All the men were in the taproom, though it seemed likely that they were seeking out one another’s company rather than their landlord’s ale, the marquess thought, grimacing as he tasted it again. Christmas would be beginning now at the Whittakers’, with all its rich and tasty foods and drinks and with all its congenial company. He pictured Lady Frazer and put the image from his mind with a mental sigh.

Lord Birkin did not stay long. He could not concentrate on the conversation. It was true that she did not seem to find his company of any interest, and equally true that she must be horrified at the thought of sharing a bed with him all night. But even so it seemed somehow wrong to sit belowstairs, making conversation with the other gentlemen guests while she was forced to be alone in their small and shabby bedchamber.

A candle still burned in their room, though she was lying far to one side of the bed with her eyes closed. He could not tell if she slept or not. He undressed, wondering if she would open her eyes, finding it strange to think that they had never allowed themselves to become familiar with each other physically. They had never seen each other unclothed. He wished again that it were possible to go back to the beginning of their marriage. He would do so many things differently. Now it seemed too late. How did one change things when patterns had been set and habits had become ingrained?

He blew out the candle and climbed into bed, keeping close to the edge.

But it was impossible to sleep and impossible to believe that she slept.

She was too still, too quiet. He almost laughed out loud. They had been married for longer than three years and yet were behaving like a couple of strangers thrown together in embarrassing proximity. But he did not laugh; he was not really amused.

“Sally?” He spoke softly and reached out a hand to touch her arm.

“Yes?”

But what was there to say when one had been married to a woman for so long and had never spoken from the heart? Patterns could not so easily be broken. Instead of speaking he moved closer and began the familiar and dispassionate ritual of raising her nightgown and positioning himself on top of her.

All their actions, hers and his, were as they always were. There were never variations. She allowed him to spread her legs, though she did not do it for him, and she lifted herself slightly for his hands to slide beneath. He put himself firmly inside her, settled his face in her hair, felt her hands come to his shoulders, and worked in her with firm, rhythmic strokes until his seed sprang. He was always careful not to indulge himself by prolonging the intercourse. She never gave the slightest sign of either pleasure or distaste. She was a dutiful wife.

And yet he wondered after he had disengaged himself from her and settled at her side why he carried out the ritual at all, since it brought neither of them any great pleasure and was not performed frequently enough for there to be any realistic expectation that she would conceive. Why did he do it at all when his desires and energies could be worked out on women who were well paid to suffer the indignity?

Perhaps because he needed her?Because he loved her? But of what use was his love when he had never been able to tell her and when he had never taken the opportunity to cultivate her love at the beginning, when she had perhaps been fond of him?

Lady Birkin lay still, willing sleep to come. Were they reasonably warm and comfortable in the stable? she wondered. Did the man care for his wife? Was she lying in his arms? Was he murmuring words of love to her to put her to sleep? Did her pregnancy bring her discomfort? What did it feel like to be heavy with child-with one’s husband’s child? She burrowed her head into the hard pillow, imagining as she often did at night to put herself to sleep that it was an arm, that there was a warm chest against her forehead and the steady beat of a heart against her ear. Her hand, moving up to pull the pillow against her face, brushed a real arm and moved hastily away from it.

Breakfast was late. It was not that the night before had been busy and exciting enough to necessitate their sleeping on in the morning. And it was certainly not that the beds were comfortable enough or the rooms warm and cozy enough to invite late sleeping. It was more, perhaps, lethargy, and the knowledge that there was not a great deal to get up for. Even if the rain had stopped, travel would have been impossible.

But the rain had not stopped. Each guest awoke to the sound of it beating against the windows, only marginally lighter than it had been the day before.

And so breakfast was late. When the guests emerged from their rooms and gathered in the dining room, it seemed that only the quiet gentleman had been sitting there for some time, patiently awaiting the arrival of his meal.

Greasy eggs and burned toast accompanied complaints about other matters.

Eugenia was sure to have taken a chill, Miss Amelia Horn declared, having been forced to sleep between damp sheets. Miss Eugenia Horn flushed at the indecorous mention of sleep and sheets in the hearing of gentlemen. Colonel Forbes complained about the lumps in his bed and swore there were coals in the mattress. Mrs. Forbes nodded her agreement. The Marquess of Lytton lamented the fact that the coal fire in his room had been allowed to die a natural death the night before and had not been resuscitated in the morning. Lord Birkin wondered if they would be expected to make up their own beds. Lady Birkin declared that the ladies could not possibly be expected to sit in their rooms all day long. In the absence of any private parlors, the gentlemen must expect their company in the taproom and the dining room. The other ladies agreed. Even Pamela Wilder nodded her head.

