was his politeness, his natural courtesy. How did he know that she teetered on the edge of hysteria? Finally, she wiped her face with her fingertips. “I’m all right,” she lied.
“Of course you are. You aren’t weak, Chloe. Always remember that. No matter what happens, you are a capable woman and you will face whatever comes.” He claimed one of her hands and held it gently, resting on the seat, just as he had the night she’d met Theran as they drove home from the roadhouse.
Whatever comes.
She let his hand cover hers, the familiar gesture helping to calm her nerves. How could she tell him, tell anyone that Theran’s death had left her feeling stripped of her skin, defenseless and raw?
Whatever comes.
Ominous words from a man facing a war.
I’m not the only one suffering this war. I have to be strong, face whatever comes. But how?
“Roarke, I came home to have the . . . my baby. Madame Blanche wanted me to stay in New York and come back to work after the baby was born. But I don’t think I could do that. I wouldn’t want to leave my child with a nanny. I want this baby very much.” The thought of the baby—a sweet little boy with Theran’s thatch of black hair and his gray eyes that she could love—had been her only consolation, even if it had forced her to leave New York.
“Sometimes a person needs to be back home.”
Where is home for me? I want to go back to Mrs. Rascombe’s table and sit down with Minnie.
But she couldn’t burden them with this. For this, she needed family. Chloe drew in a ragged breath. “So you leave for France in a week?”
“Yes. Father says I’ll have a rough crossing. The Atlantic isn’t very friendly in winter.”
“That’s right.” Her mind dredged up memories of the world before war. “Your parents always loved to visit London and Paris.” The conversation found the mundane then. She’d known Roarke all her life. They talked of nothing and everything for the next few miles. Then, exhausted, Chloe closed her eyes and fell asleep on the front seat.
As he drove over the deserted roads and through the sleeping towns, Roarke watched her sleep. Once, twice, he touched her soft white cheek and a golden lock of her bobbed hair. She didn’t stir. Then he faced forward. He had no right to speak of love now. Would he desert Chloe forever as her husband had or would he come home safely? If he did, would Chloe ever look at him the way she’d looked at Theran Black?
It was daybreak when he finally drove up the lane to Ivy Manor. The trees were leafless and the sky was pewter. The sun lent its glow to the gloom. Even the ivy around the windows looked dejected. He parked by the front door and came around for Chloe.
She didn’t move, just sat staring at the house.
He wanted to turn around and drive toward his home and put Chloe into the care of his mother. But he had no right to. “Your parents aren’t home,” he reminded her.
She looked up at him, uncertainty pinching her lovely face. “I really appreciate you coming to get me, Roarke.” Her soft voice curled through him. “You’ll come for a visit before you leave, won’t you?”
He tightened his control. She didn’t need him showing weakness. “I’m tying up things at the bank. I hate to leave my dad right now.” He paused.
I can’t trust myself alone with you again, Chloe. You don’t need me talking to you of love and then going off to war worrying you sick.
“If I can’t come here,” he went on as if this were just any day, “my mother will have you over for dinner before I leave. She wants to see you very much. She told me to tell you that. She’ll be glad to do whatever she can for you.”
While I’m gone.
“Your mother has always been kind to me.”
He hated the beaten-down tone of Chloe’s voice, as though she had no friends, nowhere to turn. “Chloe, you can come to my mother if you need . . . anything.” He meant “need someone.” He tried but couldn’t keep the urgency from his tone. His sweet Chloe needed him and he couldn’t help her. An unusual feeling barreled through him like boiling water. He wanted to pound something into dust.
Chloe needs me and I can do nothing. This blasted war.
“I know your mother is very kind.” She let him help her out of the car.
“Will you call her if you need her?” he insisted.
Interrupting them, the door of Ivy Manor opened and Haines and Minnie’s mother, Jerusha, hurried out and down the pillared steps. “Miss Chloe! Welcome.” Grinning, Haines approached with a lift to his step. “We are sure glad to hear you comin’ home.” Haines picked up one of Chloe’s valises and waved her to precede him. Jerusha—reminding Chloe strongly of Minnie—lifted the other suitcase and waited. Chloe held back. The servants waited.
“I’ll call you later,” Roarke said, wishing she’d given him her promise to turn to his mother if need be. “Rest.”
Chloe turned and waved good-bye like a lost little girl. “Thank you again, Roarke.”
He wanted to hold her, kiss her, whisper that she mustn’t worry, that he’d take care of everything. But instead, he watched the beautiful, gentle-hearted woman he still loved disappear inside. Would the day ever come when he could let her know that he still adored her? Or would he end up like Theran and never return?
Two days later, Roarke admired Chloe as she sat at the McCaslin dining room table. The chandelier glittered above them, highlighting Chloe’s blonde hair until it looked like a fairy crown. Wind-tossed vines tapped at the French windows. Roarke tried to eat enough to show his appreciation of the delicious farewell meal Hattie, their cook, had poured her heart and soul into for his sake. But he might as well be eating army food already.
