"Secrets of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

CHAPTER 7

IF SARAH had expected the next few days to be quiet ones, she was soon to be disillusioned. The doctor called at Brock Street less than an hour after Captain Penny had volunteered to ride to summon him. He bathed the cut knee and bandaged it, and he poked and prodded at her ankle until she had to bite her bottom lip to prevent herself from screaming out loud. It was sprained, he gave as his verdict. She must keep it from the ground for at least two days, at which time he would call again to see if the swelling had gone down at all.

It was strange to feel relief at such a painful injury. But that is exactly what Sarah felt. It gave her the excuse she needed to avoid accompanying Lady Murdoch around Bath. It gave her a relatively easy way of obeying her former husband's instructions. It was not a total answer to her problems, of course. If she were lucky and the swelling in her ankle persisted, she could hope to remain at home for a week at the outside. Once she was fit again, it would be hard to refuse to go out. Lady Murdoch was so kind, and so anxious to give her all the opportunities to mingle with society that she would wish for her own daughter. It was hard to disappoint such kindness.

Lady Murdoch was determined to stay at home during the evening following the accident. She even offered to read to Sarah from the same book that had put her to sleep the previous day. But Sarah knew that Lady Cavendish had invited them both to join her party at the theater, and she pressed her cousin not to forgo the outing on her account.

"Indeed, ma'am," she said with utter truth, "I shall not mind at all being alone. I shall almost welcome some solitude after the busy days we have enjoyed so far."

"Well," Lady Murdoch said doubtfully, "I would gladly give up my own pleasure for the sake of keeping you company, cousin. Not but what the company of an old woman like myself is a trifle dull for a young person, of course. How can a young lady like you enjoy listening to me talk about my indigestion and my migraines? Though as for that, the waters have been doing me so much good that I have not felt above one twinge in my stomach all day, and I have not had a single headache in a week. For which, my dear, I should touch wood and hope for it to continue so that I do not have to hold you back from enjoying yourself once your ankle has healed. Are you sure you will not mind if I go to the theater?"

Sarah smiled. "The draft the doctor gave me has made me quite drowsy, ma'am," she said, "and has eased the throbbing in my foot. I should not be surprised if I am fast asleep in a half-hour's time. And then you would have wasted your evening on an insensible audience."

"And my prattling might keep you awake," Lady Murdoch agreed. "Not but what it might put you to sleep, too. I know I do prattle on just too long sometimes."

A half-hour later, Cranwell's carriage came for Lady Murdoch and she left, still apologizing and justifying her decision to go out and leave Sarah alone.

Sarah put her head back against the cushions of the sofa on which she reclined, her foot stretched out in front of her and elevated on another cushion. She closed her eyes and smiled. Lady Murdoch really was a dear. For all her loudness and preoccupation with her own health, and for all her tendency to talk a great deal about nothing, she had one of the kindest hearts Sarah had ever encountered. She spoke and behaved constantly as if it were Sarah who had conveyed the great favor in coming to live with her.

She really had not deserved to find such a haven. She did not feel as if she had ever quite atoned for the great sin she had committed. Probably she never could atone for it. The Reverend Clarence had assured her that she was forgiven and that she must look to the present and future instead of dwelling on a past that could not be altered. She had been comforted by such advice, and for a few years she had started life again and gained some satisfaction from the works of charity she had been able to perform under the direction of the vicar and his wife.

But now that life seemed unreal. How could she have convinced herself that the past no longer mattered? It mattered a great deal when she saw George. It remained indelibly with her when she saw Winston. Her sin was still with her. She was still a woman who had allowed her virtue to be taken, whatever her motive had been, and she was still a woman who had had the weakness of character to keep the truth about herself from the man she had married. She was still someone who would be shunned with revulsion if the truth of her identity became known. And it could become known at any moment. At any time she might find out what it was like to be looked upon by many people as a scarlet woman.

She had married George, as planned, in the village church, with only Uncle Randolph and Aunt Myrtle as witnesses. But she had not craved crowds. She wanted only George and the air of unreality that had surrounded her and him since she had agreed to marry him. He looked very splendid in white satin knee breeches, waistcoat and shirt, pale blue brocaded silk coat. He looked every inch the aristocrat, not tall or obviously handsome like Winston, but elegant and very attractive in that way she had never been able to define.

