sensual satisfaction. She badly needed comfort.
Tears that she would not shed pricked her eyes as she stared at her husband’s beautiful, inscrutable face. She turned aside and blinked hard. Muttering something about speaking to the cook, she pushed past him and stumbled from the room. The pathetic truth was that she wanted Damian to kiss her sweetly and held out very little hope that he ever would.
And why should she even want it from a man without a heart?
The previous winter
My Lord,
I write from my bed, having been confined there at the orders of Dr. Croft. It grieves me to inform you that I am no longer with child. The doctor thought I was doing well, and approaching the fourth month when one can be more sanguine of a happy conclusion. Three days ago the pains began. I will spare you the details of the event. Unpleasant as it was, the body is healed far sooner than the spirits. I find myself oppressed with grief that I will never know our child. I am sorry, my lord, that there will be no heir awaiting your return. It is perhaps as well that I did not inform my uncle of my condition for his disappointment would be as great as yours. Of course, the child could have been a daughter.
We do not know each other well, my lord, so perhaps I should spare you my grief. Yet we joined in creating the possibility of a child, and for all I know you may feel the loss as strongly as I do.
Cynthia sealed the letter quickly, before she could regret writing to Windermere with such frankness. She had never done so before, her dutiful—and ever less frequent letters—being concerned strictly with practical matters. But her overwhelming emotions in the present case had to be shared and there was no one else. Was her husband not the most proper recipient of her confidence? She could not speak of it to the servants, or to the young woman who came twice a week to the house to speak French. And certainly not to the shopkeepers of London.
The prospect of motherhood had given meaning to a life that was almost entirely devoid of social interactions. Apart from the physical pain of the miscarriage, the infant’s loss engulfed her spirits. She was moping in the drawing room two weeks later when a caller was announced.
She accepted the visiting card that her butler proffered on a tray. The name meant nothing. “Do you know this Mrs. Robert Townsend, Ellis?”
“There was a Mr. Townsend who attended Oxford with His Lordship.”
That was good enough for Cynthia. One real acquaintance in London was one more than she currently possessed. For the first time in weeks she felt a glimmer of interest in life and a greater curiosity when a short, slender young woman bounced through the door, bringing an air of energy that brightened the dull February day.
“Lady Windermere?” she said, darting forward. Cynthia had risen to curtsey but her visitor forestalled the formality by seizing both her hands and giving them a comforting squeeze. “I am so very sorry to hear of your illness. I would have come earlier but my housekeeper was in the country visiting her sister, and you know how it is. One hears nothing when the servants are away.”
“Indeed,” Cynthia said faintly.
“It’s a while since I saw Damian, but when I heard that his wife was alone and suffering, I had to come. It is too bad of him to have left you alone.”
It took a moment or two for Cynthia to realize that by Damian, the visitor meant her husband. She knew his Christian name, of course. She’d seen it in the settlement documents she’d signed prior to the marriage. It would never have occurred to her to address him by it, and she couldn’t imagine anyone else doing so either. What was the relationship between Windermere and this young woman? This very pretty young woman.
Her bewilderment must have shown. “What a goose I am. We haven’t even been introduced. I am Caroline Townsend but you must call me Caro. My late husband, Robert, was one of Damian’s closest
Tears that she would not shed pricked her eyes as she stared at her husband’s beautiful, inscrutable face. She turned aside and blinked hard. Muttering something about speaking to the cook, she pushed past him and stumbled from the room. The pathetic truth was that she wanted Damian to kiss her sweetly and held out very little hope that he ever would.
And why should she even want it from a man without a heart?
The previous winter
My Lord,
I write from my bed, having been confined there at the orders of Dr. Croft. It grieves me to inform you that I am no longer with child. The doctor thought I was doing well, and approaching the fourth month when one can be more sanguine of a happy conclusion. Three days ago the pains began. I will spare you the details of the event. Unpleasant as it was, the body is healed far sooner than the spirits. I find myself oppressed with grief that I will never know our child. I am sorry, my lord, that there will be no heir awaiting your return. It is perhaps as well that I did not inform my uncle of my condition for his disappointment would be as great as yours. Of course, the child could have been a daughter.
We do not know each other well, my lord, so perhaps I should spare you my grief. Yet we joined in creating the possibility of a child, and for all I know you may feel the loss as strongly as I do.
Cynthia sealed the letter quickly, before she could regret writing to Windermere with such frankness. She had never done so before, her dutiful—and ever less frequent letters—being concerned strictly with practical matters. But her overwhelming emotions in the present case had to be shared and there was no one else. Was her husband not the most proper recipient of her confidence? She could not speak of it to the servants, or to the young woman who came twice a week to the house to speak French. And certainly not to the shopkeepers of London.
The prospect of motherhood had given meaning to a life that was almost entirely devoid of social interactions. Apart from the physical pain of the miscarriage, the infant’s loss engulfed her spirits. She was moping in the drawing room two weeks later when a caller was announced.
She accepted the visiting card that her butler proffered on a tray. The name meant nothing. “Do you know this Mrs. Robert Townsend, Ellis?”
“There was a Mr. Townsend who attended Oxford with His Lordship.”
That was good enough for Cynthia. One real acquaintance in London was one more than she currently possessed. For the first time in weeks she felt a glimmer of interest in life and a greater curiosity when a short, slender young woman bounced through the door, bringing an air of energy that brightened the dull February day.
“Lady Windermere?” she said, darting forward. Cynthia had risen to curtsey but her visitor forestalled the formality by seizing both her hands and giving them a comforting squeeze. “I am so very sorry to hear of your illness. I would have come earlier but my housekeeper was in the country visiting her sister, and you know how it is. One hears nothing when the servants are away.”
“Indeed,” Cynthia said faintly.
“It’s a while since I saw Damian, but when I heard that his wife was alone and suffering, I had to come. It is too bad of him to have left you alone.”
It took a moment or two for Cynthia to realize that by Damian, the visitor meant her husband. She knew his Christian name, of course. She’d seen it in the settlement documents she’d signed prior to the marriage. It would never have occurred to her to address him by it, and she couldn’t imagine anyone else doing so either. What was the relationship between Windermere and this young woman? This very pretty young woman.
Her bewilderment must have shown. “What a goose I am. We haven’t even been introduced. I am Caroline Townsend but you must call me Caro. My late husband, Robert, was one of Damian’s closest
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