“Fool! Can you do nothing right? The lady is as slim as a
willow wand. All my gowns fit her to perfection. Why you cannot perform so
simple a task . . .” Muttering, she pulled the rose silk skirt
more snugly over Alyson’s hips, adjusted the stomacher to her satisfaction,
then began to pull the stiffly boned bodice tight. The modiste stared in
disbelief at the resulting gap.
“This cannot be! I took the measurements myself. There must
be some mistake. Those fools have sewn the seams too tightly.” Muttering curses
in an unknown tongue, she hastily unlaced the bodice.
A small frown formed on Alyson’s brow. Bored with the
collection of lovely gowns she had accumulated in these last weeks, she had
little concern that this latest would not be ready for the ball tonight. There
were certain to be a dozen others she could wear. But she feared the modiste
would vent her rage further on the poor cowering seamstress. She didn’t think
she would ever accustom herself to the violence in which most of the population
of this city lived.
“Perhaps the measurements could be taken again and the seams
let out accordingly,” she suggested. “It is not necessary that I wear this
tonight.”
Still frowning, but not daring to refuse the request of her
best paying customer, the modiste whipped out her measuring tape and waited
impatiently as the seamstress removed the gown and petticoats. “I know full
well I used those measurements last month to create milady’s silver gown, and
it fitted without a flaw. The problem is the worthless help one has to hire
nowadays.”
With a grudging “harrumph,” she pulled the tape around
Alyson’s bosom. “My lady is always a joy to dress. No padding or extra boning is
ever needed. The silk should lie in gentle folds like a lover’s caress . . .”
The modiste stared in horror at the measurement her tape recorded and sniffed in
disapproval.
“My lady should have informed me she was
enceinte.
The
seams could have been made wider to adjust. I will somehow contrive to arrange
it, but the gown may not be ready until late.”
Alyson’s cheeks warmed at the woman’s tone, but she was not
certain she understood her meaning. Not wishing to show her ignorance, she kept
silent, and it was with relief that she saw the pair out the door.
When they were gone, she glanced down uncertainly at her
figure, outlined in the brief silk chemise. There did seem to be a slight
rounding where there never had been one before, but she had been terribly idle
and eating a great deal too much of late. She would grow fat if she were not
careful. Even her breasts felt tight and uncomfortable beneath the scanty
covering of the loose chemise. She hoped her other gowns would still fit.
In a sudden panic, she flew to the wardrobe to draw out the
silver gown created last month. Hastily she pulled the lovely skirts over her
head, not daring to call her maid for assistance. This was something she would
have to discover for herself. She pulled the bodice down until it cupped her
breasts, and reached behind her to try to tighten the laces. It was an
impossible job even if the bodice fitted, which it didn’t. Alyson gave up in
dismay as she watched her bosom practically spilling from the décolletage.
Trying not to panic, Alyson nervously discarded the gown and
put on a new day frock created only last week. It fitted to perfection.
Examining herself in the mirror, she could see none of the telltale signs
revealed by the thin chemise. Fewer sweets and a little more exercise, she
vowed. But for the sake of reassurance, she went in search of Deirdre.
She found Rory’s aunt in the small sitting room. Deirdre
smiled and continued weaving her needle through the cloth. “Is the gown all
ready, then? The color should look magnificent on you. I can’t wait to see it.”
Alyson shrugged and picked up the book she had left there
before the modiste arrived. “There is some complication that may not be
corrected in time. I’m rather tired today. Perhaps I should stay home. Captain
Rogers will be coming for you, won’t he?”
Deirdre shot her a quick look. “You seem pale today. And
you’ve never backed out of an invitation. Is something wrong? Perhaps just a
quick visit from a physician . . .”
Alyson waved away this suggestion. “I have never needed the
services of a physician. I am fine. I don’t believe Rory plans to attend this
function, so I just thought I could beg off.” She tried to hide her frustration
at not being able to ask the question she had come to ask.
