He felt sick with guilt too. He should have been here. While he had been getting drunk, Rose had been losing their child. He ached when he thought of her going through that ordeal alone, and of the baby that would never be. His absence would have been nothing new to Rose. He had defined himself as a husband by his absences. She would probably have expected no more of him.
During the hours that he sat watching his wife sleep, his head pounding and his gut rolling, Gil forced himself to face some painful truths. He’d been brought to his knees by guilt, grief and self-loathing this dawn. And suddenly, it was obvious to him that all he’d managed to do since he’d brought Rose to London was make her miserable. She’d been reasonably contented at Weartham. Loved, by Harriet and her friends. He’d torn her away from all that, from everything and everyone she was familiar with.
He admitted to himself, finally and now, that he’d made the decision to bring Rose to London out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Making her leave Weartham where she knew everyone, and come to London, where she knew no one, had served little purpose for all his talk of being seen to be reconciled. But it had been a way of making her dance to his tune; of showing her he was in charge and that her deception would not go unpunished.
He’d brought Rose to London to exercise his authority over her, but he had wanted to reach an accommodation with her too; he had wanted their marriage to stand. He might not have been imagining a perfect marriage of the sort he’d once dreamed about, but he’d imagined one perfect in its way. One that let him both have Rose and hold on to all his affronted pride and resentment too. A marriage in which he was the perpetually aggrieved party.
He’d been arrogant and selfish and full of stupid pride. And he was sorry for it. He hadn’t known what it meant to be sorry—really sorry—until this moment. The regret that ate at him now was a physical pain in his chest.
At last, he saw that Rose had every right to feel as aggrieved as him. More, in fact. At last, he saw that if anyone in this room needed to seek forgiveness, it was him.
He wanted their marriage to be real—not because he wanted to bed Rose, or to keep any children she bore him under his watchful eye—but because he loved her. But now he saw that the baby had been the only glue holding them together. Without that, Rose had no reason to stay with him. Except for propriety’s sake, perhaps.
Through all this self-flagellation, Rose slept. She lay profoundly still, her skin looking waxy to Gil. At one point, he grew so worried he leaned forward to check yet again that she was breathing, holding his cupped hand over her face. Even the warm huff of her breath against his palm didn’t completely reassure him. She could have died last night, without him being here. The thought of being without her was bad enough; the thought of her existing nowhere in this world wasn’t to be borne.
Was there even the slightest chance she would want to stay with him after this? It seemed hopeless. But one thing was sure. No matter the cost to him, Rose’s future would be her choice, not his.
He must have fallen asleep in the chair eventually. He woke feeling cold, his neck stiff and sore. The fire had died away in the grate hours ago, and the room was chilly. Gil stretched, groaning, and glanced at the bed, starting when he realised Rose was awake. She half sat, half reclined on a pile of pillows, and her eyes held a bleak expression that hurt him.
“Rose,” he said and, leaning forward, took her hand. Her fingers were icy and unresisting as she turned her head to look at him.
“I take it you’ve heard,” she said, her voice remote.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I don’t know what to say. I should have been here with you.”
She stared at their loosely linked hands for a few moments before gently withdrawing hers. It was absurd to feel rejected by the small gesture, but he did.
“Can you bear to tell me what happened?”
She stared at the wall, her gaze fixed on a spot over his right shoulder. “I started bleeding,” she said listlessly. “The doctor came. He told me I was miscarrying. After that, it was an hour, maybe two.” She fell silent again.
“James came to find me.” Gil said after a pause, when it became clear she had no more to say. “He was concerned about you.”
“Was he?” Her disinterested tone made him wince. “I think I can guess where he found you,” she added, letting her gaze wander over him, and suddenly, he was very aware of his unkempt appearance. He sat up straighter, running a hand through his hair, which he could feel was standing on end in odd peaks. A heavy growth of stubble shadowed his cheeks and chin. He suspected his eyes would be bloodshot. They felt hot, and a headache pounded behind them.