The words came from deep inside Chloe. She had never consciously thought this. But now she realized they were the honest truth. Roarke had always accepted her. He watched in easy silence and then did what he could to make life more pleasant for her. Kitty, on the other hand, always came in and turned things around to suit herself, usually upside down.
Chloe meant every word she’d said, but she worried at their effect on Roarke.
Don’t ask me to wait for you. I don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry. I loved Theran. It’s not the same, although I can’t bear to lose you either.
But Roarke said nothing, just held her in his arms. He didn’t cross the invisible line from comfort to passion. Reassured, she let his warmth surround her. The baby kicked once more before apparently falling asleep in his cozy nest. Still, Roarke and Chloe clung to each other. Finally, Roarke slowly released her. “I’ll be careful, Chloe. I’ll do what I must, but I don’t think I’m a dashing hero like Theran.”
“You’re a good man in a world of liars,” she murmured, thinking of her father and how different he was from the man standing in front of her. Roarke was steady and trustworthy. Who could trust Quentin Kimball? Not she. Certainly she didn’t know how she would be able to protect her child from him and from his squabbling with her mother. But she wouldn’t voice her concerns. That wasn’t Roarke’s battle. He’d have enough facing the Germans.
Roarke drove her home and walked her to the door. They gazed at each other. Chloe was memorizing the way he looked tonight. Was he doing the same, memorizing her?
He lifted her hand and kissed it softly. “I’ll write.”
“Please.”
The fragile moment was broken as the door behind her was flung open. “Chloe!” her father boomed. “My poor little gal came home.”
Shocked, Chloe cringed. She hadn’t expected her father to be there, and at seeing him after all this time the urge to turn tail raced through her like flame on dry grass. She took a step back.
Beside her, Roarke held her hand, tightened his grip as if saying, “Stand your ground.” “Evening, Mr. Kimball,” he said, giving Chloe a moment to compose herself.
“I hear you got drafted.” Chloe’s father rocked on the balls of his feet.
Roarke nodded. “I leave in the morning.”
Her father stretched out his hand. “Good luck, soldier.”
“Thank you, sir.” Roarke shook his hand, patted Chloe’s shoulder, and left her there, facing her father. By then she was ready for him. Roarke’s confidence in her gave her the strength she needed.
“Come in, gal.” Daddy stepped out of the doorway.
Too weary to even question his presence there, she entered, careful not to touch him as she passed. “I’m very tired, Daddy.” She didn’t know how he’d found out so quickly she was back, and she didn’t care.
“I hear from Haines you’re in an interestin’ condition.”
Chloe wouldn’t look at him.
“Didn’t know that college boy had it in him.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Daddy.”
He chuckled. “So I’m going to be a granddaddy. Well, that’s good. That’s what we need around here—some fresh blood, new life.”
Chloe couldn’t come up with a single angle for this comment. He’d lost the election and wouldn’t be the new state senator. Was her father already expecting to use his first grandchild to his advantage?
He patted her shoulder paternally. She resented it, but submitted. “I’m very fatigued, Daddy. I’m going off to bed.”
“Does your mother know you’re expectin’?”
“No, I only told the McCaslins.” She wouldn’t mention Minnie. “Roarke came and picked me up in Baltimore when I came down from New York.”
“Well, you did right, honey. At a time like this—you losing your husband in the war and expectin’ his child, you came to the right place. Your mother and I won’t hold it against you, you runnin’ away like that.”
Chloe held her tongue but it wasn’t easy.
“It was mostly her fault anyway,” he continued, “havin’ Haines burn the man’s letters when I told him he could write to you. Your runnin’ away was all your mama’s doin’ and don’t think I didn’t tell her so.”
Chloe barely listened to him working himself up to a tirade. At least at the door in front of Roarke he’d behaved better than she’d hoped. “I’m plumb tired out, Daddy. I’ve got to get upstairs to bed.”
Jerusha hurried down the hall as if on cue. “Come with me, Miss Chloe. You need to lie down and get off your feet.” Her father stepped out of the way. Even though she didn’t need to, Chloe leaned on Jerusha’s arm. She wanted to get away and keep her father out of her room. Daddy avoided sick women.
It worked. Soon Jerusha had helped Chloe undress and she’d slipped into bed. The maid started a fire in the grate at the foot of the bed. “We need to take the chill off this room. You’ll rest better.”
