"But you really like children," Beth persisted. She seemed determined not to be consoled. "You must want some of your own."
He shifted her on his knee a little to relieve the pressure of the cane hoop of her underskirt, which was digging painfully into his ribs. It had been quite a feat to get her on his knee at all, in this ridiculous dress.
"Beth," he said firmly. "I like children, aye. I would like some of my own, I'll no' deny that. You wouldna believe me if I did. But I'll have them with you, or with no one. Dinna forget, it takes two to make a baby. If we canna have them, and I say ‘if' because we havena given it anywhere near enough time to be sure yet, then the fault is as likely to lie with me as with you. Now if ye want to go off and try wi' another man, that's up to you, but you'd better make sure I dinna catch you at it. Myself, I'll choose to stay wi' you, bairns or no'. If that's all right wi' yourself."
"Yes," she said, convinced at last. "That's all right with me."
She hugged him and clambered off his knee.
"Five years, you said. Are you sure?" Beth asked, as she reached the door.
"I'm sure. And they were trying. Ask Caroline yourself if you don't believe me."
"I believe you," she said, cheered. "I just didn't know it could take so long, that's all."
He knew it could. He also knew that most women became pregnant in their first year of marriage. He had meant every word he said to her. Nevertheless, he sent up a silent prayer that he would be allowed to have Beth and the joy of his own children too. It was greedy, he knew that, but there could be no harm in asking.
CHAPTER NINE
By the time Beth had washed away all traces of her distress and they had both changed into mourning dress it was after the accepted hour to make calls, but they were admitted by the Redburns' footman anyway and shown into the salon.
At first Beth thought she had gone blind, so great was the contrast between the afternoon sunlight outside and the darkness of the room into which they were shown. Then her eyes started to adjust, and she saw a figure rise and move to turn up the lamp. A thin yellow light dimly illuminated the three people inhabiting the room.
"Oh, how delightful to see you both, Sir Anthony, Lady Elizabeth!" gushed Lady Winter. "You have been away for such a long time." Her voice managed to hold reproach, curiosity and even a hint of genuine welcome, all at the same time.
Sir Anthony bowed, nodded his head to Lord Winter, who had also risen, and took two steps into the room.
"We have been travelling around this delightful isle, taking in its remarkable and diverse beauties, Lady Wilhelmina," he said politely before turning to Anne, who to Beth's alarm had not even stood to greet them, but remained slumped in her chair.
"My dear Anne, there are no words … " he began.
"We were just about to take our leave," announced Lord Winter, clearly intending to make a run for it whilst he could. He could not in good conscience leave his grief-stricken great-niece alone, much as he desired to. The Winters had called for ten minutes over an hour ago, expecting Charlotte to be present, and had been appalled to find Anne alone, and themselves trapped by politeness and familial obligation into indefinite attendance on the grieving widow. He saw the Peters' unexpected visit as a God-given opportunity to escape.
Lady Winter, who had been about to sit down, now stood again, wavering between taking advantage of the window of opportunity to go, and curiosity as to where the Peters' had been for three months.
"Do not let us keep you if you have an urgent appointment, my lord," said Beth. "I am sure we will meet again very soon."
"Indeed," said Lady Winter, brightening. "Now that you are back, you will of course be attending Clarissa's birthday celebrations next week. They promise to be most exciting. Dinner at their house followed by a visit to the opera, at which Mr Handel will be playing! Edward has reserved two boxes especially."
"Capital," sniffed Lord Winter without enthusiasm. "Now if you will excuse us." He sketched a bow at the company, tucked his wife's arm firmly under his own and left, as hastily as decorum would permit.
"My dear Anne," began Sir Anthony again as soon as the door had closed, moving to kneel by her side. "There are no words sufficient to express our distress on hearing the news of your tragic loss. We are distraught."
"You are very kind, Sir Anthony," said Anne in a monotone.
"It is not kindness which moves me, my dear, but concern for yourself. I am so terribly sorry." He sounded really genuine. "I cannot imagine how I would cope if anything were to happen to my dear wife. I would be beside myself." He took her limp hand in his and stroked it comfortingly.
For the first time since he had entered the room, Anne looked at him.
"Oh Sir Anthony," she breathed, her eyes filling with tears. "You cannot believe how horrible it has been." She looked down at the hand stroking hers, and a huge tear splashed onto the black silk of her dress.
"Oh God!" she wailed, throwing herself out of the chair and into his arms so unexpectedly that he almost toppled over backwards. "It was awful!" she wept into his shoulder. "Everybody has been so kind, but they keep reminding me that I am as rich as Croesus, as though that should be a consolation. I cannot bear it, I cannot!"
His arms came round her as she dissolved into a paroxysm of sobbing, and while her husband patted the bereaved woman's back and murmured words of comfort, Beth took the opportunity to turn the lamp up a little more. She looked around the room, appalled. The windows were tightly shuttered and every piece of furniture was draped in black crepe. No cheering fire burned in the grate in spite of the season, and the room was very cold. The air smelt old and stale. What was Charlotte thinking of? What were any of Anne's so-called friends thinking of, to allow her to bury herself like this?
Instinctively Beth moved towards the window, intending to open the shutters a little. Sir Anthony shook his head urgently; his stark white face was one of the few things clearly visible in the unrelieved black, and Beth abandoned her progress across the room.
After a time Anne's sobs gave way to mumbled apologies, which Sir Anthony brushed off, continuing to cradle her in his arms. I must have looked like that, thought Beth, when I came home from France and threw myself at Duncan. Poor Anne. She could not be reconciled with her husband. Beth sat down and waited for her to recover.
"I am so sorry," Anne was still saying, when the baronet finally considered her recovered enough to release her. She sat back into her chair, wiping her eyes with the tiny and useless scrap of lace which passed for a handkerchief in polite society.
"Anne," said the baronet, handing her his own more substantial handkerchief, "would you think me terribly impertinent if I were to ask for a fire to be lit? Only it is so dreadfully cold in here."
Anne started, and seemed to remember herself a little, which was what he had intended. Unused to considering her own needs, she had nevertheless been conditioned through years of sacrifice to caring for others, and now leapt into action.
"Oh, how remiss of me!" she cried, ringing the bell. "Of course. I have not thought of such things, since … and some refreshment, too. Are you hungry?"
"Yes, a little refreshment would be excellent," said Beth, who was not at all hungry but hoped that Anne would be persuaded to eat something, even if only out of politeness. She had always been thin, but seemed to have lost even more weight recently. She must hardly have eaten anything for the last three weeks.
The fire was lit, the refreshments brought, and Anne was persuaded with some difficulty to eat a small pastry.
"I do not want to sound unkind," she said, feeling a little better now she had made her guests comfortable, "but I often feel that, with the exception of Charlotte, and yourselves of course, nobody really has any understanding of what I am going through. I almost suspect that some people think I married Stanley only for his money. They seem surprised that I am not dancing with joy at the prospect of widowhood."
"I'm sure nobody would be so unkind as to think such a thing," said Beth, who was certain that was exactly what the majority of people were thinking. Lord Redburn had been over thirty years older than Anne. It would not occur to mercenary society that she might possibly have loved him. Beth wondered how long it would be before someone speculated aloud as to whether Anne had, in fact, poisoned her husband to get her hands on his wealth.
"It was quite clear to me, and I am sure to everyone else too, that you loved him dearly," Sir Anthony said.
"I did!" cried Anne. "I do! Oh what will I do without him! I do not know how I can continue living without him by my side. All the light has gone from my life!"