Eliza’s days and nights were now spent in torturous pacing. From the time she rose in the morning until late in the evening, she walked the labyrinthine maze of Havenwood’s halls, whispering to herself. The house heaved and groaned as true winter came in, cold and dank and mean. The days were gunmetal, the nights never-ending in their bleakness.
When she felt the first stirring of the child in her womb, as December stretched out its fingers toward Yule, Eliza imagined she was feeling the clawing of a demon.
What if?
Truly, Eliza had wondered what manner of man she had married.
Upon their return from London, she’d gone to a discreet apothecary for a consult, where the pharmacist had tried to be reassuring, but prepared her for the worst. Malcolm’s symptoms, as described, fit the criteria for syphilis. With sorrowful eyes, the apothecary told her their child might be born blind and deformed. Or dead. The best Eliza could do would be to rest, pray for the best outcome, and avoid intimate congress with her husband at all costs.
She had no need to worry on the last count. Malcolm no longer visited her chambers, and their interactions were mostly silent, although the clattering of the silverware against china and their careful politenesswith one another gave the impression of domestic tranquility. Eliza still hadn’t uttered a word to Malcolm about Una’s revelation at the cemetery. How did one sayI’ve discovered you fucked your own motherover dessert and wine? And what kind of mother would take such liberties with her son? No. It was monstrous. All of it. Better not to speak of such abominations. Better to pretend they’d never happened if she wanted to survive.
For his part, he’d mentioned nothing of the scandal sheets or Eastleigh. Eliza had no intention of raising the subject, though her reticence did nothing to allay her worries over what kind of retribution might be brewing in Malcolm’s addled mind. He knew. There was no way he couldn’t.
One night, after dinner, Malcolm went into the library to smoke and Eliza followed, unbidden. They sat by the fire and Eliza took up her needlework. She was embroidering twining willow branches on the hem of a pillowcase meant for the baby’s crib. She finished a line of stitches, broke her thread between her teeth to change it from green to brown, then rethreaded the needle and pushed it through the fabric. “I’m feeling restless, husband. Since we’re no longer going to Scotland, I need something to look forward to. Some purpose, other than my embroidery.”
“I had a thought this morning,” Malcolm said. “I believe I’ll give the staff the rest of the month off for the holiday. Send Mrs.Duncan to Aberdeen and Turner can, well ... go wherever he’d like. Perhaps we’ll redo their rooms while they’re away. Like you wanted. That should keep you busy, shouldn’t it? Choosing new linens and furniture?”
“That sounds lovely. They do work so hard for us, after all. And then we’ll begin planning for the building of my stables?”
Malcolm heaved a weary sigh and rubbed at his forehead.
“Is there something wrong?” Eliza bit her lip. “I thought we were going to break ground in the spring. Isn’t that still your plan?”
“You’ll be great with child by then, Eliza. Exertions can lead to early labor and stillbirth. We don’t want that, do we?” There he went again, talking to her as if she were a child and telling her what she needed.
“I’m feeling much better. And times are changing. Women no longer need to take to their beds throughout their confinement. Besides, I won’t be the one doing the work and exerting myself. You promised we would start on the stables in March. We should start looking for workers now, given our past troubles.”
He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, fidgeting with his pipe. “I suppose I can inquire after workers. Anything to please my little wife.” He folded his newspaper across his lap and peered at her through a scrim of smoke. “Now, there’s a smile. You look so lovely when you smile. Tell me, did you smile so coyly when you went about seducing Eastleigh at the opera?”
Eliza’s face fell. So here it came at last. Her punishment. A roil of words rose up in her throat and burned on her tongue, full of retribution for his hypocrisy. Only the gentle stirring of the baby kept her silent.
“You didn’t think I’d find out about your little kiss, did you?” He laughed. “It was all over the papers. But it’s all right, darling. I’ve forgiven you. It’s all rightnow.” There was a demented gleam in his eye as he rose and came toward her. His pupils blackened, nearly swallowing the green of his irises. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of her chair, trapping her. His breath was rancid. Sour. He patted the subtle curve of her belly. “I had a happy thought. As soon as this one has popped free, I’ll be crawling upon you to make another, I suppose. You’re always keen for a poke and tumble, aren’t you, darling?”
Eliza cringed away from him, repulsed by the coarseness of his words. As he stood to go, she spied a faint pinkish rash along the skin above his high collar. “You’ve a bit of a rash on your neck. I think you may be taking ill.”
Malcolm put a hand to his throat, his nostrils flaring. “Most certainly not. That woman only uses the wrong kind of starch. How many times have I told her? Mrs.Duncan, you maynotuse alum in my collars!”
Eliza pulled in a shaky breath. “I’ll make sure I remind her.”
“I’ll be off to bed, then,” Malcolm said, suddenly jaunty. “Can you have Turner cover the embers?”
“Of course.” He stalked out of the room, his gait swaying as he muttered to himself. Eliza picked up the tumbler from the table by his armchair and sniffed it. There was no trace of whisky. She pulled the bell rope and Turner came through. He knelt to rake ashes over the embers in the grate, tamping out the glowing coals with the back of the hearth shovel.
“Have you noticed anything off with his lordship lately, Turner?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, mum,” the butler said, brushing the ash from his livery as he stood. His eyes skittered past her own. Poor Turner hadn’t the hint of a poker face. He knew exactly what she meant.
“There was an incident on the train on the way back from Lord Eastleigh’s funeral. He took a fit and had to be sedated. And then tonight, he was in a strange mood. Haven’t you noticed him acting a bit nutty?”
“I suppose he has a lot on his mind. A man sometimes acts strange when he’s to be a father.”
“You’ve served this family for how many years, Turner?”
“Over thirty years.” The butler warily eyed her. “And a wonderful assignment it has been, mum.”
“Before Ada disappeared, did you ever hear her talk of another man? A man whose name started withM? Perhaps he was a Michael, or a Matthew?”
At the name “Matthew,” Turner blinked and cleared his throat, then bent to close the damper, fingertips fumbling. “No, mum. Never met or heard of any Michael or Matthew, apart from her ladyship’sfather. Sir Matthew MacCulloch. He died when your husband was a boy.”