Deirdre nodded knowingly. “The two of you seldom have much
time together. You are quite right. I will give your excuses to our hostess. I
would certainly like to know what that young scamp did to bring all your
admirers into line, but they have been rather cautious lately, haven’t they?”
That was an understatement, but not one Alyson would argue
with. All the eager young men who had crowded around her in those first weeks
had depleted to a few bold ones who would squire her on the dance floor but
leave her in Deirdre’s company afterward. If she’d ever had any idea of
learning if men were capable of love, her chances had become visibly dimmer
since that last ball Rory had attended. She didn’t mind, though. She had seen
no man who could interest her in the way that Rory did.
Restlessly Alyson started for the door, book in hand. Almost
as an afterthought, she turned to ask, “What does
enceinte
mean?” She
pronounced the French carefully, hoping to convey the sound correctly.
Deirdre’s eyes widened as she looked up from her needlework.
“
Enceinte
? Who is
enceinte?”
“I would tell you if I knew what it meant,” Alyson answered
with patience. “My governess tried to teach me French, but I never saw the
purpose in learning.”
“Ah, that will not do. You will never know what people are
whispering behind your back if you do not speak French. We will hire a tutor to
teach you the phrases you should have.
Enceinte
means someone is with
child. Who? You aren’t by any chance
enceinte
, are you? I’m rather
looking forward to a baby in the house someday.”
Alyson drifted toward the door again. “Lady Douglas is
enceinte.
Perhaps I could learn just a few phrases.” She left the room without answering
Deirdre’s other question. She didn’t want to lie, she just didn’t
know.
With child. Pregnant. That was the word she remembered being
whispered in her grandfather’s kitchen when the servants thought she didn’t
hear. The way they had whispered it had made it sound like something awful
until Cook had scoffed and said that having a baby wasn’t nothing no woman hadn’t
suffered before. She had tried to listen closer, but their talk of the apparent
sinner not having monthly napkins to wash had left her bewildered at the time.
The conversation made more sense now.
Alyson shut her bedroom door and stared at the dresser with
the neatly folded linen cloths she had not needed since Charleston. She had
learned how to fashion makeshift ones from rags on that first voyage, and had
worried about doing so again on the second, but her worries had been for
naught. Her monthly courses had never come. She had assumed it had something to
do with what Rory had done to her, and she had been right. But not in the way
she had imagined.
Sinking into the nearest chair, she held her hands to her
burning face. She had suspected what they had done together could make a baby,
and Rory had as much as confirmed it. Did it happen so easily, then? Just those
nights on the ship . . . ? Her cheeks grew hotter as she
remembered how many times they had turned to each other in those nights. Their
need had seemed insatiable. And all that time Rory had known he could be
planting his child inside her.
She wanted to feel rage. She wanted to summon indignation.
She wanted to remember Rory’s betrayal and not the feel of his arms around her,
his kisses upon her face as he made her body quake with his passion. He had
tricked her, seduced her for money, and now neglected her when he had what he
wanted. The child would merely be a guarantee against annulment.
But all those cynical thoughts could not change the awe she
felt. She was going to have a baby. Rory’s baby. Her hand covered the small
rounding of her abdomen as if to test this change inside her body. She could be
wrong. It could be that something else was wrong with her, but she knew it was
not. A child was already growing and taking shape inside her, a child to whom
Rory had given his name.
Giving a sigh of relief that she did not have to bear her
mother’s shame, Alyson sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. She didn’t
know what she would do now, but she had never known before, either. Each new
day brought a different surprise. She would have to think about this one for a
while.
***
Rory tilted his chair back, took a sip of port, and eyed
his table companion with disfavor. “English politics are not for the likes of
me. I’m a simple man with simple wants. Sword fighting, I know. Playing the
courtier, I don’t.”
Samuel Johnson pushed his cane against the empty chair
between them. “You damned Scots always want to bash heads instead of use them.
