Perhaps she should go back to him and apologize, she thought. But no, that would doubtless make matters worse. He would think she was pitying him. She went to the pianoforte and seated herself on the bench beside Anna.
ELLEN TOOK A SEAT between Edith and Mrs. Everett, and talked with them while they drank their tea. It seemed a safe place to be. But when their cups were empty, Edith took hers and Ellen’s and crossed the room to return them to the tray. And she stayed there to talk with Dorothy. And Mrs. Everett was called away to play the pianoforte while Anna and Jennifer attempted a vocal duet.
The rest of the company were beginning to take their places at the tables for cards.
Ellen did not react fast enough. One of the empty chairs beside her was taken. And they were somewhat removed from both the pianoforte at one end of the room and the card tables at the other. Ellen clasped her hands in her lap and focused her attention on one of the tables. Lieutenant Penworth was to have Susan Jennings for a partner, and Lord Agerton had Madeline.
“Well, Ellen,” Lord Eden said quietly from beside her.
There was no reply to such a greeting, was there? Or if there was, she could not think of it. She said nothing.
“It appears you forgot to tell me something,” he said.
“My lord?” Her eyes shifted to his legs, clad in blue knee breeches, but could not lift to his face.
“You forgot to tell me that our liaison had consequences,” he said.
“You are referring to Sir Jasper’s announcement at dinner?” They were very foolish words, she knew. But she could think of no others.
“I suppose there are not many men,” he said, “who find out in just such a way that they have fathered a child. But under the circumstances I suppose I should be thankful that I found out at all. Tomorrow your secret would have been safe. Tomorrow I leave for Wiltshire.”
“My secret?” she said. “It has not been a secret, my lord. I have told a few people. I had no occasion to tell you.”
“Ah, of course,” he said. “How foolish of me to think that I am of any importance in this matter. I merely planted the seed. I am merely the father. A quite irrelevant person once the seed has been sown. It is conceited of me to feel that I should have been told.”
“I think you are under a misapprehension,” she said. “It is Charlie’s baby.”
She could feel him looking at her. She watched the card games in progress at the other side of the room.
“I see,” he said. “It was a happy coincidence, then, that after five years of marriage he finally got you with child at the last possible moment. Nothing shows yet. It must have been the last moment.”
“Yes,” she said. “A happy coincidence.”
“Happy for the Simpson family,” he said. “Very happy for Sir Jasper, who has a new grandchild to look forward to. Someone to replace the son he has lost and comfort him in his old age.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And happy for Miss Simpson, who will have a new brother or sister.”
“Yes.”
“Happy too for Mr. Phillip Simpson, who has thought himself his father’s heir since June. He must be hoping with his father that the child is male so that the family property and fortune will be restored to Charlie’s line again.” He leaned toward her suddenly. “What did you say?”
She tried again. “Yes,” she said.
“Ellen,” he said, “I never thought you a coward. I have seen proof time and time again that you are capable of extraordinary courage. Now I see you are capable of extraordinary cowardice too.”
She looked at him for the first time, her eyes flashing. “Prove it!” she said. “Prove that I am lying. Prove that the child is not Charlie’s. That I am too cowardly to admit the truth. Prove it!”
He shook his head. “I cannot do so,” he said, “and would not, even if I could. But you and I both know the truth, Ellen. You are carrying a child that is mine and yours. And it always will be ours, however much you wish it could be Charlie’s, and however much you look for signs of him in the growing child. You will be fortunate indeed if it does not have green eyes.”
“Charlie did not have green eyes,” she said, “and I do not.”
His eyes passed slowly and almost lazily over the other occupants of the room, none of whom were paying them any attention. “You know, Ellen,” he said, “you are fortunate that we are in such a public place and must pretend to be holding an amiable and quite unimportant conversation. Very fortunate. For the past hour or so, I have been in shock. I am only just beginning to feel anger.”
“You have nothing to feel angry about,” she said. “This has nothing to do with you, my lord.”
“I want to pick you up with my two hands,” he said quietly, “and shake you until your teeth rattle. I want to take you across my lap and beat you until you are too sore to sit down. Both of which acts I am saved from committing under present circumstances. And it is as well. I have never abused a woman physically and have never thought to. But I want to do you terrible violence, Ellen. And I am deadly serious despite the amiable expression I must put on for the other occupants of the room.”
“I think we have already said everything that needs to be said between us,” she said, hearing her own breathlessness, and unable to control it. “You should not be here, my lord. You said good-bye to me at your mother’s house.”
“We have not said one fraction of what needs to be said between us,” he said. “I did not know at that time, Ellen, that you have my child inside you. You had chosen to deceive me, to keep from me what every man has a right to know. We have not by any means finished speaking, you and I. And will not be until you have the courage to look into my eyes and tell me the truth so that we can discuss like rational beings what we are to do about our child.”
“My child will be well-cared-for,” she said. “By me. You need have no fear of that.”
“But this child is not yours,” he said. “It is ours. It will be well-cared-for, Ellen. By you and by me. We will jointly decide where and how it will live.”
“We will see,” she said. “I believe you will find that you will not be allowed to harass me.”
“I will take the risk,” he said. “I have a child of mine to consider.”
They sat side by side, both watching the card players, both apparently relaxed, both taut with anger and tension and awareness of each other.
“Ellen,” he said at last, very quietly, “tell me the truth. Please? I loved you for those six days, and you loved me. It was a kind of love, anyway. At the time, it was very precious to both of us. It has gone and can never be rekindled, I suppose. But there has been that between us. Tell me the truth. I will not make trouble for you with your family. You may do what you wish with regards to them. But look at me and tell me the truth.”
She felt quite incapable of either moving or opening her mouth. It would be so easy to do. And the right thing to do. It was what she wanted to do, to have part of the burden of a secret guilt removed. Even if she could not look at him. Just to say the words-It is your child, Dominic. Just to say them. It should be so easy.
She said nothing at all.
“The silent treatment, then?” he said at last. “That is all I am worth to you, Ellen? You cannot even look me in the eyes and tell me once more that I am mistaken?”
She stared straight ahead, her mind forming the words, knowing exactly what the words should be. Knowing how few and how simple they were and how much better she would feel after saying them. Knowing how the words needed to be said. Knowing that he had every right to hear them.
She said nothing.
He got abruptly to his feet. But one of the card games had come to an end without their noticing the fact. Susan Jennings had crossed the room toward them.