By the time Ash entered the room she had finished the sherry and seemed to be feeling more herself. She saw him looking at her dress and stood up to show it off better. ,
It was made of the same airy silk as the one he had bought her for Christmas, but she had chosen a print in the colours of the sea; jade shading into turquoise into amethyst into violet. It was cut in layers of handkerchief points, and the edges of the points were serrated. They floated around her when she moved.
'I hope you approve?' she said.
'Very much. Will you have some more sherry?'
The clipped response to her question, the total absence of the flame which once would have lit his dark eyes at the sight of her looking her best—and she knew that she did look nice, even if she felt rotten—did nothing to raise her morale.
'No, thank you.'
'In that case we may as well be off.'
Even Ash's well-sprung car could not absorb all the jolts from the patched and unpatched places on the road. On the drive to the dockyard, it seemed to Christie that the bumps jarred much more than usual. She wondered if she could possibly be coming down with 'flu, and longed to be back in bed instead of on her way to a ball which, from what she had heard, would become more and more boisterous as the evening wore on. Not all, but many sailing types were as obstreperous as rugger types. She could only pray that Ash would not want to dance the night away. Not that he was likely to dance with her much.
The tables on the verandah of Pizzas in Paradise were already crowded with young people, having an impromptu party, when they passed the place. In the next day or two, many of them would be sailing away from Antigua, some to return the following year, and some never to come back because crewing was a phase of their youth and soon they would be caught up in the less free-and-easy pattern of careers with a pension at the end of them, and raising children and becoming settled and responsible. Some yachts would remain at their moorings until the day of the Antigua-Bermuda Race which was sponsored jointly by the Antigua Yacht Club and the Royal Hamilton Dinghy Club.
Patrick and Rosamund were in high spirits when they arrived.
Christie heard them laughing before Patrick opened the door, and put on a bright smile to greet them.
'You look very splendid tonight, Ros,' was Ash's greeting-to the older woman.
She was wearing a shocking pink dress which did look well with her grey hair and brunette's tan. Like most rather overweight women, she had good shoulders, tonight shown off by narrow straps.
As he kissed her hand, she replied, 'It's sweet of you to say so, my dear, but I must confess that when I look at your truly beautiful wife, I can't help feeling my years. Oh, to be young and slim again!
Christie, you look
so
lovely. What a heavenly dress. Isn't she a beauty, Patrick?'
'She is indeed, and Ash is a lucky chap to have snaffled her. But wasn't it Donne who wrote, "No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face"?' he answered, smiling at his wife.
'Oh, darling, how nice you are!'
She tried to take the compliment lightly, but her voice had a quiver in it and tears came into her eyes. Christie had to pretend to be looking for something in her evening bag because her own vision was blurred.
She knew that Patrick and Rosamund had been married for more than thirty years, and that Patrick's tribute was not a suave piece of lip-service. Time had not diminished their love. It would last all their lives, and whoever outlived the other would pay a terrible price in loneliness and irreparable loss for their long years of happiness together. But oh, how willingly she herself would pay such a price for thirty years of their touching accord with her husband.
'What may I give you to drink, Christie?' Patrick asked her.
She pulled herself together. 'Sherry, please.'
Ash and Rosamund began to talk, and she listened, waiting for the sherry.
'Oh, good lord! I'm most frightfully sorry,' Patrick exclaimed, a few moments later.
Rosamund, seeing what had happened, gave an exclamation of dismay. 'All down your lovely dress! Take it off quickly, and we'll sponge it.'
Only Ash understood at a glance what had caused the sherry to be spilt.
'Never mind the dress. She's not well.'
He took the glass from her hand, gave it back to Patrick and, scooping Christie up in his arms, carried her to one of the divans, where he laid her down.
Christie sank back, grey-faced, her forehead beaded with sweat, recovering from the stab of violent pain which had ripped through her just at the moment when her fingers had closed on the glass.
It had been low down in her abdomen. She put her hands to the place and wondered what could have caused it. She could not remember eating anything to bring on the kind of colic which presaged food poisoning. Nor did she feel any nausea.
