She began to convince herself that this was enough. The nights were enough. The fact that he still held himself back, that he kept himself scarce and largely unavailable during the day, would be fine. He didn’t need to say the words. She didn’t need to hear him profess his eternal love to her. This would work. They could even have a good life together.
Until the third morning she woke up sick to her stomach and had to face the fact that a good life with Max might not be her fate.
It had been over two weeks since that morning with him, but a sinking realization rooted inside Aurelia.
It might be too soon to know with any certainty, but she was late. Late when she was never late. And she was not the only one who noticed.
Cecily knew Aurelia’s habits as well as Aurelia herself, and she had voiced the possibility a week ago, making it nearly impossible for Aurelia to stick her head in the sand and ignore the possibility.
Aurelia swung between elation and misery. She had never overly contemplated motherhood, and following Max’s revelation that he had no intention of being a father, she had accepted that motherhood would not be in her future. And now this.
With every day that passed and no arrival of her menses, her certainty grew, squashing the denial. Apparently, Max’s preventive measures did not work. She would have to tell him eventually, but dread held her back. She would say nothing for now. Cowardly, perhaps, but she was not eager to ruin the delicate harmony between them. It would shatter the instant he learned of her condition. Besides, she could be mistaken.
“You truly think this is wise?” Cecily asked, standing to the side as Aurelia searched among the gowns in her wardrobe. “Considering your condition . . .”
Aurelia whipped through dress after dress, scarcely seeing them.
“Wisdom has naught to do with it . . . nor does my possible condition prevent me from attending a dinner party. I’m not trekking across Great Britain on some great journey, Cecily. Max said he would not be home for dinner. Why should I stay home when I could spend an evening out?”
“Possible? You are clockwork with your cycles.”
“Possible,” Aurelia repeated, pulling a dress from the armoire and glaring at her friend.
“When will you tell him?” Cecily pressed.
Her stomach twisted sickly. Tell Max? She shook her head. Tell him that he was going to be a father when the very last thing he wanted in life was to have a child? Watch as their peaceful existence crumbled to ash? No. No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not yet.
“When I know for certain,” she replied vaguely.
Cecily made a humming sound, refraining from insisting they already knew for certain. Instead, after a few moments watching Aurelia tap her lip and blindly study her assortment of slippers, she asked yet again, “You truly mean to go, then?”
“Yes. Why not? I’ve been stuck in this house long enough . . .”
“No one has forced you to stay here. And you haven’t. You’ve called on your family . . . your mother, Rosalie and Violet. Walked in the park yesterday.”
“You know what I mean. Society, Cecily.”
Out of the corner of her eye she caught Cecily shaking her head. “Even though your husband expressly told you not to go?”
“He is not the final authority on everything. Especially not on the matter of where I can and cannot go.”
If she remained in these walls, fretting about the future, about Max, the child—their child . . . she would go stark mad. She needed a diversion. And there was that part of her that chafed at Max forbidding her to go to Struan Mackenzie’s dinner party. He didn’t get to issue ultimatums and then ignore her day after day, coming to her bed only at night, effectively reminding her precisely how low her importance was in his life.