Chloe thanked her and closed her eyes. Her last thought was
God, keep Roarke safe and bring him home. And please take Daddy far from here tomorrow.
Her mother arrived two days later. Her father had called her at the resort in Florida to gloat about being the first to know they were expecting a grandchild. She had caught the first train home. Now she hurried into the house. “Chloe! Chloe!” she called up the stairs. “Everything will be all right now! Your mother’s here.”
Standing alone in her bedroom, Chloe opened her eyes and stared out her window. She wished she’d never left New York. “Don’t worry, little one,” she whispered to her unborn child and patted her growing abdomen. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let them make your life miserable. I won’t.” She tried to push away the fear that had been growing since her father had come home. How could she stand against them? She didn’t know how she’d find the strength. But then she remembered the moment of the first fashion showing at Madame’s.
I didn’t think I had the nerve for that either.
Her mother hurried into Chloe’s room and embraced her dramatically. “Mother’s here, my dear. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I’m doing fine, Mother. I’m eating and resting in the afternoons. Doctor Benning says the baby’s growing just fine.”
“You had the doctor here. So soon? No doubt that was your father’s—”
“I called him when I returned home. I wanted to make sure everything was going as it should.”
“Chloe, you don’t need a doctor. You need your mother.”
Her father filled the doorway. “We been doin’ just fine without a mother.”
Chloe’s mother sniffed. “You always were an unfeeling barbarian.”
He laughed out loud. “Our daughter doesn’t take after you. She takes after me. Built tough. She’ll do fine. Give me a strong grandson.”
“Oh, you know this will be a boy then?” her mother sneered.
“Please,” Chloe interrupted, “it’s time for me to take my daily walk.”
“Not in this sharp wind,” her mother objected.
“The doc said she should walk every day unless it was icy,” her father weighed in.
Chloe ignored them both and walked from the room.
I’ll protect you, little one. I won’t let them fight over you.
France, March 1918
C
old penetrated his paralyzing fog. Roarke stirred. A moan. Was it his own? He tried to focus on his jaws. Were they open? Another groan forced its way through his slack lips. He was flat on his back and he couldn’t move, not even lift a finger. Pain gnawed him with jagged, razor teeth. His eyes jerked open.
Coming through the strange, clinging mist in front of his eyes, a hand gripped his wrist. “More morphine,” a man’s voice ordered. A careless hand hauled up Roarke’s head, and pain began peeling off his skin. He groaned long, low. Dry lips stuck together as indifferent fingers opened his mouth; a liquid trickled down his throat. To stop from gagging, he swallowed. Bitter, burning. Another moan dragged itself from his lungs.
Other sounds, moaning, whimpering, then a terrifying whistling. His heart pounded. “Shells!” he yelled, but didn’t hear his voice. Were they being bombarded again? “No!” he shouted. Or was it only a whisper? His head sank back the fraction he’d managed to raise it, gasping, fighting for breath. The agony was a vise twisting him apart. “God, help me. Help me . . . die.”
“You need to make a decision, Lieutenant McCaslin,” the doctor said in his clipped English accent. He stood above Roarke by his bed. The mingled odors of disinfectant, sweat, and blood were strong. The bare, white-washed walls were lined with narrow cots. Wounded men lay like cord wood, quiet or writhing and moaning. White-garbed doctors and nurses paraded purposefully up and down the center aisle as if set apart from the pointless suffering.
Roarke looked up at the doctor. The man with thinning hair was maybe ten years his senior, but looked haggard and drawn. Well, didn’t they all? Roarke had been moved from the field hospital to a ward in an army hospital near Paris. A Red Cross nurse had told him that last night—or was it the night before? The passage of time had become irrelevant to him.
“Your elbow is badly shattered,” the physician said, his eyes on the clipboard. “I’ve removed some bone fragments and have studied your X-ray. You must decide if you want your arm set straight or crooked.”
“What?” Roarke asked. The question made no sense.
“You are not going to regain normal mobility of your right arm.” The voice was cool and perfunctory. “I can set it so that your arm will remain extended like this.” The doctor held his arm stretched taut at his side. “Or bent like this.” The doctor bent his arm at the elbow as if it were in a sling.
