Dear God, he’s back. Anna had sent him away last night, sent him away for good. Why did he not believe her when she said no?
She should have delivered the message herself, maybe chased him out the door with a broom. Who knew what Putnam had told him.
But the bells had chimed nine long before he came. She hurt. She was cross as two sticks. She had to feed the baby again before she could think about sleeping. She had not glanced in a mirror since the child was born; what a fright she must look. And if she’d seen him, she might have cried, or screamed, or thrown herself into his arms.
They’d arranged it last night, no doubt. She should have known when Putnam first came into her room this morning. That purposeful air, the rags and wash basin, all told the story.
He’d brought flowers. Putnam, her eyes wary atop a determined grin, brought them to her. As though a few hothouse lilies would change her mind. She scowled at them and at Putnam too.
“I shan’t see him. I told you that.” She kept her voice low.
“Miss Anna, you must. He says—”
“Nothing he says can make any possible difference. Please, both of you, leave me alone.” Ignoring Putnam’s slumped shoulders and downturned mouth, she shouted, “And take those vile flowers with you!” She wanted him to hear.
She pushed deep under the covers as though they were a magical shield blocking all her senses. What they said in the parlor had nothing to do with her.
Lewis lifted the baby from the cradle like some fragile treasure. Her warmth settled against his chest, soft and round, like a second heart.
He kissed her cheek. “Good morning, baby girl. You’re looking—”
Anna’s yell interrupted him. “Take those vile flowers with you.” He grimaced, and the baby grimaced in return.
“Your mama doesn’t do things the easy way.”
Putnam yanked Anna’s door closed and stalked past him without a word. She was flushed, her lips pressed into a thin line. At the lopsided table where they ate their meals, she poured some water from a cracked pitcher into a jar and stabbed the flowers into it. One fell to the floor; she stomped on it, again and again, until it fell apart into limp shreds of green and pink. She hid her face in her apron. Her shoulders shook with weeping.
He crossed the room to her side. “Take the baby, Putnam. Don’t worry. It will be all right.”
Four long strides took him to Anna’s door. He had to wiggle the handle to make it work. Then he was in, leaving the door unlatched.
He’d expected the room to be tiny, but why was it so dark? The sun shone, but one would never know it in here. He peered around and saw only one possible place for her—the mound under the blankets. Hiding from reality.
Well, reality had changed.
“I told you to go away.” Her voice came muffled by the bedclothes.
He marched to the window and opened the curtain. The next building blocked the sun, but at least there was daylight.
“You did not tell me,” he said. “Not to my face. I’m not going anywhere until we talk.”
The mound stilled, then churned as Anna battled her way out of her hole. Her hands appeared first, her head and shoulders following as she sat up, squinting at the brightness.
She might have galloped hatless through a windstorm. One lock of hair hung over her flushed cheeks, obscuring most of one eye. The other was red and ringed by dark shadows. Her nightdress was askew, showing rather more of one round breast than she would have allowed, had she realized.
He gaped at her, speechless. As desirable as any woman alive, despite the challenging attitude. If he had met her for the first time here in Leeds, he might have worried it was her natural temperament. Fortunately, he knew better.
“You don’t like what you see?” Her voice quivered. “What do you expect, bursting in without an invitation?” She shoved that lock of hair off her face, hooking it behind one ear. It fell again, but not so far. Glaring at the window, she scolded. “We’re supposed to keep the room dark.”
A smile twitched at his lips, of sympathy and tenderness. He thought better of it. She would think he was laughing at her.
Settling on the corner of the bed near her feet, he responded to the only part of her speech he could.
“Why?”
“Why what?” she barked. But it was the bark of a mouse. A miserable, vulnerable mouse.
“Why are you supposed to live in the dark?”
Wilting, she looked down at her lap and shrugged. “Mrs. Milledge says so. The midwife. Warm and dark.”
It was warm, all right. Lewis was sweating, though there were other possible reasons for that. A marriage proposal, for one.
