The adulteress

They both watched me ... slyly, I thought, and I detected a certain speculation in their eyes and I guessed that it was one of them who had listened outside my door last night. One of them knew that I had had a lover in my room.

The journey back was uneventful. I scarcely noticed the places through which we passed. My thoughts were back with Gerard. My heart was heavy; I believed that I could never again know any happiness. I saw before me a life of dreary acceptance.

A great welcome was awaiting me, and when Jean-Louis came toward me—walking with a stick—my conscience smote me so fiercely that I was almost in tears. He thought my emotion was due to our reunion and I could see that he was happily gratified.

"It's seemed so long," he cried. "Oh, I'm so happy that you are back."

"And how are you, Jean-Louis?" I said. "I was so distressed. What is this about your spine?"

"Nothing much. I think they're making a fuss. I just get a sort of crick in my back if I walk too fast."

I looked into his dear face and I knew that he was making light of his ailment. His first thought would be that he didn't want to worry me. I felt mean, besmirched ... wicked.

My mother with Sabrina and Dickon were waiting for me.

They embraced me lovingly. Dickon was dancing round. "What was it like?" he cried. "Tell us about Eversleigh. When are you going to have it?"

"Not for years and years, I hope," I said. "Uncle Carl ... I call him uncle because we couldn't quite work out the relationship ... is going to live for a long time."

"How do you know?" asked Dickon, narrowing his eyes.

"Because, Dickon, I called in the doctor and he gave a good report."

"A doctor?" said Sabrina. "Is he ill then?"

"No ... no, but I thought in the circumstances it was a good thing."

My mother was laughing. "You've clearly had an interesting time," she said.

"Yes ... yes, very."

"You must tell us all about it."

Oh not all, not all! I thought.

So I was back. It was like stepping into a world of reality after having visited some fantastic planet.

I listened to their account of all that had happened while I was away. I seemed very tame and expected.

"It was like years," Jean-Louis told me.

My mother came to my room when I was alone there. Clearly she wanted confidences.

"Jean-Louis?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, it was sad that you weren't here when we discovered this thing. Some damage to his spine. They don't know what. Poor Jean-Louis, he is so brave ... pretends it is nothing much, but I am sure there is some pain. Don't look so sad, dear. It'll be better now you're home. He missed you so much. I think he was terribly worried. He got it into his head that something might happen and he'd lose you. All these tales about highwaymen. I think they're rather exaggerated."

"Of course they are. We don't hear about the thousands of people who make safe journeys ... only those who come to grief."

"That's what I told him. But he seemed to get it into his mind that something might go wrong. I expect he was feeling low about all this. Now you're back, darling, everything will be all right."

How could I ever have deserted them! I had always known in my heart that I never could.

So I resumed my quiet life. I discovered that Jean-Louis's trouble was more than he would have us believe. I was sure that often he felt pain although he did not mention it. He was so pleased that I was home and nothing could have been more apparent.

There must have been a change in my attitude. I was more tender, more thoughtful than I had been before. He noticed it and thought it was due to his disability; he must have no suspicion, I told myself, of the terrible remorse from which I felt I would never escape.

Sometimes during the night I thought of Gerard, dreamed of him. Poor Jean-Louis, with whom I had never quite attained the heights of passion, had been a tender lover, thoughtful always—and still was, but my mind was filled with erotic imaginings of my experiences with my lost lover.

I suppose it was inevitable. I was, it appeared, able to bear children, the fault—if that was what it could be called—lay with Jean-Louis; and after my careless abandon, the frequency of our lovemaking, it would have been strange if—my partner being a normal potent man—I did not conceive.

And this, of course, was exactly what had happened.

A few weeks after my return I knew for sure that I was pregnant and I was equally sure who was the father of my child.

Here was a dilemma. It had not occurred to me that this would happen because I had always thought of myself as a barren woman. Why is it that when a couple are not fruitful it is always assumed that the deficiency is with the woman?

It was clearly not so in my case.

There was only one course open to me for our sanity, for our happiness. Jean-Louis must believe that the child was his. This would be a perfectly reasonable assumption, particularly as he and my mother—the entire family—would never believe that I would break my marriage vows.