Suddenly You(85)

He worked briskly until noon, then began to stack papers and manuscripts in preparation of his departure for lunch. A light tap came at the door, and Oscar Fretwell’s face appeared. “Devlin,” he said quietly, looking troubled, “this message has arrived for you. The man who brought it said it was quite urgent.”

Frowning, Jack took the note from him and scanned it rapidly. The words scrawled in black seemed to leap off the paper. It was Amanda’s handwriting, but in her haste she had not bothered to sign it.

Jack, I am ill. Have sent for the doctor. Come home at once.

His hand squeezed around the paper, crushing it into a compact ball. “It’s Amanda,” he muttered.

“What shall I do?” Fretwell asked immediately.

“Take care of things here,” Jack said over his shoulder, already striding from the office. “I’m going home.”

During the short, frantic ride to his house, Jack’s thoughts rocketed from one possibility to another. What in God’s name could have happened to Amanda? She had been blooming with health this very morning, but perhaps some accident had befallen her. Increasing panic caused his insides to twist, and by the time he reached his destination, he was white-faced and grim.

“Oh, sir,” Sukey cried as he rushed into the entrance hall, “the doctor is with her right now—it came on so sudden—my poor Miss Amanda.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“I-in the bedroom, sir,” Sukey stammered.

His gaze dropped to the bundle of bed linens in her arms, which she promptly gave over to a housemaid and bade her take them to be washed. Jack saw with alarm that crimson blotches marred the snowy fabric.

Striding rapidly to the stairs, he took them three at a time. Just as he made it to his room, an elderly man wearing a doctor’s black coat crossed the threshold. The man was short and narrow-shouldered, but he possessed an air of authority that far exceeded his physical stature. Closing the door behind him, he lifted his head and regarded Jack with a steady gaze. “Mr. Devlin? I am Dr. Leighton.”

Recognizing the name, Jack reached out to shake his hand. “My wife has mentioned you before,” he said tersely. “You were the one who confirmed her pregnancy.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, these matters do not always achieve the conclusion we hope for.”

Jack stared at the doctor without blinking, while his blood seemed to run cold in his veins. A sense of disbelief, of unreality, descended on him. “She’s lost the baby,” he said softly. “How? Why?”

“Sometimes there are no explanations for miscarriage,” came Leighton’s grave reply. “It happens to perfectly healthy women. I have learned in my practice that at times nature takes its own course, regardless of our wishes. But let me assure you, as I have told Mrs. Devlin, that this need not prevent her from conceiving and delivering a healthy baby the next time.”

Jack looked down at the carpet with fierce concentration. Strangely, he couldn’t help thinking of his father, now cold in his grave, unfeeling in death as he had been in life. What kind of man could produce so many children, legitimate and illegitimate, and care so little about any of them? Each small life seemed infinitely valuable to Jack, now that he had lost one.

“I might have caused it,” he muttered. “We share a bedroom. I…I should have left her alone—”

“No, no, Mr. Devlin.” In spite of the seriousness of the situation, a faint, compassionate smile appeared on the doctor’s face. “There are cases in which I’ve prescribed that a patient abstain from marital intercourse during pregnancy, but this was not one of them. You did not cause the miscarriage, sir, any more than your wife did. I promise you, it was no one’s fault. Now, I have told Mrs. Devlin that she must rest for the next few days until the bleeding stops. I will return before the end of the week to see how she is healing. Naturally her spirits will be somewhat low for a while, but your wife seems to be a strong-minded woman. I see no reason why she should not recover quickly.”

After the doctor took his leave, Jack entered the bedroom. His heart was riven with sorrow as he saw how small Amanda looked in the bed, all her usual fire and high spirits extinguished. He went to her and smoothed her hair back, and kissed her hot forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, gazing into her empty eyes. He waited for any kind of response, despair or anger or hope, but his wife’s normally expressive face remained blank. She knotted a loose fold of her dressing gown in one fist, twisting the delicate fabric and balling it in her palm.

“Amanda,” he said, taking her hard fist into his hand, “please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” she managed in a constricted voice, as if some outward force were clutching at her throat.

Jack continued to hold her ice-cold fist in his warm fingers. “Amanda,” he whispered. “I understand what you’re feeling.”

“How could you possibly understand?” she asked woodenly. She pulled at her fist until he released it, and she focused on some distant point on the wall. “I’m tired,” she murmured, though her eyes were round and unblinking. “I want to sleep.”

Baffled, hurt, Jack eased away from her. Amanda had never been like this with him before. It was the first time she had ever shut him out of her feelings, and it was as if she had taken an ax and neatly severed all connection between them. Perhaps if she rested, as the doctor had advised, she would wake up and that terrible blankness would have left her eyes. “All right,” he murmured. “I’ll stay close by, Amanda. I’ll be here if you should need anything.”