On
a hot mid-August morning, Marianne stood naked before the pier glass in her
chambers, appalled by the reflection that stared back at her.
The
legs were the same as always and the shoulders and neck and head. It was the
middle, the grotesquely misshapen middle, from her swollen breasts to the pumpkinlike
protuberance of her lower belly.
"Oh,
God, Jenny," she mourned, cupping her arms beneath the heavy weight.
"I fear you've miscalculated this time. By October, I'll explode."
Behind
her, Jenny scolded her for her immodesty. "Clothe yourself, Marianne. His
Lordship is waiting to walk."
"Clothe
myself! In what?" exclaimed Marianne. "There's not a bolt of cloth in
all of England large enough to cover this." Again she ran her hand over
her rounded belly, the awful weight affecting her posture, pulling her forward.
"Enough!"
Jenny snapped, clearly embarrassed. "Here, hold on to my arm." As she
held out giant bloomers, Marianne did as she was told, laboriously lifting one
leg, then the other. From the wardrobe, Jenny fetched chemise and gown, both
loose-fitting, but beautifully finished with petit-point lace and hundreds of
tiny tucks starting at her breasts and falling downward in a graceful accordion
pleat.
Marianne
had never seen them before. As Jenny fumbled with the buttons at the back of
her neck, she admired the pale pink silk so laboriously fashioned. "Did
you have a hand in this, Jenny?" she asked softly.
"
'Twas nothing," Jenny scoffed, the buttons secure, her hands smoothing,
adjusting the fall of the fabric.
Marianne
knew better. The garment represented hours of work. The private effort of love
both pleased and moved her. She turned abruptly and embraced the old woman, as
much of an embrace as her protruding stomach would allow.
"You
mustn't waste your time on such vanities," she scolded lightly.
"I
didn't view it as a waste of time," Jenny replied, clearly pleased with
herself and her work. "You have a position to maintain now."
Marianne
scoffed at that. "I'm the same as always," she said, studying her
reflection in the glass. The mirror assured her that she was not. But while the
body was inflated, she noticed that her face had taken on a cast and color that
she'd never seen before, as though she were enjoying an excess of vitality that
warmed her blood. Without tempting fate too much, she thought that she was
happier than she'd ever been in her life, surrounded by family and friends,
secure in Thomas' love. Occasionally she was at a loss to draw any connection
whatsoever between the man as she had first known him and the man she had
married.
Again
she patted her bulging stomach, admirably concealed by the tiny tucks of pink
silk. Still, by pressing her hand close to her groin, she could feel him
kicking, the Fourteenth Baron and Sixth Earl of Eden Castle, floating in her
womb, drawing nourishment from her body.
Overcome
with happiness, she gripped the edges of the pier glass with a force that
alarmed Jenny. "What is it, Marianne?" she asked sharply, moving
around, the better to see her face.
Smiling,
Marianne closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the glass.
"Nothing," she soothed. More urgently, she grasped Jenny's hand.
"The
child is well, isn't he, Jenny?"
Jenny
laughed. "The child is well, though it's a bit premature to call it a
he."
Reassured,
Marianne said confidently, "It's a he," she said, smiling. "God
would not dare send Thomas a daughter. Not at first anyway."
There
was a knock at her door, and Thomas' voice. "Are you ready? The sun will
be high and hot today. If you insist upon walking, let's do it early."
She
took a final look in the mirror. The bulge was still there in spite of the
lovely gown. But it was a precious bulge. On that note of comfort, she again
thanked Jenny for the dress and hurried as fast as her new girth would permit
to the door where, on the other side, she found Thomas, looking preoccupied but
almost sinfully handsome in his black walking coat and high black boots.
"You'll
need a shawl," he ordered, stepping back to give her passage.
"In
August, Thomas, o£ course not," she countered, taking his arm and pressing
lightly against him, their child literally between them.
Obviously
Thomas was aware of the pressure and momentarily disarmed by it. With old Jenny
still watching, he could do little but step away. "I don't know why you
insist upon walking," he scolded, escorting her to the door.
"Because
it's healthy for all of us," Marianne said. She saw the parting look of
helplessness that passed between Jenny and Thomas, then she took the lead down
the corridor, hearing Thomas call for her to wait at the top of the stairs. She
obeyed, then again took his arm for the descent.
Laboriously
she made her way down the steps, feeling his arm around her, carefully
supporting her. At the first floor, he stopped, insisting that she catch her
breath.
His
manner seemed unnecessarily sharp, something on his face which spoke of more
than concern.
"Do
our excursions so displease you, milord?" she asked.
"Not
displease," he replied, "I question the wisdom of going abroad for
your sake."
"With
you beside me, what could befall me?"
"Jenny
says the birth could be difficult."
"Then
all the more reason to gain as much strength as possible," she countered.