They returned to dine with her uncle and aunt before leaving on their wedding journey to the south coast and the Continent. They sat on the seat of the carriage opposite the older couple, and George drew her arm through his and conversed with her uncle and aunt. Even then, only minutes after they had become husband and wife, he was meticulously correct in his behavior. She could feel the tight muscles of his arm holding hers against his side, but he would not show any more open sign of affection, which might perhaps have embarrassed her uncle and aunt.

Sarah was so happy that her feelings would not show themselves at all. She sat serious and almost dumb beside her husband throughout the journey and the luncheon that followed it, but she knew from the looks that George gave her, looks with fire smoldering somewhere below the surface, that her heart must be in her own eyes too. Even then she believed that the jewel of their love was hers to keep forever.

Aunt Myrtle jolted her back to reality. She followed Sarah to her room when the latter retired there to change into her lavender traveling clothes, half-mourning in deference to Graham. She waited until the maid had finished dressing her and touching up Sarah's hair. But as soon as the maid left the room, Aunt Myrtle smiled at her and began very gently to prepare her for what she might expect in the night ahead. And suddenly it was there in the forefront of Sarah's mind again. the deception that she was perpetrating. She had married George a few hours before, and she had still not told him.

Was it too late? she wondered. Would he somehow forgive her if she told him now, before they even left on their wedding journey? If she withheld the truth from him, would he know it for himself that night? There was the merest chance that he would not. Perhaps he had not had a great deal to do with women himself. Yet even as the thought flashed into her mind, she despised herself for wanting to continue the deception. Somehow, before night came, she would have to tell him. Oh, why had she not done so the day before, a few weeks before? It would have been so much easier then, before they were linked by any legal and spiritual ties.

They were to spend the night at an inn that George knew, and which he considered suitable accommodation for his bride. She was very quiet on the journey. They were traveling in his well-sprung traveling coach, his coat of arms on the door. She reminded herself with mingled wonder and panic that she was now the Duchess of Cranwell. Her husband moved closer to her on the seat and took her hand in his.

"Nothing to say, love?" he asked her gently. "Are you afraid?"

"Yes. Very," she said.

But he did not comprehend her meaning, of course. He put one arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. "You need not be, you know," he said. "I am not a monster, Sarah, and I love you very dearly. You love me too, do you not?"

She nodded, buried her face against his shoulder, and started to cry.

"Sarah!" he said in some distress. "What is this? Are you so very frightened? And is it tonight that is causing your terror? You may rest easy, my love. I would not force you. If you would prefer that we be merely friends still until you become more accustomed to me, I shall be patient. I want it to be a good experience when we finally come together."

She moaned against his shoulder. "George.she said. "George?"

"Yes, what is it, love?" he asked, shrugging his shoulder so that he could look into her tearstained face.

She was going to tell him. She would have told him if he had not looked at her. But his face was so full of tenderness and gentleness that she could not bear to watch its expression change.

"Nothing," she said. "I am just being a silly goose." She reached for her reticule and fumbled around in it for a handkerchief.

"Here, use mine," he said. And he took her into his arms again while she dried her eyes and blew her nose. And he kissed her reddened eyes very gently one at a time, her nose and her flushed cheeks, and her lips. When she did not resist, he kissed her mouth more deeply, parting his own lips over hers and pulling her closer when her mouth too opened.

"Sarah," he said a few minutes later, "I love you and I want you. But you must always stop me if I move too fast for you. Now or tonight or any other time. Do you understand, love? You must never be frightened of me. I shall never force you to do more than you wish to do."

She hid her face against his shoulder again and twined her arm around his neck. And she did not tell him.

She suffered agonies later that night when waiting for her husband to come to her. It was a large inn. They had a bedroom each and a parlor between the two rooms. He kissed her after they had dined, late, before a cheerful log fire in the parlor, and told her that he would come to her later. And she undressed herself, having declined the services of a maid, put on the silk-and-lace nightgown that Aunt Myrtle had made for her for this occasion, removed the pins from her hair and brushed it out until it crackled and lay in a shining mass along her back, and tried to bring her thumping heart under control.

She almost cried again when George entered the room after tapping lightly at her door. He wore an ivory-colored dressing gown over his nightshirt. She almost sent him away, as he had given her leave to do. But she did not. She stood and stared mutely at him.

He crossed the room to her and put his hands lightly on her shoulders. "You look beautiful, Sarah," he said, his blue eyes looking searchingly into hers. "Your hair is breathtaking. It is a shame that you cannot always wear it like that. Will you always wear it so for me, love, and never dream of covering it with a nightcap?"

