Voices in a Haunted Room

I nodded and he put his arm about me and went on: “Are you sure nothing is wrong, Claudine?”

“Wrong?” I hoped my voice did not betray my fear.

“I thought you seemed preoccupied, as though ... I don’t quite know. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?”

I leaned against him and he put his arm about me. I was terrified that in a few moments I should confess. I must not. Jonathan was right about one thing. David must never know. Perhaps if it had been someone else he might have forgiven me. I was sure he would for he was of a forgiving nature. But his own brother! And how was I going to cope with Jonathan’s actually living in the same house? I forced myself to silence.

“Your mother thinks you should see the doctor,” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m perfectly all right.”

I assumed a gaiety I did not feel and I believed I managed to deceive him, as I had in that other matter.

Jonathan was in London for two weeks that January. I felt easier when he was out of the way, even though that which had occurred to me as a possibility had become a certainty.

I was pregnant after all.

I had told no one as yet. How could I tell David that I was to have a child which might not be his?

I kept my secret for two weeks. At times the prospect of a child overshadowed all else and for a brief spell my joy was boundless until I remembered that I did not know who the child’s father was.

Jonathan came back from London. He was a little preoccupied; something of importance had evidently transpired there. As soon as he returned he was closeted with Dickon, and when they emerged Dickon looked very serious.

At dinner that evening Jonathan wanted to know how Enderby was progressing.

“It’s full of workmen at the moment,” I said pointedly.

“We shan’t know the place,” he replied.

“Sophie insists on going in in early February,” said my mother. “I think she is unwise.

She should wait till spring.”

“What of the servants?”

“Jeanne is engaging them. I thank Heaven for Jeanne. She is doing most of the work.

Were you busy in London?”

“Very.” He smiled at her in a manner which said: No more quesjjons please. He looked at his father and said: “You remember Jenningstorn or was it Jack-he’s been transported for publishing seditious literature.”

“Transported! Surely not!” said Dickon.

“Yes, seven years to Botany Bay.”

“Wasn’t that rather harsh?”

“Not as things are. He was lauding Danton and stressing the wrongdoing of the monarchy in France and the rights of the people. Louis and the Queen were the bad ones and Danton and company the heroes.”

“So there is real concern.”

“You can call it that. It’s right, of course. They have to be scented out. It was people like that who started the trouble in France.”

“But transportation!” said Dickon. “That is a little harsh.”

“I hope,” said my mother, “that you are not thinking of making any more trips to London.”

“Not just yet,” Dickon assured her.

“And you, Jonathan?” asked my mother.

He lifted his shoulders, and his eyes rested on me. “I hope to spend a little time here among the joys of Eversleigh.”

“How nice that you appreciate your home,” said my mother lightly.

“Oh I do,” he replied. “I do indeed,”

When we were leaving the room I said to him: “I must talk to you.”

“When?” he asked eagerly.

“Tomorrow. I shall ride hi the morning, at ten o’clock.”

The next morning I rode out alone and he was soon at my side.

“What of the house? Let’s go there.”

I replied quickly: “No. I don’t intend to go to Enderby with you again. Moreover it would be impossible now even if...”

“Where shall we go then?”

“I just want to talk to you, Jonathan.”

“I had to go away, you know. I hated leaving you. It was urgent business.”

“It’s nothing to do with that.”

We turned off the road and into a field, where we pulled up.

“Jonathan,” I said, “I’m going to have a child.”

He looked at me in amazement.

“It’s not so surprising, is it?” I went on.

“David’s ... ?”

“How could I be sure?”

He stared at me and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“You find it amusing?” I asked angrily.

“Well, there is nothing to worry about, is there?”

“What do you mean? When I don’t know whether it is yours or David’s, you think that is nothing to worry about?”

“You’re married. Married women are entitled to have babies. I find it rather intriguing.”

I said: “You never took any of this seriously, did you? To you it was just a light affair. I daresay you have had many. This was a little different. Your own brother’s wife. You found that rather piquant, didn’t you?”

He was silent, still looking at me with that amused look on his face.

“What am I going to do?” I asked.

“Do? Do you mean shall you have it or not?”

“Are you suggesting ... ? This is my child. Whoever its father is, it is still mine.”

“Claudine, you are rather dramatic, my dear one. You are worried, but there is nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t think there is anything to worry about in passing off a child, who may be yours, as David’s?”

“Well, if he doesn’t know, what has he got to be upset about?”