She saw him about to say something else, but apparently he changed his mind. He
took her arm again and escorted her down the outer steps and into the blaze of
sun of the inner courtyard.
She
noticed his subtle movements as they passed the whipping oak, placing himself
between her and the sight of it, choosing that opportunity to sternly tell her,
"—not the village today. The path is too steep. If you insist on this
madness, you'll have to content yourself with the headlands."
She
nodded, still puzzled by his peculiar behavior. She'd looked forward to the
village, but decided against arguing with him. The headlands would do nicely.
As
they approached the gate, she watched Thomas awkwardly exchange greetings with
the watchmen. He knew them all by name. Why didn't he address them by name?
Then blessedly the clanking of the twin grates prohibited all speech. Once they
were raised, he hurried her through, his head lowered, his arm again
protectively about her.
An
incredible thought occurred to her. "Milord," she asked, "do I
embarrass you?"
"Of
course not," he snapped, still moving her hastily forward as though in
protective custody.
Once
beyond the gate and the gaping eyes of the watchmen, he released her somewhat,
though he maintained a firm grip on her arm.
Still,
she felt she might have struck on something important. Perhaps he believed that
a woman in her condition was not to be seen in public To carry a child was a
temporary embarrassment. Finally she laughed, "Oh, Thomas, how ridiculous
you are. If I embarrass you, I'm sorry. But those men back there, they all have
families. They've seen a woman swell."
On
the safe level path that led to the headlands, he released her arm and walked a
step or two ahead. "You don't embarrass me, Marianne," he said almost
wearily. He stopped and confronted her. "But there's a vast difference
between their common women and you."
"Not
at all, Thomas," she said.
As
though hurt, he murmured, "You can't believe that."
"But
I do. Those common women, as you call them, received their husbands in love,
the same as I did."
Abruptly
he turned and walked on down the path, the sea wind beginning to ruffle his
hair, his head down, apparently in deep gloom.
For
the length of the headland, he walked about ten feet ahead of her saying
nothing, turning now and then to glance at her over his shoulder. She'd never
seen him so preoccupied and wondered if perhaps it wasn't something deeper,
more serious than simply being abroad with a bulging woman.
At
the exact point where the land curved to follow the channel, there was a bench,
placed there by Thomas for her enjoyment. It was to this spot that he led her,
still refusing to look directly at her. He placed her on the bench and then
moved quickly away as though he desired a distance between them.
She
was becoming alarmed by his remote manner. "Thomas, what is it?" she
asked bluntly, feeling the wind blow her words backward.
When
he failed to reply, she asked, "Do I displease you so?"
He
looked at her, a pained expression on his face. Then he was beside her, taking
her hands in his. "Not displease, Marianne. Never displeasure," he
said with apparent earnestness.
"Then
what?"
For
the first time since they'd left the castle, he smiled. Averting his eyes from
her, he appeared to gaze far out into the channel. Wearily he shook his head.
"I've suffered anxieties of late," he began.
"Over
what?"
"You."
She
looked surprised. "Why me?"
An
intense flush spread over his face. "If anything should happen—"
"Thomas,
nothing is going to happen. Nature is a grand design, almost foolproof, and I shall
be none the worse for wear. I promise you."
But
when she saw how alarmed he really was, she took his face between her hands and
kissed him lightly. "Isn't there anything I can do to reassure you?"
His
face seemed to pale. "Yes," he said.
"Then
tell me," she begged, ready to do anything to put his mind at ease.
He
hesitated, an indescribable expression on his face. "Marry me—again,"
he said.
She
stared at him. "Marry you—again?"
"Why
not?" he said, defensively. "It's not all that unusual. Renewal of
vows. It happens."
She
tried to conceal her bewilderment, which was rapidly growing into amusement.
"But, Thomas, our vows are not a year old. I shouldn't think they would
need—"
"How
can it harm?" he interrupted. He rose and left her side as though physical
movement might help express his case. A few steps away, he stopped and looked
back. "I see nothing out of order with the suggestion. Our vows, the first
ones, were made in Wiltshire. They should be made in Devon."
"Why?"
He
stammered, stopped, tried a fresh start. "Because it's fitting," he
blurted.
"Are
vows spoken in Wiltshire less binding than those spoken in Devon?"
"No,
of course not," he snapped and again turned his back on her.
Lacking
understanding, she was aware of his frustration, but helpless to do anything
about it. She looked down at her protruding belly and quietly laughed.
"I'm afraid I'd make a peculiar-appearing bride," she said.
As
though on a note of hope, he turned eagerly. "No one need see but Parson
Branscombe and the witnesses."
Pointedly
she asked, "Then even the second marriage would be a secret?"
He
said nothing.
The
wind on the headlands seemed to be increasing in force. It took their words and
their silences and blew them away, but left intact the awkward cross-purpose
through which they were presently struggling.