“That is the most sensible suggestion anyone has made yet this morning,” the Marquess of Lytton said, nodding his approval to Lady Birkin and fixing his eyes on Pamela.

The innkeeper’s wife was pouring muddy coffee for those foolish enough or bored enough to require a second cup. The innkeeper appeared in the doorway.

“You’d best come, Letty,” he said. “I told yer we should ’ave nothing to do with ’em. Now look at what’s gone and ’appened.”

“What ’as ’appened?” The coffee urn paused over the quiet gentleman’s cup as Mrs. Palmer looked up at her husband. “ ’Ave they gone and stole an ’orse, Joe?”

“I wish they ’ad,” Mr. Palmer said fervently. “I wish they ’ad, Letty.

But no such luck. ’E’s in the taproom.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s ’aving ’er pains. In our stable, mind.”

“Oh, Lord love us,” Mrs. Palmer said. The quiet gentleman was still waiting for his coffee. “She can’t ’ave it there, Joe. Who ever ’eard of anyone ’aving a baby in a stable?”

The quiet gentleman smiled and appeared to resign himself to going without his coffee.

“Oh.” Lady Birkin was on her feet. “The poor woman.How dreadful.” She looked at her husband in some distress. “She must be taken extra blankets.”

“There ain’t no extra blankets,” Mrs. Palmer said tartly. “We ’ave a full ’ouse, my lady.”

Lady Birkin looked appealingly at her husband. “Then she must have the blankets from our bed,” she said. “We will manage without, won’t we, Henry?” She reached out a hand to him and he took it.

“Perhaps one from your bed and one from ours, Lady Birkin,” Mrs. Forbes said. “Then we will both have something left.”

“I have a shawl,” Miss Eugenia Horn said. “A warm woolen one that I knitted myself. I shall send it out. Perhaps it will do for wrapping the baby when it is, ah, born.” She flushed.

“And I will send out my smelling salts,” Miss Amelia Horn said. “The poor woman will probably need them.”

“I have a room,” Pamela said quietly. “She must be carried up there.”

“We don’t ’ave no other room to put you in, miss,” Mrs. Palmer said.

“And I won’t ’ave no one in the taproom,” Mr. Palmer added firmly.

“Then I shall sleep in the stable tonight,” Pamela said.

The Marquess of Lytton got to his feet. “Is the husband large and strong?” he asked the innkeeper. “If not, I shall carry the woman in from the stable myself. To my room. Miss Wilder may keep hers. And you will, my good man, have someone in the taproom. Tonight. Me.”

Mr. Palmer did not argue.

“I’ll lend a hand,” Lord Birkin said, and the two gentlemen left the room together, followed by Mr. Palmer.

“Perhaps,” Lady Birkin said, looking at the innkeeper’s wife, who appeared to have been struck with paralysis, “you should have coals sent up to Lord Lytton’s room to warm it.”

“Lord love us,” Mrs. Palmer said, “I ’ave breakfast to clear away, my lady, and dishes to wash before I gets to the rooms.”

Colonel Forbes puffed to his feet. “I have never heard the like,” he said. “I never have. An inn with no help. Where are the coals, ma’am? I shall carry some up myself.”

Mrs. Forbes nodded her approval as her husband strode from the room.

“I shall go up and get the bed ready,” Pamela said, “if you will tell me which room is Lord Lytton’s, ma’am.” She flushed rosily.

“That would be improper, dear,” Miss Eugenia Horn said. “Though, of course, it is not his lordship’s room any longer, is it? I shall come with you nevertheless.”

“Thank you,” Pamela said.

“And I shall go and fetch your shawl, Eugenia, and my smelling salts,”

Miss Amelia Horn said.

“You will send for a midwife?” Lady Birkin said to Mrs. Palmer.

“Oh, Lord, my lady,” Mrs. Palmer said. “There is no midwife for five miles, and she wouldn’t come ’ere anyhow for no woman what can’t pay as like as not.”

“I see,” Lady Birkin said. “So we are on our own. Have you ever assisted at a birth, Mrs. Palmer?”