He cleared his throat. “Anna, I have good news. The best possible news.”
She drew up her knees and hugged them to her, resting her cheek on top. Her gaze was dull, disinterested, as if she’d forgotten what good news meant. “What happened to your face? Were you in a fight?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anna, I—”
“Your eye looks dreadful. Does it hurt?”
“No!” He jumped to his feet, exasperated. This was not going the way he’d expected.
He pulled the reins taut on his temper. “Will you listen to me?”
Lips trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead to her knees.
“I’ve been to see your parents.”
Her head shot up again, tilted to one side, a crease between her brows. “Why would you do that?” She hugged her knees tighter, her hands very white against the coarse gray blanket.
“They’ve agreed to a dowry. We can marry.” It wasn’t much of a proposal.
She stared at him as though she hadn’t understood. Her eyes widened. For one second, he saw a spark of joy. Then panic took its place.
Whatever reaction he’d expected, it wasn’t panic.
“No.” She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Twisting away, she buried her face in the pillow. If she looked at him, she would see the hurt she’d inflicted.
How humiliating it must have been for him, groveling before her father. Why should Lewis give her this alternative at the cost of his own happiness?
Yes, he’d felt a tendre for her, once upon a time. But now? How he must despise her! She would be a monster to condemn him to a marriage he could not possibly want, raising a daughter not his own. It had been a disaster for her father and for the daughter he’d raised.
And this was worse. This child was conceived by Lewis’s own brother. A brother he hated, and with good reason.
How could he think she still loved that heartless, scheming knave?
His voice pelted her from above, clipped and constrained. “I know it’s hard, Anna. I know I’m not the man you wanted. I’ll demand nothing of you once we’re married. But you had best come up with an unassailable reason to refuse my offer. Your daughter needs you.” His footsteps rushed across the floor in his hurry to be gone.
Her heart skipped a beat. Then the tears fell, hot and harsh, searing her eyes and throat, soaking her pillow. All the tears she had kept inside since the day the baby was born. Tears of agony and bewilderment that somehow, imperceptibly, transformed into relief and gratitude.
Putnam came in and sat beside her, patting her back, murmuring awkward endearments, and eventually Anna returned to the present. To the necessity of breathing, of blinking her swollen eyes.
Her daughter would be safe. Her daughter would have a chance. Her daughter would have a family.
A cry sounded from the other room. Anna blew her nose, took the cool cloth Putnam provided, and pressed it to her face to ease the heavy ache that filled the place where her brain should have been.
She had let Lewis leave unsure of her answer.
“Let’s get you over to the chair, dearie. I’ll straighten the bedclothes while you feed that little mite.”
“And get paper and a pen. I must write to Mr. Aubrey afterward.”
By the time Anna was situated, the cries came angry and urgent. “Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Putnam sang out.
Anna waited, eager to see her daughter. Strange, when all week she had felt only dread. Dread at the bonds that wound through her as she held the beautiful, innocent child she must leave so soon. Dread that those bonds would rip her heart to shreds when Putnam took the babe away for the last time.
She settled her daughter at her breast. How had she ever thought she could go on living after she left? Each time Putnam brought her little girl in for feeding it became less possible. Rosy cheeks that burned bright red when she cried, toothless greedy mouth, silken wisps of light brown hair, eyes that locked with hers until, sated, they closed in rapture? Tiny, perfect hands that she had unwrapped that morning for the first time, that held softly to her breast as she nursed? What would she do with those memories if she left?
She would go mad, remembering.
It was a choice she need no longer make. Yes, Lewis had brought the best possible news—an alternative. The only alternative she needed.
He might marry her for the child’s sake, but for Anna too it was a gift beyond reckoning. In return she would be a good wife, make his home comfortable, show him a contented face. Affection would come on both sides. She imagined more children, these truly his. If their marriage was not perfect, what of it? It would be far better than her parents had.
Through all the days they lived, she would love him for this. For giving her the right to name her own child.