Page 58 of Midnight Rider

“Neither am I.”

“You meant it, about a child?” he asked after a minute, drawing back to search her eyes.

“I meant it.”

“Then we’ll see what happens.”

She smiled at him. “Yes.”

* * *

THEYWENTDOWNSTAIRSTOGETHER,only to find the parlor deserted. “They’ve gone to their rooms, I imagine,” Eduardo said with a rueful smile. “Probably they felt you needed rest more than conversation.”

She looked up at him worriedly. “You don’t think they heard us?” she asked.

He smiled. “Our rooms are on the other end of the house. No one heard us.”

She wondered if she should confess that she understood what he’d said to her. She searched his dark eyes and decided to wait, just a little longer. She loved him with all her heart. It was paradise itself to know that he shared those feelings. At least, she thought he did. She remembered an old saying, that a man said such things to a woman when he wanted to ensure her cooperation. Perhaps if she were patient, for just a little longer, she might learn what she most wanted to know about his feelings for her.

* * *

THEYSETTLEDINTOANEWANDconsuming togetherness, which was heightened by Lupe’s announcement that she was returning to Granada within the week. Thecondessawas remaining for another few weeks. This news wasn’t completely welcomed by Bernadette at first. But when Lupe was gone, the old woman searched out her new granddaughter-in-law in the parlor.

Thecondessa,leaning heavily on her silver-topped cane, sat down gingerly in a small wing chair across from Bernadette’s. Her narrow eyes focused on the intricate stitches the younger woman was putting into the bodice of a new dress she was making.

“You have a flair for this,” thecondessasaid a little stiffly.

Bernadette stared at her. “My grandmother used to visit us occasionally. She taught me to sew, and to crochet.”

“I enjoy these occupations, as well,” came the reply. Thecondessashifted in the chair, rustling the black taffeta skirt of her high-necked dress. “Did your mother do handiwork?”

“My mother died at my birth,” Bernadette said simply. “I never knew her.”

The old woman frowned. “You were an only child?”

Bernadette shook her head. “I had an older sister. She died in childbirth. I have a brother, Albert. He and his wife and son live in Maine.”

Thecondessastared down at the tips of her shoes peeking out from under her long skirt. She seemed lost in thought. “Childbirth must hold some...terror for you, then.”

“A little,” Bernadette confessed. She looked up from her stitching. “But a physician in New York told me that it would not be especially dangerous for me. I have wide hips, you see, and a strong constitution. Well, except for my lungs,” she added with a rueful smile.

Thecondessacleared her throat and wiped her lips with a delicately embroidered silk handkerchief clenched in one small hand. “My grandson seems quite capable of dealing with you when your lungs give you trouble.”

“He asked Maria, our housekeeper, what to do,” she explained. “He was concerned that my father was rather indifferent to my condition.” She sighed. “My father has changed a great deal since my marriage to Eduardo. He blamed me for my mother’s death for a long time. But he seems very different these days. I think he may even care for me a little.”

Thecondessalooked ruffled. “A child is not responsible for its own birth,” she said haughtily. She stared at Bernadette, and it was almost as if the old woman could see the lonely, insecure child she’d once been. The old face softened a little. “My son was my whole world. I raised him and educated him, and permitted him to come here, to inherit this home which my husband’s father had built.” Her face hardened. “He met that woman in San Antonio, at a fiesta, and dazzled her with his charm and his wealth and his inheritance. They married against my wishes, and for many years we did not even speak.” She drew in a slow breath, and the pain of the telling was in the lines in her face. She looked suddenly very old and fragile. “When the news came that he had died, I thought I would die, as well.” The old woman’s lower lip trembled, and tears, great hot tears, rolled down the delicate contours of her wrinkled face.

Bernadette put down her needlework, got to her feet and sank to her knees at the old woman’s side, holding her while she cried.

“I have...been tormented,” thecondessawept. “I loved my son so!”

“Of course you did.”

Thecondessawiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “You cannot know the suffering his death caused me.”

“I think I have some idea of it.” She smiled. “You should talk to God more often,” she murmured. “He listens. I talk to Him all the time. I expect He tires of my endless conversation.”

Thecondessaactually smiled. She reached out and touched Bernadette’s cheek lightly. “My child, I never expected comfort from you. I have been very unkind.” She grimaced. “Eduardo became my life when he was sent home to me as a boy to be raised. I was jealous, and afraid for him when we learned he would marry a rich American woman. I could see history repeating itself and I thought I could not bear it.”

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