“Bent or straight,” Roarke repeated, still not sure of what was going on. “What happened to my face?” He finally made himself speak the words that had been on his mind.
“You were hit by shrapnel, I’m afraid. It’s healing but you’ll have permanent scarring.”
“How bad is it?”
“Not bad. Just your cheek. You didn’t lose an eye or an ear. Your nose is intact, too. Not bad at all.”
Roarke wondered if the doctor would say it was “not bad at all” if it were his own face. Over the dressing on his face, Roarke gingerly traced the furrows carved into his right cheek. He didn’t look forward to encountering a mirror.
“Well, which do you want—bent or straight?” the doctor prompted with a trace of impatience. “You’re next in line. We need to know.” The man looked down at his clipboard and waited.
Roarke tried to think, but his head was like a cotton ball. Someone across the aisle began moaning for “Rosie.” The sound made it hard for Roarke to focus. “What do you think?”
“Me?” The doctor looked into Roarke’s eyes at last. “I think I’d prefer bent. Sometimes it’s awkward not to be able to bend your arm, don’t you think?”
I think I’d like to go home with everything back to normal.
But that wasn’t what the doctor was asking. Roarke finally got it. The Englishman was telling him, “You will never be normal again.”
“Bent is fine,” Roarke muttered, not really caring either way.
I’ll never again be able to hold Chloe the way I want to.
“Very good.” The doctor turned away. “Nurse, prepare this man. We’ll set his arm in plaster now.”
Roarke closed his eyes. Then, as it had done innumerable times since he’d first awakened, the awful truth of what he’d done once again blazed through him. Lying every night on his back in the dark berth, he had seen it happening again like a newsreel in his mind. Now, he held himself still so that no sob betrayed his weakness. A bent arm and a scarred face were no less than he deserved for what he had done. He deserved to die. And how could he ever face Chloe again?
Maryland, March 1918
A
contraction gripped Chloe again, tightening her lower back. She watched the clock on her mahogany dresser tick second by second. She breathed in and tangled her hands in the sheets. Grinding her teeth, she resisted the urge to scream.
“That’s okay, honey.” Jerusha wiped her forehead with a damp cloth. “You can yell. Nobody blame you. Let it out.” The woman’s dark features expressed loving willingness to suffer through labor along with Chloe. The pain let go, but the tension hung on. Panting as if she’d been running, Chloe sank back onto the sheet, damp with her own perspiration. Jerusha’s kind hands bathed Chloe’s face with more cool water and smoothed back her bangs. The gentle touch soothed the ache in Chloe’s heart. “I wish Minnie were here,” she muttered.
“Me, too, honey. Me, too.” Jerusha patted her face dry with a crisp linen cloth.
“Did I tell you how beautiful Minnie looked in that red-satin evening gown?” Chloe whispered.
Nodding, Jerusha lifted a cup to Chloe’s lips. “Take a sip of water, honey.”
Another pain seized Chloe, raking her, twisting her. Jerusha stood by with cup in hand, watching and waiting. Her thin, aging face filled with concern. Chloe was glad Minnie’s mother was here to help her. For a second, she wished her mother was by her side as well. But only for a moment. Mother would only tell her that ladies didn’t labor to have babies, that their maids did that for them, or something else in that vein. Chloe closed her eyes and tugged, mangling the sheet on each side of her.
I’m having your baby, Theran. Our little boy will be born soon.
The pressure wrenched harder, more potent.
Jerusha dabbed her forehead with the linen. “Let it out, honey. Go ahead.”
Chloe gasped and then a groan was dragged out of her. She panted. “How long?”
“You still got a way to go, honey.” Jerusha helped her sip water. “Babies don’t come out till they’re ready.”
Gray-haired, soft-voiced Doctor Benning walked over. “I’ll check her now.”
Chloe closed her eyes, trying to block out the doctor’s hands probing her, the pain.
Chloe lay exhausted, weak, flattened. She stared at the ceiling, feeling warm blood between her legs.
“A difficult presentation,” the doctor murmured. He stood with her mother near Chloe’s bed. She heard a baby wailing, wailing. “I thought I might lose her,” the doctor continued.
Chloe closed her eyes. The pain had been more than she’d ever experienced before and had lasted a day and a night, but she’d done it. She’d brought Theran’s baby safely into this world.
Oh, Theran, I wish you were here.