'Are you bleeding?' Ash asked her quietly.
She realised then that she was, and gave a groan of despair. Oh, God!
Let it not be that—
please!'
She heard him say to the others, 'She's pregnant and may be miscarrying. I'm going to telephone for an ambulance.'
And then he had gone, and Rosamund was sitting beside her, saying reassuringly, 'Don't be frightened, Christie". I've been through this, years ago, and I didn't lose the baby. But you must have absolute rest, my dear. Just lie still and it won't be long before we get a doctor to look at you.'
To her husband, she added, 'Get some towels and my roll of cottonwool, and then wait outside for a bit, would you?'
By the time Ash returned, she had done what she could to help Christie, and surrendered her place to him.
He said, 'They're coming immediately. It won't take them long to get here, and then you'll be in expert hands. Were you feeling unwell earlier on?'
'A little. . . but I never thought. . . Ros says I may not. . . not lose it.'
She closed her eyes, but the tears seeped between her lashes.
'Hush! Don't cry. Of course you won't lose it.'
He took both her hands and held them, and she clung to his fingers as if the contact could transfuse some of his strength into her. The pain had left her so weak, and the bleeding seemed to be increasing.
It seemed hours before the ambulance arrived. They transferred her on to a stretcher and carried her out of the building, passing people in evening dress who stood aside, looking concerned at the sight of someone being rushed to hospital on a night of gaiety and celebration.
When she realised that Ash was getting into the ambulance, Christie mustered the strength to protest.
'There's no need for you to come too. You can't miss the Ball and the prizegiving. Please ... I don't need you to come with me.'
'I want to be there,' he said tersely.
'But the Alleyns . . . the Ball. . . your trophy . .
'To hell with the Ball! Do you think I give a damn for any trophy when my . . . child needs hospital treatment? Don't argue, Christie.
Just rest,' was his low but adamant answer.
Then the pain struck again, like a sword, and she gasped at the agony of it.
They must have given her something to make her sleep. When she woke, it was daylight. For a few seconds she couldn't think why she wasn't in her own bed in the room at Heron's Sound where she now slept alone but had once slept with Ash.
Then she rolled her head on the pillow and saw that, for the first time since she had left him, he was in the room with her, but not in the high narrow bed in which she was lying.
He was slumped in a chair by the window, asleep and looking as if it were the first sleep he had had for days. She had never seen him so haggard, with dark rings under his eyes and the fine lines round his eyes and the laughter-grooves down his cheeks far more noticeable than they usually were. He looked worn out, gaunt with exhaustion.
As she gazed at him, he opened his eyes. She remembered then what had happened; the pain and distress of the hours before they had put her to sleep.
She had lost his child.
They hadn't said so, but she knew it. There was no other life in her body; no embryo being who would have been their son or daughter; nothing left of the seed implanted in one of those moments of ecstasy which were now only bitter memories.
Her lips trembled. Her eyes brimmed, the tears trickling slowly down her cheeks.
The death of her parents, of Mike, of her sister and brother-in-law were as nothing to this greater grief. To have known someone and to lose them was a shock and pain hard to bear. But to lose, unborn, her first child, the treasured creation of the man she loved ... A long shuddering sob burst from her.
Ash rose from the chair and strode swiftly to the bedside. But at the same moment the door opened, and a nurse entered.
'Ah, you're awake, Mrs Lambard. How are you feeling?'
She took Christie's wrist in her dark hand, her eyes kind and sympathetic as she pressed lightly on her patient's pulse point.
'All right, thank you,' Christie said croakily.
Ash had turned away to the window and was standing with his back to them.
The nurse said, 'I think you should go home and rest now, Mr Lambard. You've been up all night, and it won't help your wife to worry about you. We're going to give her some medication which will make her drowsy again. Why not come back this afternoon?'
'Yes, I'll do that. Take good care of her. Goodbye for the moment, Christie.'
His voice was level, his face showed nothing but fatigue. She knew she must have imagined that, when the nurse entered the room, there had been tears in his eyes.