Tomorrow morning I leave for war.
But the words were gibberish.
“Chloe, honey, you certainly don’t look as if you’re expecting at all,” his mother commented not for the first time. “I would have loved to see you modeling in that Fifth Avenue shop. I surely would.”
Chloe smiled, though still looking faintly ill at ease. She didn’t look very pregnant to him, either. He surreptitiously studied Chloe’s figure and could detect no change. No, that was a lie. There was a subtle difference, a distinct rounding where there had only been a slender waist. The thought brought back unwelcome images of Theran kissing Chloe at the courthouse in New York. He imagined Theran holding Chloe . . . He closed his mind.
She chose him, not you. Why torture yourself?
“Do you think you’ll go back to New York after the baby’s born?” his mother asked.
Not if I can help it.
Roarke bit his lip, holding back objections he had no right to make.
“My dear,” his father interrupted, “
Miss Chloe
will be a mother then.”
“Well,
she
was raised by Jerusha’s mother and her grandmother, a Carlyle tradition.”
Roarke glowered at his mother.
His mother raised her eyebrows at him and adroitly changed topics. “If I’d only been born a generation later, I’d have dearly
loved
to be a model on Fifth Avenue.”
“I know you would have,” his father commented with an indulgent smile.
Roarke made himself take another bite of buttery corn bread. He savored the give and take between his parents, true opposites. His father so staid and serious, his mother so enthusiastic and playful. He’d always known he took after his steady father while Kitty was the image of their mother. He’d miss the byplay between his parents.
“Really, dear?” his mother teased. “I was pretty enough to be a model?”
Father nodded, looking proud, and smiled. “You are still pretty enough, my dear. And no doubt you’d like to have gone off to college like your daughter, too.”
Mother chuckled. “Only if you’d been attending the same college, my sweet.” She brushed his wrist in a blatantly provocative way and chuckled again.
The easy banter between Miss Estelle and Mr. Thomas, Roarke’s parents, had always intrigued and surprised Chloe. What would it have been like to be raised by parents who loved each other? Chloe rested her hand low on her abdomen, under the cover of the tablecloth.
I loved your daddy, little one, and I’ll make sure you know that.
But these brave words only left Chloe feeling unqualified, green. Once someone had told her that her father’s name, Kimball, meant “hollow vessel.” That described how she felt now.
The meal ended finally and Roarke stood up. “Chloe, I’ll drive you home now.”
Chloe jumped as if someone had pinched her hard. She’d dreaded this moment. She remembered all too clearly the night Roarke had proposed to her. Would he propose to her again? Surely not. Roarke was too kind, too understanding, to wound her so. But the worry nibbled at the corners of her mind.
By rote, she made her farewells to his parents. Mrs. McCaslin clasped her hands around Chloe’s and implored her to call if she needed “anything at all.” Mr. McCaslin seconded his wife, looking at Chloe with a compassion that almost brought her to tears. More than anything she wanted to give in to their offer, to tell them that though she didn’t want to be alone at Ivy Manor, she felt unequal to facing her parents when they returned. But she merely nodded and offered a smiling thank-you.
Roarke slipped Chloe’s black wool coat around her without touching her. He then led her to the door. “I’ll go around and get my car and pick you up in a moment.”
“No, I’ll walk with you.” She adjusted her hat. She must get away while her shaky control held. The early winter twilight was spent and full night had come. The cold wind ruffled Chloe’s bangs. Once again, she felt as though she were walking a final mile. Would this be the last time she would ever see Roarke alive? Would they say good-bye and be parted till death or the Lord came? These questions were dull knives slicing through her.
“Wait here.” At the bend where the garage loomed up, Roarke stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
Suddenly something unexpected happened inside her. She froze in mid-step. “Roarke.” The unusual sensation, one she’d had only a hint of before—stronger now, and so startling, held her immobile. Slipping her hands inside her jacket, she pressed them over her abdomen. “I think I just felt the baby kick.”
Roarke stood stock still, staring at her in the dim light cast from the house and garage light. “Does it hurt?”
She chuckled, feeling herself shake under her hands. A joyous release flowed through her. “Here.” Impulsively, she reached over, gripped his hand, and pressed it to her. The baby kicked again.
“It feels . . . It feels like bird wings,” Roarke said. “Like a baby bird flapping its wings.”
“How poetic.” Chloe couldn’t help herself; she laughed out loud. But as the baby flutter-kicked again, she felt a completely different emotion overwhelming her. In a split second, she was weeping. “Oh, Roarke, Theran will never see his baby.”
Roarke’s arms came around her, his lips pressed to her forehead. “We’ll all tell his child about him, about his bravery and his joy and exuberance. He was Kitty’s friend, too. She’ll never let Theran be forgotten.”
Chloe let the scents of wool and Roarke’s clean soap fill her head. She lifted her face, gazing up at him in the dim light. “Don’t let them kill you, Roarke. Please come home to us. You’ve been my best friend, even better than Kitty. You understand me more than she does.”