Page 104 of Duke of Iron
Her father grunted, but did not rise. “The oven’s not the first place I’d look, but I can’t argue the resemblance. Good afternoon, dearest May.” He nodded.
May smiled, if one could call it that, with her heart thrashing in her chest. “Father. Mother. You are both looking remarkably well.” She kissed her father’s cheeks.
Her father’s gaze gleamed. “They tell me I’m in the pink of health.”
Dorothy, still absorbed by Rydal, pressed her nose to his. “I would have died without my grandchildren, you know. Absolutely died. Your father, the reprobate, refused to believe in the restorative power of babies.” She transferred the child to her husband, ignoring his protest. “This may not be my grandchild, but I am happy nevertheless.”
“I am not sure I believe that yet,” said Albert, but he held the baby with an expertise that belied his words. Rydal, delighted by the lapel of the old Duke’s coat, attempted to eat it.
Dorothy stopped fussing and drew May to the sofa with a conspiratorial air. “Come. Sit by me. Tell me everything. You are too thin. Do you eat? Do you sleep? Is Irondale impossible?”
May sat, because resistance was hopeless and she had not the energy to muster it. She was, in fact, too thin; her stays had gone up a hole in the last fortnight, and sleep was a foreign country she visited only in transit from one worry to another.
“We are well enough,” she said. “The house is… lively.” She did not mention that she had barely seen Logan in the last two days, that when they met at dinner, they ate in silence, and that she had escaped afterward with the excuse of an ill-fitting shoe.
She did not mention the way he looked at her sometimes, as if trying to memorize her face for later use, or the way she had lain awake last night, palms pressed to her belly, counting the seconds between each far-off hoofbeat as he returned, late, from wherever he went.
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “You are not telling me the truth. I can always tell.”
May tried a smile, then let it drop. “I am… tired. There is a great deal to do. The party, the baby, and?—”
“Nonsense!,” said Dorothy with a glare. “There is always a great deal to do. If you are not happy, you must say so.” She shot a glance at her husband, who was pretending to be absorbed in Rydal’s efforts to eat his signet ring. “Go on, darling. You may say it. You have always been the honest one.”
May swallowed, hard. “I am not unhappy, Mother. I am only… I need to speak with you. Alone, if you please.”
Dorothy blinked in surprise but quickly recovered and then announced, “We will take a turn in the garden. May has always found the air bracing.”
Her father barely looked up. “If you wish to make confessions, let me know when you return. I’ve a fine bottle of port ready for the aftermath.”
Dorothy swept out with May on her arm, the pair of them a study in contrasts—Dorothy tall, regal, with every strand of hair marshaled into a glossy chignon, May hunched and shadow-eyed, her spectacles a mask against the world.
They passed the clipped yew hedges and the beds of early roses. Dorothy waited until they were well away from the windows before speaking. “Is it Logan? Has he been unfaithful? Has he hurt you?”
May shook her head instantly, and then more slowly. “No. He has not.”
“Then what is it?” Dorothy stopped, blocking the path with her body. “Is it money? Are you unwell? Has your?—”
May took a breath. “Mother. I think I am… expecting.”
A silence dropped between them. Then Dorothy shrieked. “Oh, May! My darling girl!” She seized May in an embrace so fierce it crushed her spectacles against her cheek. “You are with child!”
“Mother, shush—” May hissed, glancing at the house, but it was hopeless.
Dorothy spun her around. “When did you know? How far along? Have you told Logan? Oh, I must write to your sisters at once?—”
May squirmed free, catching her breath. “Mother, please. I am not sure. It is… early.”
Dorothy’s face was flushed with joy, and her hands were trembling. “But you must tell Logan. You must! He will be beside himself. Oh, I am so proud of you, darling. I always knew you would be the one to give me my first grandchild—so sensible, so—” She stopped, frowning. “But you do not look happy.”
May tried to compose herself. She was happy, in a way—a trembling, high-strung way, like the first note of a string quartet before it resolved. But the fear was a sour undernote, spoiling every harmony.
“I am afraid,” she said quietly.
Dorothy softened. “Of what, dearest?”
May hesitated. She could not say, of being left alone. Of failing. Of what Logan would say, or do, or not say, or not do. “Of the pain,” she settled on. “Of what comes after.”
Dorothy laughed. “Oh, my darling. It is the sweetest sort of pain, I promise. When it is over, you will never remember a moment of it, except for the baby you hold.”
