Widow in White

Chapter Four: A Friendly Possibility

The maid brought Laura her chocolate in bed as usual the next morning, but at her first sip, Laura's stomach gave a violent lurch. She managed to get to the washstand before she threw up — bile, foul-tasting and clear.

Her fingers shaking, she wiped her face and gingerly sipped some water. When the maid returned, Laura told her to tell Richard that she wouldn't be down for breakfast that morning, then lay back down in bed, her hand over her leaping stomach, her mind racing.

She approached the matter circuitously. How long had she been feeling ill? She could not be quite sure — a few weeks at least. And was it getting worse? By the bile still drying in her sink, it certainly was. Well there. There was definitely something different about her. Now what might the cause of this difference be? It might be cancer. Yes. That was a lovely, friendly possibility. She might be dying. She made herself acquainted with the notion. It had to be a possibility after all. But there were other possibilities too, weren't there? Her hand slid down to her belly, soft and flat.

She didn't feel like she had cancer. She didn't feel like she was dying. She felt tired and nauseous and her dresses were too tight in the chest. She'd felt this way once before.

But Richard could not have children.

In which case, she could not be pregnant.

But she rather thought she was.

In which case, Richard could have children.

Was going to have one.

She was out of bed in an instant, her heart racing, to tell him. But at the door that led to his room she stopped herself. What if she was wrong? What if she really was just sick? No. Before she told him, she had to be absolutely sure. She went back to bed where she sat counting the weeks on her fingers, trying to remember when she'd last bled and when the nausea had started. It had been shortly after Edwina was born — in April then? March?

It was the second week of May already. Laura's heart skipped a beat. Not cancer, she hoped. The other thing.

There was a knock on her door and Richard came in, still half-dressed.

"No breakfast today?" he asked.

"No. I— I'm not very hungry."

"Hm."

He sat down at the edge of her bed and narrowed his eyes at her. She blushed, feeling as though he was reading the thought she dared not yet tell him.

"It's because of Neil, isn't it?" Richard said finally.

Laura breathed a sigh of relief. "No. I— I just drank too much champagne last night at Lady Harriet's. I don't feel very well."

He raised his eyebrows. "So it is because of Neil."

"Richard."

"You never drink too much," he said, poking her gently in the ribs. "I don't want you to be afraid of Neil."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Then why are you avoiding him?"

Laura opened her mouth to argue, then realized it was better to let Richard believe it. She shrugged.

"Perhaps we shouldn't inflict ourselves on each other first thing in the morning. In the afternoons, I think we might get on better."

Richard pressed his lips tightly together then released them. "Well. If that's how you feel."

He leaned in for a kiss, but Laura pushed him away, still uncomfortably aware of the taste of bile on her lips.

Richard looked surprised. "Have I done something wrong?"