She smiled stiffly. "My titian hair?" she said.

"Yes," he said, "your titian hair, my beautiful Sarah." He touched his forehead to hers and twined his hands in the heavy silken masses of her hair.

And then he kissed her. It was different from his other kisses. Even in the coach that afternoon, there had been restraint in his embrace. In this one, she was able to feel his passion held only on a very thin thread of control.

She wanted to push at his chest, to run in panic from the room. She wanted to sink to her knees and beg and plead with him not to hate her when he knew. She wanted to break free of him and run from the inn so that she could find air to breathe again. Instead, she put her arms around him and allowed her body to rest against his. She parted her lips as she had done that afternoon so that she could feel his kiss more closely. She picked up the heat of his body and ignited into a flame of passion. Conscious thought receded. Pure physical sensation took over.

She did not know how long they stood thus in an embrace that neither seemed willing to end. But finally he stooped and lifted her into his arms, arms that were amazingly strong for a man who was little taller than she. He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the white sheet. He stood there looking down at her, his eyes smoldering with passion, removing his dressing gown. And then he snuffed the candles. In the darkness she was aware that he stripped off his nightshirt before joining her on the bed.

Sarah reached up her arms to him. Every part of her body throbbed with longing for him. It did not occur to her to fear what she had found so nauseating with another man. She forgot Winston; she forgot the secret that he must soon discover. She offered George eager lips, an aroused body, her whole self.

He kissed her passionately: her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her throat, her open mouth again. His hands sought and fondled her breasts, traced the curve of her waist and hips. And finally he reached down and grasped the hem of her nightgown. His hands moved warmly up the whole length of her body as he stripped the garment from her and dropped it over the side of the bed.

"Sarah," he murmured over and over again. "My beautiful Sarah. My wife."

And she too was whispering to him: his name, endearments, words of love and passion-she did not know what. Their hands worshiped each other. And her body hummed with heat and passion until she thought that she could stand it no longer.

And then he was gazing down into her eyes, dimly visible in the light from the innyard below, wordlessly asking if she was ready. She looked back through passion-heavy eyes, longing and aching to feel him in her, to give him the most precious gift she had to give, herself. He lifted himself on top of her, murmuring soothing words, feathering kisses on her face and neck as she parted her legs to receive him. Then he gathered her to him with tender hands and pushed into her.

His hands tightened as he held deep within her, motionless. His whole body tensed. But Sarah, beyond thought and endurance, lifted her hips against him, her body urging deeper intimacy. And, still clasping her tightly, he withdrew and drove into her with a powerful thrust that was repeated again and again with anything but gentle force until her taut body could resist the agony of unfulfillment no longer but shuddered into violent release. He tensed deep inside her and relaxed his weight on her at almost the same moment.

He lifted himself away from her almost immediately and lay beside her on his back, not touching her. She forgot all anxiety. She knew only that she had had her womanhood restored to her, that she had been made a wife by the man whom she loved above everything else in life. She was not ready to be apart from him yet. She rolled over onto her side and stretched an arm across his bare chest.

"George. My love," she said, wonder and trembling in her voice.

He did not reply. He was staring at the ceiling, she could see in the light that came through the window.

After a minute during which her heart turned to stone inside her, he pushed aside the blankets, climbed out of the bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and crossed to the window. He stood there silently for several minutes, staring down toward the source of the light.

"George?" she said finally. She was not able to stand the suspense.

There was a pause before he answered. "You were not a virgin?" he said. It was a question.

She gripped the bedclothes tightly. "No," she said in a voice that shook only slightly.

"What?"

"No, George."

He turned to look at her, though she was not able to see his face in the darkness with the light behind him.

"What happened?" he asked again. "I have a right to know, Sarah. You are my wife, and you were no virgin when you came to me."

His voice was still quiet, gentle almost, but she was consumed with terror. "Please," she said, reaching out a shaking hand in his direction. "George, I-"

"Did it happen just once?" he asked. "Tell me."

"No," she said in a whisper.

"No?"

"No, George," she said. And then in a voice that blurted unnaturally loud, "Not just once."

He moved a step farther into the room. "How many times, then?" he asked. His voice was tense.

"I… I…" she stuttered, utterly miserable, utterly without the ability to think or speak sensibly.

There was a silence. "You do not know?" he prompted at last.

"It was more than once," she said.

