“Bethany—my wife—died swiftly, but my daughter lived for two weeks.” Two of the most bittersweet weeks of his life. If he explained, perhaps she might understand. They’d understood one another well enough in nearly every other aspect. Or so he had thought.
He needed Margaret to understand this about him. Perhaps if she could, then she could be with him now. Perhaps they could even marry someday, but he needed to make himself perfectly clear.
At his words, she gave him her complete attention. How many times had he gone looking for her over the past several days only to have heard that she was upstairs in the nursery or outdoors playing with the viscount’s children? Of course, she would be anxious to hear about the infant his wife had given birth to.
“Her head was too large—almost twice the size of a normal baby. Angel’s fingers were webbed, and she had neither elbows nor knees. She had defects inside, as well, making it difficult for her to breathe. The doctor believed that she was blind, but she could hear. When I spoke to her, she held herself still.” He had sung lullabies to her.
Margaret raised her fist to her chest, just above her heart, and rubbed at it as she listened.
“When the doctor arrived, after Bethany had already passed, he suggested putting my daughter out of her misery. He said she had no feeling and implied that she had no soul. The man unwisely suggested throwing her out to the dogs.” The memory never failed to make his blood run cold. He’d told Sebastian that he was sorry for the loss of his wife, but at least the child had not been a boy.
“But you did not.Of course, you did not.”
Sebastian scrubbed a hand down his face. “Was it selfish on my part? I don’t know what I was hoping for. It was as though keeping Angel alive meant I didn’t have to let go of Bethany. I wasn’t ready to let go of our life. None of it made sense at the time and to be perfectly honest, it still doesn’t.”
“You named her Angel?” Margaret’s hand cradled his cheek. He did not realize until that moment that he was on the verge of tears. He never spoke of this to anyone. His parents had been unwilling to hear the details. They knew only that his daughter had not been viable.
“Angela. I called her Angel.” His voice broke and his eyes stung. “I can’t go through it again, Maggie. Ever.” He spoke with certainty so that Margaret could not doubt his decision. “There is no guarantee that future children wouldn’t be struck with whatever afflicted her.”
The wind whipped up and a delicate ebony curl escaped to curl around Margaret’s cheek. Many women suffered childbirth with no ill effects, but he could never know for sure.
“We are so very different, Sebastian.” At least she no longer was speaking to him in that emotionless, withdrawn tone. This woman managed to throw him completely off balance in some moments and yet comfort him in others.
He had loved Bethany. She had needed him, and he’d protected her until the end.
Margaret was different. She did not need him, but she seemed tolikehim. She laughed with him. They’d laughed a great deal together. In the hours they’d spent together, she had sought to know his thoughts and dreams, and all of the reasons behind them.
In turn, she’d opened herself up, physically but in other ways too. Before he’d even met her, he’d heard that she was a woman who kept to herself. But not with him, and he would be eternally grateful for that.
But he could not give her what she wanted.
“You will be a mother someday. I understand. But I cannot be the man to make you one.” At the look in her eyes, his heart skipped a beat. It would not be fair to ask her again to return to London with him.
If you care for me even a little, go.
He more than cared for her. Perhaps she was right. It was time for him to leave.
* * *
Margaret would not goto Sebastian that night, nor ever again. He’d walked her out of the garden, and she’d only kissed him on the jaw when she’d handed back his jacket. He’d told her he did not wish to return inside.
She’d understood. She had no desire to make nice with anyone herself, but she entered through the terrace doors anyhow.
She was comfortable with pain—with loss. It was rather something of an old friend to her. She forced a smile and joined Lady Sheffield where she was talking with Lady Riverton; two very stubborn women whose argumentativeness might even make Margaret forget that she’d just lost a part of herself.
Feeling numb, Margaret listened as the two women disagreed on practically everything under the sun.
She ought to be feeling something—anything—but she just felt frozen inside. She’d wanted to cry when he’d told her about his daughter. The physician’s suggestion to dispose of the child was not unheard of. She blinked away the stinging in her eyes.
If her child had been born and lived, there was no way she could…
She couldn’t even imagine it.
Sebastian had loved his daughter. She’d heard it in his voice. It hadn’t mattered that she wasn’t perfect; she had belonged to him and his young bride.
She wished she’d known him before. So very ironic that the loss of a child caused her to wish more than anything else to try for another, and his loss had caused him to never want to try again.
“They shouldn’t have placed that gown in the front of the store. It was obviously an inferior replication of Madam Chantal’s,” Lady Riverton groused.
