Violet had expected Walter to react with shock and perhaps anger at the news of her possible pregnancy, but instead he was matter-of-fact. “Oh, the devil,” he said, propping himself against the white pillows and lighting his pipe. “What a damned nuisance. I suppose you’ll have to wait until we get back from Gstaad before having it taken care of.”
“Taken care of?”
“I can give you the name of a doctor. Discreet chap, very safe.”
His meaning dawned on her. “Get rid of it, do you mean?”
“Yes, of course.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “For God’s sake, child. What else were you thinking?”
She sat up and pulled the sheet to the center of her chest. “Well, I hadn’t . . . I hadn’t thought about it at all . . . It’s only a possibility.”
Walter set down the pipe. “How many days are you late?”
“Three or four, I think. Perhaps five.” It was actually eight.
“But you’re never late.”
“It might be anything. The strain of travel.”
Walter swore softly and rose from the bed. He was still as trim as ever, wiry and elegant. He sucked on his pipe and looked out the window. “You can’t possibly be thinking of bringing another creature into this overcrowded world, child. It’s immoral.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Obviously, you haven’t been douching properly.”
“I don’t think it’s exactly foolproof. I’ve been reading pamphlets on the subject. I should have kept track of dates, too. We should have been more careful.”
Walter swore again, even more softly, into the window glass. He took in a withering breath and turned to face her, and a gentle smile had appeared in the center of his beard. “Well, it’s just conjecture at the moment, isn’t it? Don’t give it another thought until we’re back home.”
She promised she wouldn’t, but when every morning failed to bring the expected signs, when Walter looked at her with raised brows every time she returned from the lavatory, the conjecture expanded like a gas to fill the entire room, the entire universe of interaction between them. It was early April, and their Alpine village was still packed with snow, glittering and dripping off the eaves in the afternoon sun, an unutterably romantic landscape, but Walter made love to her only twice that entire week, and those times grudgingly, wordlessly, hardly touching her except where it was essential, as if her body and its possibilities disgusted him. He came to bed long after she had already retired, and she became accustomed to the sound of his bathing, his ritual cleansing before he would join her in the lavender-scented sheets.
“Right,” he said, the morning after their return to Oxford, after she had rushed to the bathroom upon waking and returned, miserable and perspiring, to the bed. “You’ll have to see Dr. Winslow, that’s all. He’s got rooms in George Street. He’ll set you up directly.”
“Walter, you’re not serious. It’s so soon.”
“The sooner the better. You’ll be back to normal in a week.”
“You must let me think. You must let me decide for myself.”
He took her by the shoulders. “That’s the trouble. You can’t think right now. You’re not rational. Are you actually thinking of having this thing, this baby? Giving up everything you’ve worked for? You’d have to leave the Devonshire, of course. You’d spend your days attached to some incontinent howling infant instead of putting that extraordinary brain of yours to its proper use. And the scandal, my God! You’re my student. It would bring me down, Violet. It would ruin me.”
Violet opened her mouth to say that it wasn’t quite true, they could marry and have the baby respectably, they could find a nanny and she could perhaps still carry on her work at the institute, they could find a way, for God’s sake, but she managed to clamp her lips down on the words and burst into tears instead.
Walter took her in his arms and drew her into the bed with him. “There, now, child. You see? You’re not yourself at all. Already this alien clump of cells has addled your orderly little mind. Nature’s way, I suppose.” He shook his head in sorrow. “Let me handle all this for you. Let me ring up Winslow, set up the appointment. I’ll take perfect care of you, and things can go on just as before. Haven’t things been wonderful since we began together? Haven’t I advanced your every interest? Are we not two beings of the very same mind?”
She snuffled a yes.
“Then you must trust me, Violet. I do know what’s best.”
Walter laid her back in the pillows and removed her nightgown, almost as if everything were normal again, as if her female organs had not betrayed them both, and the next afternoon called her into his office and handed her a slip of paper. He was smiling kindly. “Winslow will see you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You can take a taxi to my house directly after. Don’t worry about the bill; everything’s to be sent to me.”