A Baron for Becky

Chapter twenty

There was a fog. No. Heavier than a fog. A bank of clouds. A blanket, almost, covering everything. Sometimes, she could see through it a little, or hear a few words, or feel a touch. Sarah came to visit. She was sure of that. Her belly hurt. Was it the baby? No. The baby was gone. There was a grief there, somewhere just out of reach, waiting to consume her, but she wouldn't think of it. She was so hot. No, she was cold. So cold, she was sweating.

Voices. Hands washing her, changing her. Hands touching her intimately. No! She wasn't going back there!

"Hush, Becky. Hush. Don't struggle, my love." Hugh's voice. She must be dreaming, then. Hugh didn't love her. She leant into the arms that restrained her anyway.

Another man's voice. It must be a dream. Hugh would never hold her for another man. "...fever, my lord... infection... best I can do... crisis..." Becky held desperately to the belief that if Hugh were there, she was safe, and tried to ignore what was happening further down: the scraping, the vile smell.

More washing. So hot. Cooler, please... There, someone lifting her, holding a cool drink to her lips. Hugh's voice again. "Slowly, Becky, slowly."

She had been sick for two weeks, her maid told her. They had been sure she would die. The master would not leave her side, "No, not for a moment, not till the doctor said the crisis was past. Then, off he went to sleep, and that was fifteen hours ago, my lady."

She turned, but he was not in the bed he had promised they would always share. Even the last weeks before Christmas, after she had driven him away with her sordid story, he had come each night to their bed. He didn't desire her anymore, and who could blame him? But he had come to their bed each night and held her when he thought she was asleep.

But that was before she failed him, of course, before she had a girl instead of the son he needed.

The maid was speaking again, asking something. She worked back through her memory of the sounds. The baby. Did Lady Overton want to see the baby? "No. No, thank you. I think I will just sleep."

Hugh brought the baby to her later, the reminder of her failure. She turned her head away to hide her tears, but she couldn't stop her shoulders from shaking with sobs, and he left. But not for long. He took the baby away and came again to sit with her.

He was kind, always so kind. She couldn't bear to face him. Poor Hugh. How much disappointment must lurk in his eyes, stuck in this marriage to a harlot and not even a son to show for it! After a while, the feigned sleep became real, and when she woke again, he was gone.

Two of the maids were talking as they cleaned out the fireplace and re-laid the fire.

"Poor master. Losing this one, too, happen."

"The mistress? Mendin', an't she?"

"Same as t'other, the first Lady Overton. Had the bairn and was mendin'."

A bairn? Becky's mind was slow and dull. Surely Hugh had said nothing about a baby?

"But er wouldna' look at un. Not once. Cried ever so, if we brung un. Another little girl, it was."

"Jus' like this one!" said the listening maid, thrilling to the drama.

"Then," the story-telling maid slowed and deepened her voice, "one day er sent for t'bairn. And walked out of t'house and into the lake."

"No!"

"True as I stand here. Both of  'em drowned dead, and the master near demented."

"But why? Why did er do it?"