But she had fully expected Richard to come to her the next day and call her Meg and look at her with the new tenderness. She had pictured him sitting on the edge of her bed and holding her hand as she told him about their child. Then he would hold her and kiss her again and tell her that he loved her. And they would live happily ever after.

Instead, she had waited until well into the afternoon and then he had come and stood beside her bed for no longer than five minutes and had called her "my dear." He had asked after her health, had forbidden her to get up either for dinner or during the next day, and had left. She had not seen him for the rest of the day. And yesterday had seen a repeat performance.

Margaret had been bitterly disappointed-and she still held the secret of her pregnancy. She had hoped desperately that today, when Richard had finally allowed her downstairs to bid good-bye to their guests, he would treat her again with the intimacy that had begun three days before. Her hopes had soared when he had suggested a walk and then had led her directly to the rose garden. She had thought his suggestion a deliberate attempt to recapture the atmosphere of that earlier occasion when she had spoiled an intimate moment.

Yet all he had done was look at her new rosebuds with her and talk about his drainage schemes. And she was still just "my dear." They had strolled past the fountain as if it were just any fountain anywhere.

Margaret could have cried with vexation. Had he changed his mind? Had his behavior of the other night been motivated only by the music and the moonlight and the smell of roses? Had it only been wishful thinking to imagine that he was growing to love her?

In his own room, Brampton was feeling equally dissatisfied with the way things had gone in the last few days. He had been worried about his wife, but had concluded that the doctor must be right in saying that it was really only rest that she needed. After his insisting that she stay in bed for two days, she was looking better today. Some color had returned to her cheeks.

But in those two days they had returned to their former relationship, all trace of the warmth that had been growing between them gone. He had realized fully on the night of the fair that he loved his wife-loved her as a whole person. He loved her character, her sweetness, her quietness, her kindness; he loved her appearance, the slender daintiness of her, the heart-shaped face with the large, calm eyes, and the heavy brown braids; and he wanted her with more sexual longing than he had ever wanted any woman-even his angel, incredible as it seemed to him.

On that night he had believed that she felt the same way. He remembered the way she had danced with him, as if she shared in perfect harmony the rhythm of his body, and the way she had clung to his arm as they walked to the rose garden, and the way her body had fitted itself to his of her own free will when he kissed her. He remembered that she had not pulled away from him when the kiss was over, but had nestled her head on his shoulder and had seemed contented to be held.

Brampton had felt desire rise in him as they had stood there. He had been about to tell her that he loved her, about to suggest that they abandon their guests to their own devices for a while and return to the house. He had wanted to take her to his own bed and make love to her.

It had seemed to him that it was a singularly inopportune time for her to faint! And why had she done so? Could tiredness after all the busy activity of the previous few weeks entirely explain it? Was it possible that she had been frightened by the passion she could feel developing in their relationship? Was she contented to let things remain as they always had been? And yet her manner in the bedroom after the doctor had seen her had seemed unusually tender.

When he had visited her the next day, Brampton had been nervous and unsure of himself. He did not know how he should behave. He had decided to take his cue from her. He had hoped desperately that she would smile at him, perhaps even hold out her arms to him, or at least show by her expression that she remembered the night before and wished to continue what they had started.

But there had been nothing. She had been lying on her back, the bedcovers drawn up under her arms, her hands clasped loosely over one another, her face with its usual expression of calm. Her eyes had watched him as he approached the bed, but there was nothing in them to encourage him. He had stood there formally, asking about her health, playing the heavy-handed lord and master by ordering her to remain in bed, leaving after five minutes, when he had really wanted to sit down beside her, draw her into his arms, and…

Brampton gave a loud exclamation of disgust and threw from him the third ruined neckcloth. Stevens patiently handed him another freshly laundered and freshly starched one and watched resignedly as his master proceeded to mangle that one too. He knew there was no point in offering to make the knot and arrange the folds himself. His lordship always insisted on dressing himself.

Brampton gave himself a mental shakedown. Earlier that afternoon he had been determined to force the issue. She was up again and looking well; their guests had left; they had an hour in which to be alone before they need think of dressing for dinner.

He decided to take her back to the rose garden, to see if he could rekindle that sympathy there had been between them there three evenings before. At least he must say something to her, find out if there was any chance that she could grow to love him.

Instead he had been like a nervous schoolboy, afraid to broach the subject uppermost in his mind, not knowing how to begin, terrified of being rejected or-worse-of having her placid eyes turn on him in incomprehension. He had prattled on about his plans for draining the marsh; how much less romantic could he get! The trouble was that she was such a damned good listener, so interested and sympathetic. Before he had known it, he had really warmed to his subject, and the time seemed totally wrong for trying to broach more personal matters.

So it still remained for this unseen barrier between his wife and himself to be broken down. Would the time ever be right? And he was planning to leave tomorrow for a few days in London.


Later that evening, the three ladies were alone in the blue salon. Lord Brampton and his brother were still in the dining room drinking their port. The dowager settled herself close to the fire she had requested, though it seemed to the other two ladies unnecessary on so warm a night. She was working at some needlepoint. Charlotte had wandered over to the pianoforte and was picking out a tune with one finger. Margaret followed her across the room and stood behind the piano bench.

"Do you wish me to bring some music, Lottie?" she asked.

Charlotte sighed and stopped playing. "No," she said, "I do not wish to play."

"Are you missing the company?"

"No, not really, Meg. I think it is time I returned to Mama and Papa."

"Lottie! I thought you would be contented to live with Richard and me until-well, until you are settled for yourself."

"I-I do not wish to sound ungrateful," Charlotte said, pressing down the piano keys at random with the fingers of her right hand, "but I am homesick, Meg."

Margaret looked at her sister in astonishment and felt a sharp stab of guilt. Lottie's voice was so lifeless, so unhappy, so unlike her usual self! How long had she been this way? Had it happened only today as a result of the guests leaving? Or had something happened to cause the change? Margaret could not be at all certain of the answers to her own questions. She realized that almost ever since they had retired to the country she had been so busy with the entertainment of their guests and the organization of the fair, and she had been so wrapped up in her own unsatisfactory relationship with Richard, that she had almost totally neglected her sister. And the whole idea of the house party had been to entertain Lottie. Margaret had just naturally assumed that her normally exuberant sister was enjoying herself. She seemed to be a girl that just did not have problems.

Margaret sat down beside her sister on the bench and spoke quietly so that her mother-in-law would not overhear. "What is wrong, Lottie?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," Charlotte said, attempting to smile. "I am just blue-deviled. I need a change of scene, Meg."

"Is it Charles?"

"Charles?"

"Has he not come up to scratch, Lottie? He seems to favor your company so much that I must admit I had expected some declaration before now."

"Charles?" Charlotte repeated, looking up, startled. "Oh, Meg, you are quite out there. Charles just likes my company because-well, just because. He is just a friend, Meg. We do not like each other in that way."

Margaret felt even more guilty. Here was the little sister that she had always thought she knew inside out. "Are you bamming me?" she asked. "But, Lottie, there is someone, is there not?"

Charlotte resumed her absentminded effort to pick out a tune on the keyboard.

"Is it Mr. Northcott, Lottie?"

"Perhaps you could bring me some music, Meg."

"Lottie, is it?"

"I don't wish ever to talk about him. He is conceited and he is not a gentleman."

"Mr. Northcott?"

Charlotte did not reply.

"What has he done, Lottie?" Margaret persisted. "Has he been bothering you? Has he been trying to make love to you?"

Charlotte put her hands in her lap and looked down at them. "He called me a flirt."