Those days were spent in happy anticipation, a tentative agreement to be pleasant between us, any anxieties quickly thrust aside by the feeling of my child slowly growing inside me, by the knowledge that I would be a Mother. Mother of the heir to the du Bourg fortune, mother of Damien's firstborn, mother of a child who would look to me as his entire world.
In the oppressive heat of last summer, I was a satisfied woman, pleased to enter the hallowed halls of the club of motherhood.
It helped also that Damien stayed in his bedchamber, that he no longer felt inclined to make frequent nighttime sojourns to my suite and push his body into mine in a way I thought I could never get used to, could never enjoy. If I found him in the back hall, leaning a little too close to a giggling chambermaid, I was prepared to pretend I had seen nothing. It was a flirtation, nothing more; of course he was not acting upon it. Not in my house, not in my presence, not when I was enceinte. Men, attractive men like Damien, flirt as a matter of course. It means nothing. I was mistress of Rosa de Montana, I was Damien's wife.
I was stupidly naive, is what I was.
In late September I was dressing for dinner, as we were to entertain the Spanish mayor and a few other government officials and their wives, when I felt a cramp in my abdomen. A twinge, I assured myself, nothing more. My belly was rounding quite nicely, necessitating less restrictive stays, and I urged my maid to leave the laces bound as loosely as possible.
"Madame?" she asked. "I cannot make them any looser without it falling off."
The pain that came at the moment was so sharp, so sudden, that I bent over and sucked in my breath. Fear made perspiration bead on my forehead. It was nothing, of course it was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Just the normal stretching and discomfort, but I knew immediately I was lying to myself The pain had been too severe, too agonizing to be anything but bad tidings.
"Madame!" she exclaimed, touching my back as if to assist.
"Never mind, Gigi," I said as I stood up, the pain subsiding slightly. "I'm fine. Just help me into my gown,"
But by the time she was finished dressing me, and the emerald necklace that had been a wedding gift from Damien lay across my pale, powdered chest, I felt the dreaded warm, moist sensation down my thighs, now expected and so very unwanted. "That will be all, Gigi, thank you," I said tightly, wanting to be alone.
"Yes, Madame."
She curtseyed and left and I carefully descended to the edge of the bed, hand on my belly. A quick lift of my skirt revealed what I had feared—I was bleeding, quickly, violently, great torrents of red careening down over my thighs and knee. The front of my shift was blooming scarlet, the stain growing with each second. I was terrified to move, frightened that I would make it worse, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that it was too late, that for whatever reason, I would not be having this child, that my baby, my hope, my heart, was no longer alive.
The pain robbed me of breath, the cramps angry and convulsive, sweeping over me in great rolling waves, and I began to feel dizzy, my tears blurring my vision, my sorrow clogging my throat. I do not know how long I was there, but long enough for my husband to knock sharply and enter my room, long impatient strides moving him quickly inside the door.
"What in hell is taking you so long?" he demanded. "We have guests in the salon wondering where their hostess is."
I tried to speak, tried to say something, anything, but only a tight, small sob made its way out of my mouth.
Damien stopped and took in the sight in front of him. His face changed, his shoulders dropped, his eyes lost their coolness. "Oh, Marie, no." He moved over to me, went down on his knees in front of me, took in all the red, now staining my white dress itself, shifted my skirts, and swore violently at what he saw.
My tears came faster. His hands went into his hair as he stared between my limbs, his jaw set, nostrils flaring in anger. Then he got control of himself, unclenched his fists, and said carefully, "Let me help you out of that dress."
"I shouldn't move… maybe the physician… perhaps …" I couldn't express what I feared, what I hoped, but Damien knew.
He shook his head and glanced up at me. "No, darling, it's too late for help. I see the baby."
"Oh!" I put my hands in front of my face, my grief threatening to pull me under in a faint.
"Stay with me now." Damien squeezed my knees and reached for the pull.
When my maid entered the room, Damien already had me out of my evening gown, and it lay crumpled and ruined on the floor, the violent red blood appearing a rich violet on the blue overskirt. Gigi gasped.
Damien glanced back at her. "Send for the physician and inform our guests that Madame du Bourg is indisposed this evening. I'll be down shortly, but have dinner served now. Then send someone up to run a bath for Madame."
Gigi had been curtsying, bobbing up and down rapidly as she is wont to do, but at his last words her head snapped up. "Monsieur, I don't think putting her in the water… it is not healthy for a woman who… it is not the best course…" She trailed off, unsure how to convey what she meant without being impolite.
I recognized her intent. A woman bleeding heavily should not be put in the bath, and I appreciated her care and concern.
But Damien did not. He turned and roared at her, "I do not believe the master of this house asked for the opinion of his wife's chambermaid. Now do as I told you!"
"Yes, Monsieur," she said, eyes wide, feet scrambling backward.
Damien took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around something. My stomach clenched, the pain still searing my belly, but that in my heart greater. I leaned forward, wanting to know, wanting to see.
"Don't look, Marie," he said. "It will only upset you more." He quickly covered the bundle with the voluminous folds of my discarded and bloody dress.
"The priest—can you ask the priest to come and bless our baby?" I asked, unable to look away from my gown, not caring that I was still bleeding, only vaguely aware that the room had begun to spin, that my head was hot, mouth thick and dry.
"If it will make you feel better" he said. "But I see no point. A priest can't bring him back to life,"
"But he can pray for his soul." I tried to reassure myself. "And our baby will be in heaven, Damien, with a God who will love him."
My shoe suddenly went flying across the room, slamming into the silk brocaded wall next to my armoire, startling me with his violent burst of anger. Damien hurled the second slipper after the first.