"You did not keep count," he said. "A pity. I should have liked to hear an exact number."

"George…" she said.

"I think perhaps you had better be silent, madam," he said. And she could have sworn that it was a stranger who stood there, his back still to the window so that she could see nothing of him except a dark outline.

He stood there for what seemed like interminable minutes. And she sat there, the bedclothes still clutched in cold fists, her mind screaming at her to start talking, to tell him the whole story, to convince him that it had not been of her own choosing, that she had been blackmailed and ravished. She said nothing.

"You are a whore," he said at last, incredulity in his voice. And he laughed harshly. "I have married a whore. I congratulate you, madam. You thought to retire from a demanding profession and made sure that you chose a permanent protector whose pockets are not likely to run dry. I do not doubt that you know how rich I am."

She was able to respond_. in no other way than to shake her head from side to side and look at him imploringly. But perhaps in the darkness he did not even see her.

"God!" he said at last, apparently losing control for the first time. He passed a hand over his face and head. "God! What a fool! And I imagined that you could love me. What could a beautiful creature like you see in someone like me to love? What a romantic fool to believe in such miracles. God! To be fooled by a whore."

And finally sound came from her. She wailed against the blankets that she pressed to her mouth. "George… she said. "George.

"I cannot think," he had wearily. "God, Sarah, I cannot think."

And finally he turned abruptly toward the door and' left her alone, his nightshirt lying abandoned on the floor beside the bed.

She did not move for several hours. She sat holding the blankets to her mouth, unaware that her bare skin was cold against the night air. She was unable to think for most of that time, did not want to think. But with the coming of dawn came the knowledge that she would have to fight to keep her marriage. She would have to do what she should have done weeks ago and go to him and tell him the whole story. He would be angry, hurt. Their love would perhaps never be the same again. But surely he would at least have to admit that she was not that horrible thing he had called her. He would understand about Gray. Surely. He had a sister, whom he loved.

She rose and washed and dressed herself. She brushed and dressed her hair carefully. And then she took a deep breath and crossed the parlor to knock on his door. She tried the handle timidly after the third knock and found that the door was not locked. It did not need to be. There was nothing and nobody inside except the inn furniture.

She hugged herself against panic for a half-hour until a knock at the outer door sent her hurtling to open it. Her husband's wooden-faced coachman announced that he was at her service to convey her to her uncle's house as soon as it was her pleasure to leave.

She packed her things with trembling hands, trying not to think, trying to convince herself that George would be waiting for her in the carriage. Somehow she would convince him that she was not as bad as he had thought the night before. Somehow she would convince him not to take her back to Uncle Randolph's.

But when the footman handed her into the crested carriage, she found it empty. And she was not consulted by the coachman as to the destination she desired. By early afternoon she was being helped down outside the front door of her uncle's home.

Sarah was roused from a waking nightmare by a knocking at the outside door. She pulled herself more upright on the sofa and frowned. It was too early for the play to be finished, surely. But who would be calling at such an hour?

The housekeeper knocked lightly on the door of the salon and came inside, closing the door behind her. She was frowning in some disapproval.

"There is a Lord Laing to see you, Miss Fifield," she said. "I told him that you were indisposed and that her ladyship is from home, but he said that he knows all that and has come to see how you do. Shall I let him in, miss?"

Sarah sighed. 'Yes, Mrs. Bergland," she said, "I shall see him."

"Will you be wanting me to stay, miss?" Mrs. Berg-land asked.

"No, it is quite all right," Sarah assured her. "Lord Laing is my cousin. He is naturally concerned about my accident. He was with us this afternoon, you see."

The housekeeper went away and a few moments later opened the door again to usher Winston in. He handed a black cloak, a top hat, and a cane to her and smiled at Sarah. He really was looking quite devastatingly handsome, she thought dispassionately. He was dressed all in silver silk and black velvet, a stunning choice of colors with his blond hair and his very masculine figure.

"Win?" she said. "To what do I owe this great honor? I would have thought you would be deep into a card game by now."

He grinned. "The card games that are allowed in this place were designed for old ladies," he said. "Low stakes. No excitement. And the games that are not allowed I cannot afford to get into at the moment. My pockets are sadly to let."

"I was not aware that that usually stopped you," she remarked.

"Sarah," he said, "you are developing quite a sharp tongue. You need not worry about me, you know. I shall come about. I always do."

"Yes," she said, "I remember one of those occasions well."