Think, man! That weak-minded grandson of the king will someday inherit the
throne, and Prince Georgie Porgie does nothing without Bute’s approval. Bute is
a Scot and a lot more likely to support your cause than your English cousin’s.
It certainly can’t hurt to court his favor.”
Rory scowled. “Bute is an ass, even if he is a fellow
countryman. I don’t want to be anywhere around if he comes into power. If I can’t
buy back my estate, I’ll sail for the colonies, where George’s long hand can’t
reach so quickly.”
Johnson whacked his stick against the chair. “If your whole
damned country is stocked with fools such as you, I’ll make certain not to
visit it. What of the charges in the Admiralty, then? What of your wife, sir?
How will she fare while you starve in the colonies? And if you think Parliament
will not drain every ounce from the colonies that it can, you’re a bigger fool
than I thought.”
Rory sighed and lifted his drink again. Farnley had said
much the same thing, but it went against the grain. Once, he had been a student
of medicine with the glorious intention of saving the world from disease. He
had become a soldier by force, but he had learned to survive. Now the fates
would make a courtier of him, when all he wished to do was return home and make
a living for himself and his family.
But even the return to his home was fraught with politics.
And if there were any way of removing his cousin Drummond from his estate
without physically dragging him, it would be best to consider it. Johnson was
right. He did have a wife to consider now, for a while longer than he had
expected, it seemed.
He wondered how long it would take before Alyson quit being
noble and sought the annulment she had threatened him with once before.
Rory spent the next days managing the intricacies of
Alyson’s extensive inheritance and the nights pursuing his own goals. He had
never been a stranger to hard work, but for some reason, his work seemed
increasingly shallow.
Rory pushed himself harder, until even Deirdre looked at him
with reproach. If he had his way, he’d not be around for his aunt to frown at.
He needed to personally investigate the complaints of the tenants in Bath and
to oversee the loading of the ships in Plymouth, but the ever-present threat of
the Admiralty case kept him tied to London.
Alyson was a pale ghost who occasionally slipped by him in
the hallway. It tore his heart in two to watch her turn away at his approach,
but he felt closer to his goal than he had in years. Alyson could have no place
in those plans, even had she wanted one, which she obviously did not. She had a
life of her own now. He often saw her out on the street, laughing at some
dandy, shopping with her new friends, slipping into a bookseller’s for the
latest publications. She couldn’t have all that where he was going.
On the twenty-fifth of October, the bells of every church in
London tolled and agitated crowds streamed into the streets. Alyson was at home
when the messenger arrived at the door and the servants added their wails to
the cacophony.
She looked up in astonishment. Before she could so much as
mutter, “What on earth?” the drawing-room door burst open and the butler
intoned formally, “The king is dead, my lady. Shall I hang out the bunting?”
When Rory came home later that day, he found both Deidre and
Alyson waiting for him. He regaled them with the tale circulating the
coffeehouses—that the king had strained so hard over the pot that his heart had
burst, but he hid his elation. King George II had destroyed the Maclean home
and family. Rory did not regret the fat old man’s passing. He didn’t rejoice in
the prospect of the foolish young king either, but he had followed up on
Johnson’s stratagem of playing up to the new prince. He now had promises from
the prince’s court that meant freedom. Soon he could return to Scotland.
Another evening, Rory came home to discover Alyson in her
bedchamber, practicing the knitting that Deidre was trying to teach her. She hastily
tucked her work into the knitting bag beside her.
Jubilant that the Admiralty had dropped the charges against
him, he failed to notice what she was knitting. He had imbibed more than a pint
or two in celebration, but finding his wife sitting in the near dark sobered
him. He was a free man, able to roam as he would. He could leave England and
return home, but in so doing, he would leave his heart behind.
He had to be fair to Alyson first. He had tricked her into
this marriage, made her miserable with the kind of life he led, and hurt her
far beyond his abilities to repair. He had hoped there would be some means to
minimize the damage, but finding her in the dark only reminded him that she
belonged in happiness and sunshine. Where he was going had neither.