* * *
She wasn't kept in hospital long, but she had to convalesce slowly at home, and she went through a period of deep melancholy. She was warned that she would feel depressed, and assured it would pass offin time, and that nothing had happened to prevent her having a normal pregnancy whenever she felt like it.
'What caused the miscarriage?' she had asked.
Her doctor had said, 'Nothing specific. These things happen sometimes, Mrs Lambard, and usually for the best. Maybe Nature knew something was wrong which we wouldn't have detected until later. But I see no reason why, next time, you shouldn't have a fine healthy baby who'll probably get me out of bed at three o'clock in the morning to deliver him or her.'
The day came for her final check-up, at the end of which he said,
'You're fine, Mrs Lambard. Maybe you still feel a bit low, but physically you're back to normal. And you and your husband can resume your normal relations whenever you want to,' he added.
Except that my husband doesn't want to, she thought dully, leaving the surgery.
She had forgotten to pick up the mail from their box at the post office, but Ash had also been to town and collected it. He came home while she was playing with John in the garden, and handed her an airmail letter with an English stamp and Emily's handwriting on the envelope.
With only two months to go to the birth of her baby, Emily described herself as 'looking like Mrs Buddha' but feeling terrific. No problems this time, thank goodness and, it being my fourth, I hope to pop him or her out with the ease of a pea from a pod. Talking of which, we're gorging on delicious man- getouts. The asparagus is almost over—'
At this point, although John was present, Christie could not repress a burst of tears.
'Why are you crying, Aunt Christie?' he exclaimed, in alarm.
She struggled for control. 'I don't know. It's silly of me, John.'
Ash put a large clean handkerchief into her hand, and took the letter from her. While she mopped her cheeks, his eyes skimmed the lines in search of what had upset her.
'I should have written to her,' he said, frowning. 'It hadn't struck me that she would write in this vein. I'm sorry.',
'It's I who should apologise for being so stupid,' she said, forcing a cheerful tone and a smile for her puzzled nephew.
It was not until the end of dinner that night that Ash asked, 'What was the result of your check?'
'I'm completely recovered, physically if not quite mentally.' She began to stir her coffee, although it was black, with no sugar in it. 'He
... he said that if . . . if we wanted to, it was all right to ... to start another baby.'
'Did he?' was her husband's only comment. He rose from the table, picking up his cup as he did so. 'Would you excuse me, Christie? I have some letters to answer.'
He left her and went to the book-room which, for the time being, served as his study. Presently she heard the muted metallic chatter of the typewriter. He was still typing when she went to bed.
For a long time she lay awake, wondering if she ought to have followed him to the book-room and insisted on having it out with him—the undiscussed question of their future, if they had a future together.
Most of the time she had the feeling he was now completely indifferent to her. Only two things sometimes made her wonder if the courteous detachment of his treatment of her could be a veneer.
She remembered how, in the ambulance, she had seemed to hear a slight hesitation when he said,
Do you think I give a damn for any
trophy when my child needs hospital treatment?
Had he meant to say
my wife?
Also she had not forgotten her impression of seeing tears in his eyes the next morning at the hospital.
A hundred times since that day she had argued with herself about this.
Ash wasn't the emotional type. He had lost his mother very young, and been packed off to be a boarder first at his preparatory school and than at his next school.
The English public school ethic might no longer include the ferocious bullying and caning of the period from
Tom Brown's Schooldays
to the time of Ash's and Hugo's fathers, but she felt sure it hadn't yet eased to the point where boys were encouraged to shed tears.
Englishmen—and although Ash had Greek-dark eyes and Greek-black hair he was predominantly English^-did not weep, or only very rarely.
There were a few special circumstances in which they could allow themselves to be visibly moved. Prince Charles had shown grief in public at the funeral of the widely admired old man who had been like a grandfather to him, the murdered Lord Mountbatten. Men wept at the loss of a child, but a child they had known and loved, not one still unborn. And they shed tears when women they loved had died, or been close to death.