He made a gesture of surrender. "I didn't come here to talk about my financial position," he said. "I was worried about you, Sarah. I was at the theater, and there were your so-called cousin and all her cronies sitting together with not a sign of you. I waited on them during the interval only to discover that indeed your injury was serious enough to confine you to your lodgings. I missed the second half of the play in order to call and try to cheer you up." He smiled and seated himself on the sofa close to her shoulder.

"That is kind of you, Win," she said, "but I really was not feeling lonely, you know. I was quite glad of some quiet time to myself."

"Poor Sarah," he said, smiling warmly into her eyes and placing one hand on her shoulder. "Does it hurt very much, your ankle?"

"Not at the moment," she said. "The doctor has given me a draft to ease the throbbing."

"Ah," he said, "you will be feeling drowsy then?" The back of his forefinger stroked lightly along the skin of her neck above the high neckline of her dress.

"Not that drowsy!" Sarah said, pulling away from his hand.

"Sarah," he said, his face hovering above hers, "will you never stop fighting me? You know you are living on the edge of a cliff here, do you not? Bath society would not tolerate your presence if they knew you were a divorced woman. And the secret of your true identity is really not a very safe secret, is it?"

"Are you threatening me, Win?" Sarah asked, staring coldly back at him.

His eyes widened. "Threatening you?" he said. "Whatever do you mean? I am merely trying to get you to face reality, Sarah. If you have come here husband-hunting, you might as well forget your plans. Even if you can keep your secret long enough to get someone to offer for you, he is bound to find out before the marriage. To me none of these things matter. Only you. I have never fully recovered from losing you. I would take you back in a moment, Sarah. And once you are my mistress again, you do not have to worry about what anyone says. You will be under my protection. And I would protect you. You are very precious to me."

Sarah looked into the handsome face so close to her own and marveled afresh at how such beauty and such apparent sincerity could hide an almost frightening lack of moral awareness. Winston seemed totally unable to identify with the feelings of other people. Were his own feelings so shallow that he did not know that such things existed?

"Win," she said steadily, "I told you a long time ago that our affair was over. Forever. You took full advantage of me when I was a very young and green girl and did not know how to fight you. And my life will forever be in ruins as a result of that. But even a fallen woman, you know, can have some remnants of self-respect. I am old enough now to choose, and I choose to belong to no man."

He shook his head. "You always were a tender and silly girl, Sarah," he said. "What is all this about a fallen woman? There is nothing so dreadful about becoming a main's mistress when you do not have the connections or the fortune to expect a husband."

She stared stonily at him.

"Oh, I know," he said. "You have the old complaint, I suppose. You did attract a husband and a pretty impressive one too, if one considers only his title and wealth. But that could not have been foreseen, Sarah. You are very beautiful, of course, and even a man of Cranwell's consequence can sometimes lose his heart to beauty. And of course, I was blamed because the man objected to being handed damaged goods. I'm sorry. There, does that make you feel better, Sarah? I'm sorry."

"No, not at all better, Win," she said.

"Come back to me, Sarah," he said suddenly with some urgency. "God, I want you. You are so beautiful." He put a hand on each of her shoulders and leaned over her.

"Don't come any closer, Win," she said calmly, "or I shall slap you very hard."

"You don't mean it, Sarah," he coaxed, his eyes straying to her lips. "Let me remind you of what it used to be like."

"Go away, Win," she said.

"I could marry you, you know," he said. "There is the faintest possibility. Is Lady Murdoch the old moneybags she looks to be?"

Sarah stiffened.

"She is very fond of you," Winston said. "It seems altogether possible that she will make you her heir, Sarah, if you play your cards right."

Sarah put up her hands and pushed at his chest with such furious energy that he let go of her and sat upright. "Win," she said, "there is not the smallest possibility that I will ever marry you. Not the slightest. You have taken my virtue. You have destroyed my marriage. You have taken the little money I had. That is all, Win. I have done with giving to you."

He stood up and looked down at her, his head on one side. "You may change your mind yet," he said, and he smiled slowly at her. "If your secret suddenly becomes known, you will be very glad to come to me. There will be no other choice for you, will there? And I won't reject you. I shall welcome you with open arms. We were made to be together, Sarah, and we will be together. Believe me."

"Oh!" Sarah said, pulling herself upright on the sofa and wincing with the sudden pain. "You are threatening me. Either I become your mistress or you drop a suggestion into someone's ear. Am I right?"

