The following morning, Aurelia didn’t wait for Cecily before she was up. Awake, dressed, and already packed.
The moment she entered her bedchamber last night, she had flung herself on the bed and had a long, bitter cry.
She had wept for herself. She wept for her unborn child. And she wept for Max. Because he would never allow himself the love she or this child could give him. One look at his face and she knew. He was horrified. He could not hide it. He could not pretend otherwise.
In a short time she had become his worst nightmare. Both his wife and the mother of his child. Neither two things he ever wanted.
Oh, she loved him. She knew it now. She doubted she had ever stopped. Not since she was nine. She slapped a rogue tear trailing down her cheek. Apparently she had not spent all her tears yet. But he wouldn’t let himself love or be loved. And she wouldn’t stay here, taking whatever scraps he tossed at her. She certainly couldn’t allow her child to feel that way. Ignored. Neglected. Occasionally acknowledged with just enough attention for he or she to know what she was missing.
Cecily entered the room, her eyes widening when she took in the packed trunk. “What’s happening?”
“I’m going to Scotland. To Aunt Daphne. Mama will be venturing there soon. I’m just departing sooner to get settled in,” she said with forced brightness.
“Very well,” Cecily said slowly. “Discounting the fact that you are married now and might be expected to reside with your husband, I thought you didn’t want to live with your Aunt Daphne.”
Aurelia shrugged. “I thought it would be lonely.” And boring. But then, she wouldn’t mind a little tedium. She’d endured enough excitement and upheaval. She stroked her stomach as though she could already feel the child growing there. “I won’t be lonely. I’ll have Aunt Daphne, Mama, the baby . . .” Her gaze locked on Cecily. “And you. I hope I’ll have you.”
Cecily hesitated, and it occurred to Aurelia that perhaps she had plans of her own that did not include rusticating in an obscure corner of Scotland. Then her friend smiled. “Of course. Of course I’ll go with you.”
They embraced. “Now,” Cecily said, “you look about finished here. I’ll send a footman for the trunk and then go pack my things.” She started to leave, but hesitated at the door. “Have you told your husband yet? Does he know you’re leaving?”
Aurelia shook her head. “I’ll leave a note.”
Cecily looked uncertain. “Perhaps you should talk. There could be a chance—”
“No. There’s no chance. He doesn’t want this child.” Again her hand went to her stomach. The prospect of the baby saved her from total bleakness. “And he never wanted me.”
Her heart was broken, but it had not stopped beating. She was not like Max, unable to love. She would love this baby enough for both of them. She had to.
Max woke with a raging headache. The afternoon sunlight streaming into the room felt like knives in his eyeballs. It only took a few moments for the events of the night before to flood over him, and then he knew he deserved every bit of the agony he was experiencing.
Had he actually reacted like such a bloody bastard when Aurelia told him she was increasing? She had to be frightened, dreading the moment she told him. She knew he didn’t want children. He had made that abundantly clear. And then he had gone and acted like he’d been dealt a death blow.
He rose, pressing the base of his palm to one eye and then the other as pain spiked through his skull. He had to see Aurelia. He had to apologize.
He staggered to his feet and made his way to the basin. Splashing water on his face, he studied his red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. He had to apologize and tell her . . .
He looked at himself, wondering if this was the man he wanted to be. Someone who drank himself into a stupor because he’d been given news that would overjoy most husbands. Gazing at himself, he saw a weak man in the mirror.
Weak like his father.
Weak like the man he swore he would never become.
“Hell.” He pushed himself up from the basin, ready to find his wife. Ready to hold her and tell her he was going to be a good father.
He knocked once before opening the door to her chamber. She wasn’t there, which wasn’t so unusual for the middle of the day. He started to turn away when he noticed the doors to her armoire wide-open. He inched forward, his stomach tightening. It was empty. No clothes.
His gaze swung around the room, his stomach now pitching violently. He caught sight of the dressing table. It, too, was clear of items. No brush or perfumes. There was nothing left of her here.
She was gone.
They had been traveling most of the morning when it started to rain. Wind whistled. The normal gentle rocking of the carriage soon grew uneven and jerky. Aurelia began to feel queasy. Typically, her stomach wasn’t so sensitive. She knew the cause could be her condition, but she suspected it had more to do with the turbulence of her feelings.
She was conflicted. As much as she believed she needed to leave for her sake—and her unborn child—it left her slightly ill. She thought of Max’s face when he learned she left. She imagined the shock followed swiftly by tears of regret. She snorted. It was a ridiculous image. Max wallowing in grief because of her was as likely as him loving her.
“Are you all right?” Cecily asked when she noticed her holding her stomach.
Aurelia nodded. “Just a little bumpy.”
“It’s the wind.” She nodded, her gaze skimming the walls of the carriage pensively. “Perhaps we should signal the driver to stop?”
“We’re still a distance from the next town. Even if we stop we’ll still be buffeted with wind and rain,” she reasoned.
The wind howled shrilly then, lifting over the sound of rain. Cecily’s eyes rounded and she angled her head, gazing at Aurelia in a way that seemed to say, Are you certain of that?
“Surely the driver would stop if it’s too dangerous to continue on.” A thin thread of doubt hung to her words.
They held silent for a moment, swaying where they sat on the squabs. The carriage gave a little lurch and Aurelia grasped the strap that hung near her head to keep her balance. She sent Cecily a nervous smile she had intended to be reassuring.
“Perhaps we could find a crofter’s cottage and—” Cecily’s suggestion was cut off as a sudden howl punched through the steady beat of rain.
A thunderous crack followed, reminiscent of bone cracking. When she was a girl, Will had fallen from a tree and broken his arm. She remembered the terrible snapping sound of the bone breaking in that spilt second. This was like that. Ugly and sharp. Only louder.
The carriage slammed into a wall. At least that was how it felt. She knew there were no walls on the north road, but the impact jarred her to the teeth. Her head snapped on her neck as the carriage heaved sideways. She and Cecily tumbled from their seats in a flurry of skirts and tangling limbs. Fear lodged in her throat. Everything slowed to a grinding crawl as they were tossed around the inside of the carriage like marbles in a box. Her chest clenched. Squeezed. Air ceased to flow. Pain scraped her elbow and her mouth opened wide.
A scream reverberated in her ears. Shrill and as endless as the rolling carriage.
It registered dimly. As though she were someone else, somewhere else. Looking down at the scene from afar.
However, the ringing scream was her own.