Hetherington raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
"Papa did not tell you, then, that he had told me an untruth?" Elizabeth asked, and when John looked inquiringly at her, she added, "There was no divorce, John."
Her brother clenched his fists and glared with hostility at his brother-in-law. "Come inside," he said, taking Elizabeth's arm. "Louise is with Jeremy. I will not permit her to sit with him at night because she is not strong. I fear what this will do to her and the unborn child. Come, shall have some luncheon prepared for you."
"Is there anything I can do?" Elizabeth asked.
"After you have eaten and rested," he said firmly. "You have had a long journey, and by curricle, too." He led them into the house and straight to the dining room. What are your plans, Hetherington?" he asked. "Are you going to start back today?"
"No," Hetherington answered steadily. "I shall stay to offer Elizabeth my support as long as there is a crisis in the family. And thank you for the invitation, Rossiter."
---
Elizabeth was indeed thankful to shut the door of her old bedroom behind her, to slip off her dress, and to lie down on top of the bedcovers. After luncheon, which had been a strained occasion, Hetherington had disappeared and John had taken her up to the nursery where Jeremy lay, a flushed and pathetic little bundle lying in his cradle. He had been like this for three days, John explained in a whisper, hot, dry, and delirious. His face had lost some of its baby chubbiness. His blond hair had been clipped very short.
Seeing her sister-in-law, Louise tiptoed out of the room, leaving the nurse to watch her baby.
"Elizabeth, how good of you to come," she said. "You must have come on wings."
"Not quite," Elizabeth replied, "but I left immediately after I read John's letter. I shall help you watch, Louise. You must force yourself to rest. And John, too, looks as if he is sleeping on his feet."
"He has been up for four nights," Louise said, "and will hardly sleep in the daytime."
"Then it is settled that I shall sit with Jeremy tonight," Elizabeth said firmly.
Soon she let Louise go back into the nursery and persuaded John to retire to his room for a rest. Only then did she go to her own room.
But she could not sleep. She kept seeing the baby clinging restlessly and feverishly to life. And she kept seeing the strain and exhaustion on the faces of her brother and sister-in-law. It was bad enough for her to contemplate the death of a nephew whom she had seen only once before today. How must it feel for them, who had given him life and cuddled and watched him daily grow into an energetic toddler? It would be like losing part of one's own life. There had been a span of a few weeks once when she had hoped and hoped that she was with child. She had been so full of pain and emptiness in the loss of her husband. She had wished painfully for his child so that something of their two days together would survive. When she knew for certain that it was not so, she had felt almost as if she had lost a child. But that had been trivial-nonsense, in fact-when compared to the very real experience that John and Louise were going through.
She tried to block out thought and will herself to sleep. She could help John and his family best, not by worrying about them, but by maintaining her own strength so that she could relieve them of some of the burden of watching. But thoughts of the night before intruded, and she could not shake them off. She tried desperately to remember that dream. Usually she woke up in the middle of it and could recall vividly what had happened. But on this occasion she had not woken up. What had she said? She hoped nothing that would be humiliating. But no. He had said this morning that she had been dreaming about Jeremy. Whatever she had said had been ambiguous enough for him to misunderstand.
What had he said to her? She wished that she could remember. He said she thought he was John. What usually happened when John was part of the dream? He always talked to her, held her, soothed her. That was what must have happened. Hetherington had taken her into his arms and she had thought he was John. She must have felt very comforted to have let go of the dream without waking up. She recalled how very comfortable she had been when she woke up that morning. It had felt so good, so right, to be lying relaxed in Hetherington's arms.
She could not recapture her fury of the morning. The experience was one pleasant little memory to cling to. She turned over onto her side, eyes closed, and tried to recapture the feeling she had had that morning. She inhaled, trying to imagine the distinctive scent of his cologne. A tear escaped from her closed eyelids.
His father could not have found a more effective way of breaking up his son's unwelcome romance. After that second night of love, they had had one glorious morning left. Not knowing how soon fate was to separate them, they had eaten a leisurely breakfast, strolled along the beach, and wandered back to the house for luncheon. They had reached their room afterward. Robert was going to make love to her again before they went riding along the cliffs. He had already helped her undo the long row of tiny buttons down the back of her dress. He had removed his neckcloth and was unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, gazing through the window as he did so.
"There is someone riding toward the house," he had said. "In a hurry, too."
She had rushed to his side. They had been expecting someone. Both had written to their fathers after the wedding ceremony to inform them of the fact and to tell where they were. They had guessed that today or tomorrow would bring some message.
Robert had smiled ruefully across at her as he rebuttoned the cuff that he had just undone. "I could have wished him to have better timing, whoever he is," he had said. "Turn around, love, and let me tackle those buttons again."
He had trailed kisses up her spine as he closed the opening of her dress. Then he had turned her to him again and drawn her close. "If it is someone from your father," he had said, "do not be afraid. I am your husband now. He has no power over you."
She had smiled rather tensely and they had descended the staircase together, hand in hand. The messenger had been directed to a downstairs salon. Robert had recognized him immediately as his uncle's head groom. The man, still disheveled and covered with dust, had handed Robert a letter and regarded him uneasily.
After sending the man to the kitchen for refreshments, Robert had opened the letter and read, while Elizabeth watched him anxiously. He had stopped reading and folded the letter very deliberately.
"What is it?" Elizabeth had asked anxiously.
It took him a while to answer. "My father and my brother have been killed," he had said.
"Oh! How?"
"In some absurd and freak boating accident at a regatta," he had replied.
She had grabbed his arm as his face turned pale.
"I shall have to leave for London immediately," he had said.
"Yes, yes," she had agreed. "I shall pack and order out the traveling carriage."
"No!" he had said sharply. "I must go alone, Elizabeth, It is imperative that I get there as quickly as possible. I must ride."
"I can come with you," she had protested.
"No, love. You know you do not ride well. If you are with me, I shall feel obliged to stop for meals and for sleep. Please believe me, darling, it will break my heart in two to leave you here. But I cannot take you. I must go quickly. Please understand."
Agonized blue eyes searched hers. She felt cold, almost faint. "Yes, you are right," she had whispered.
"I shall write to Gram before I leave," he had said. "She will be back here with you by tonight or tomorrow at the latest. In the meantime, you will be quite safe with Mrs. Cummings. It will be a comfort to me to know that."
He had left the room then, spoken briefly with the butler, and taken the stairs three at a time. She had trailed him numbly and packed a small bag for him while he changed his clothes and wrote to his grandmother. His horse was waiting for him, ready saddled, when they came downstairs together.