He smiled until his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now, Sarah," he said gently, "would I do a thing like that?" He kissed two fingers and leaned over to place them against her lips. "Good night. I shall call tomorrow, perhaps, to see how you do."

Sarah resisted the urge to snatch the pillow from beneath her foot and throw it at his head as he left the room unhurriedly.

The effects of the draft were wearing off, she thought wearily as she leaned back again and closed her eyes. Her head was beginning to thump and her foot was throbbing so persistently that her whole body felt like a giant and painful pulse. Thank heaven the day was finally over, she thought. What a disaster it had been! In a moment she would ring for Mrs. Bergland and beg her help up the stairs. Then she would take the draft that the doctor had left for the night and put herself into merciful sleep.

Another ring at the doorbell brought her back to the present again. This time it doubtless was Lady Murdoch returned from the theater. Well, perhaps it would help to sit and listen to an account of the evening's events for a few minutes before retiring. Perhaps it would help her mind to relax. She smiled and prepared to hide her pain as she heard the strident voice of her cousin approach the salon.

But when Lady Murdoch entered the room, Sarah's smile faded. Behind her was the Duke of Cranwell.

"Yes," Lady Murdoch said, "I thought she would still be up. I said so, did I not?"

Sarah stared, mesmerized, into the serious blue eyes of her former husband.

"Sarah, my love," Lady Murdoch said, "I was telling Bertha that I had left you reclining in the salon, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be painful for you to climb the stairs to bed. Mrs. Bergland would help you, of course, as would I, my dear, if my rheumaticks would not make me so unreliable as a support. But hopping along even with support, you know, can jar an injury quite nastily. His grace very kindly insisted on conveying me back here in his own carriage after taking Bertha and the girls home, and I have taken the liberty of asking him to come in and carry you up to your room." She beamed down on her young charge.

Sarah was cold with horror. Somehow her eyes had become locked with George's. The idea was unthinkable. Even if he were a mere acquaintance, it would be most improper for him to carry her upstairs to her bedchamber. Only Lady Murdoch could have suggested such a thing without a thought to propriety. But George…!

"I… I…" she said. "I had planned to sit up with you for a while, ma'am. And really, my leg is not nearly so painful now. And I am far too heavy for his grace to carry upstairs."

"Oh," Lady Murdoch said, "I am too weary to sit up and talk tonight, dear. Not but what there is not a great deal to tell you. Such an entertaining play, Sarah. And so much else besides to look at."

"I think I can contrive to carry you to your bed without dropping you, Miss Fifield," Cranwell said, his eyes still locked on hers.

He had carried her to her bed on a previous occasion! Sarah shook her head, panic rising in her, but he was approaching her with purposeful strides.

"Put your arm around my neck, ma'am," he said.

She found herself complying, and tightened her grip when he slipped one arm under her knees and one beneath her arms and lifted her off the sofa. She closed her eyes.

And again she was surprised by the strength of the man who held her. He strode up the stairs just as if he bore no burden at all. Neither spoke until he reached the top. She was achingly aware of him, made faint by her love for him. She was almost overpowered by the need to put her other arm around his neck and hide her face against him. She wanted to beg and plead for… What?

"You will have to tell me which is your room," Cranwell said, his voice quite toneless.

"It is around to the left," she said, her jaws so tense that the words would hardly form themselves.

When they reached the room, he paused and she turned the doorknob with her free hand. The candles had already been lit and the bedclothes turned down, Sarah saw at a glance. Her face burned at the intimacy of the setting. She had expected that Lady Murdoch would follow them up the stairs, but she had not.

Cranwell crossed to the bed and set her down gently. She waited tensely for him to leave.

He looked down at her, his face expressionless. "You are in pain," he said. A statement.

"Just a little," she admitted.

"Do you have anything to lessen it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "The doctor left a draft."

He nodded and half-turned to leave. But he turned back again. "I should not have said what I said this afternoon," he said, his face and voice still without expression. "I wish you would accept my apologies."

Sarah looked back at him numbly. "You spoke only the truth," she whispered.

He frowned and shook his head slightly. "I spoke to wound," he said. "There can be no excuse for that."

He looked at her a moment longer, the frown still creasing his brow. Then he turned abruptly.

"Good night, Sarah," he said.

She was in tears before he closed the door quietly behind him. Sarah! Surely this must now be the end of the day. There could not be any more. She would not be able to endure any more.