An Inheritance of Shame(16)

He knew. Maybe he didn’t realise he knew, but he knew.

‘I was pregnant, Angelo,’ she whispered. ‘I had a baby.’





CHAPTER FIVE



ANGELO DROPPED HIS hands from her shoulders and stared at her utterly without expression, his body completely still. Lucia had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he didn’t even care. He certainly wouldn’t grieve their daughter the way she had. He might not even believe her.

His gaze moved over her slowly, as if searching for answers, for weaknesses. ‘Are you saying,’ he asked in a voice devoid of expression, ‘that you became pregnant, after that night? That one time?’ She nodded. ‘You had a baby? A child?’ She nodded again, the words to explain stuck in her throat, jagged shards of memory and loss that cut open everything inside her. He continued to stare at her, hard, first in assessment, and then in acceptance.

She saw the emotions move over his face: first the shock, followed by a flash of anger, and then an understanding. And finally, the most unexpected emotion of all, an eager hope softening his features as his mouth half quirked into an incredulous, tremulous smile. ‘A boy,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘or a girl?’

Lucia closed her eyes against the agonising emotion so apparent on his face. She’d steeled herself for anger, accusations, maybe even disbelief. But hope? Happiness? They hurt so much more. ‘A girl,’ she whispered.

‘But where—where is she?’ She opened her eyes and saw Angelo looking around as if he expected a bright-eyed, curly-haired six-year-old to come bounding up to him with a smile. ‘What is her name?’

‘Angelica,’ Lucia whispered, the word tearing her throat, hurting her.

‘Angelica…’ She saw a smile dawn across Angelo’s face then disappear. His eyes narrowed, the hope fading from them. ‘Where is she, Lucia?’

She just shook her head, unable to speak, to tell him. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, urgent now, rough. He took her by the shoulders again, stared at her hard, and through the mist of her own tears she saw the bleakness in his eyes, and she knew just as before he already knew.

‘She’s dead.’

She felt Angelo’s fingers clench on her shoulders before he released her and turned away. Neither of them spoke and Lucia drew a ragged breath into her lungs.

‘How?’ he finally asked tonelessly.

‘She—she was stillborn. At seven months. The cord was wrapped around her neck.’ She drew another breath, just as ragged. ‘She was perfect, Angelo.’

Angelo shook his head and made some small sound, his back to her, and she had the sudden urge to comfort him, just as she had many times before. Take him in her arms, draw his head to her shoulder. This time she didn’t move. It was too late for that. Far, far too late.

Slowly he turned back around, his face now wiped of any emotion or expression at all. Lucia remained still, everything in her aching. She wanted him to say something, do something, but he didn’t move or speak.

After an endless moment his gaze fell on the box of treasures she’d left on the sofa. Lucia made one involuntary move towards it, as if she could hide the evidence of her sentimentality. Angelo’s letter, the scrapbook they’d once pored over…

The lock of hair.

His gaze remained steadfastly on that little curl of sadness and then he lifted it to hers. ‘May I?’ he asked, and wordlessly she nodded.

She watched as Angelo took the silky bit of baby hair in his hand and ran its softness between his fingers. He didn’t say anything, and his head was lowered so Lucia couldn’t see his face.

‘Angelo…’ she whispered, although she had no idea what she would say. That she’d never forgotten him? That she’d held their daughter in her arms and grieved not just her precious child but the life she’d thought, for one blissful night, could be hers? That she’d loved him?

And loved him still.

Carefully Angelo returned the lock of the hair to the box. Lucia saw his gaze flick over the other items, but she couldn’t tell if he recognised the scrapbook or letter. Then he looked directly at her, and she could see nothing in his grey-green gaze. It was as hard and unyielding as it had ever been.

‘I should go.’

Disappointment and even despair flooded her, but somehow she managed to nod again. She didn’t trust herself to speak, didn’t know what she would say. He nodded back, in farewell, and then she watched as he strode towards the door and out into the night. Once again he’d left her alone and aching, just as he had before.