Byrony nodded, listening to the steady downpour outside. She’d begun to feel dizzy and nauseous earlier in the evening, but had said nothing. She finally admitted to herself that she was sick.
“I hope Del comes home before midnight. But the gentlemen and their political meetings. Ira is at the Pacific Club this evening too, isn’t he, Byrony?”
“Yes. He was delighted that you invited me to spend the evening here with you. He doesn’t like me to be lonely.” Her throat was scratchy, and she felt very hot. Her head was beginning to pound.
Why should you be lonely? Chauncey wanted to ask. You’ve a baby and there’s Irene to keep you company.
“Here it is almost the end of February,” she said instead, “and May seems an indecent decade away. Did you feel as lazy and contented as I do? And as impatient?”
“What?”
“When you were pregnant.”
“Oh, well, yes, I suppose I did. It all seems a long time ago, actually.”
How odd, Chauncey thought, looking at Byrony from beneath her lashes. Here I am feeling so protective toward her, and she is far more experienced than I. “All Saint will tell me is that it hurts. Did you have a very bad time of it?”
Byrony cleared her throat and said carefully, “I suppose it wasn’t very pleasant.”
“Byrony, are you all right? You’re looking very pale.”
Byrony forced a weak smile. “Do you know, I think I’m coming down with something. I haven’t felt quite the thing all day, and now, well, I think my head’s going to burst.”
Chauncey was at Byrony’s side in a moment. She laid her palm over Byrony’s forehead. “You’ve a fever. Shall we send Lucas for Saint?”
“Oh no, Chauncey. I think I’ll just go home and tuck myself into bed.”
“This dreadful rain. It’s a wonder that all of us aren’t sneezing and sniveling about. You just sit still, Byrony, and I’ll tell Lucas to bring the carriage around to the front.”
Byrony didn’t feel like doing anything else. In fact, she wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep for a year. She felt so hot, and the high collar of her gown was choking her. She pulled at it, then shuddered when a sudden chill raced through her. She could count on her fingers the number of times in her life she’d been ill, even with a cold. She hated the weakness, the feeling of helplessness.
“Come on, love. I’ll help you to the front door. Here, let me bundle you up.”
Byrony stood docile and quiet while Chauncey tied her scarf about her neck and helped her into her long cloak. “I’ll check up on you tomorrow, Byrony. If you’re not better, I’ll see to it that Ira fetches Saint. Ah, Lucas. Hold the umbrella high for Mrs. Butler.”
It was so cold. Her bones felt like they were shivering. Byrony huddled in the closed carriage, her eyes closed. She couldn’t see out the windows in any case because of the driving rain and the thick fog. Ira’s house was but a half-mile from the Saxtons’. When the carriage came to a stop, she drew on her reserves and allowed Lucas to help her to the front door. The house was dark.
“Thank you, Lucas. You needn’t see me in. I’ll be all right.”
But he waited, his eyes narrowed in concern, until Byrony had unlocked the front door and disappeared inside.
Where were Eileen and Naomi?
Byrony knew the house well and made her way up the stairs in the darkness. She supposed that Irene and the baby were both asleep. Good, she could be miserable in peace. Her hand was on the doorknob of her bedroom when she chanced to see a gleam of light from beneath Ira’s bedroom door. How odd, she thought, staring at the light. Could Ira be home already? He’d told her he would be quite late and not to come back early from her visit to Chauncey Saxton.
Perhaps she should ask Ira to fetch Saint. She walked toward his closed door. She raised her hand to knock, then paused, frowning. There were noises coming from within. Strange noises. Was that a moan? Could Ira be ill? She gripped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened easily, silently, and Byrony peeked into the room.
There was one lamp lit, casting dim shadows.
There was another moan, from the bed.
She started to call out his name. Nothing came out of her mouth. It wasn’t a man moaning, it was a woman. She stood frozen, shock and surprise holding her silent.
“Ira, please, please.”
“Yes, my love. God, yes.”
Irene’s voice. Ira’s voice. Lovers’ voices.