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And something else occurs to me. Like a concrete block falling on me.
Something that should have occurred to me a long time ago.
I count back, one month, another. All the way back to that night in Cap Ferrat.
And then, with a dawning sense of something like horror, I think about how many times I’ve eaten my feelings in these months and kept thinking I wasaboutto feel better when my period came.
But it never did.
And I was so busy I forgot about it.
I can hear my own breathing now. Because in all my years, I have never, ever missed a period. I’ve never been so much as a day late. If it weren’t for that night, and that man, and how lost I was in him, I would have realized this sooner.
Wouldn’t I?
I stand up abruptly, gather my things, and stride toward the front office. I smile at Tess, mouthing that I have to go do something. She waves me off, clearly talking to some kind of salesperson on the phone. I can tell because her Jersey accent is even more prominent than usual.
My mind is whirling on the elevator down and I practically sprint out the front of the building, then down a few blocks until I find a drugstore. I give thanks for the total disinterest of cashiers in New York City, purchase the test, and then make myself walk all the way home, to see if that calms me.
It does not.
I love my little apartment not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I happily pay for the neighborhood and not anything like space. But then, I’m rarely here. I’ve made sure that when I am, it’s as welcoming as possible.
Though today it doesn’t feel welcoming at all. I’m not sure what would.
I throw my bag on the counter in my kitchen and tear open the box, scowling at the instructions. It suggests first thing in the morning for the best results—well. I’m not waiting.
I perform the necessary tasks, set up the test, and set a timer on my phone.
Then I wait through the longest few minutes of my entire life.
When my phone starts bleating at me, I blow out a breath. I walk back into my tiny bathroom with its prewar black and white tiles.
Then I stare down at the two blue lines that blaze there on my test.
Unmistakably.
For a long time, I do nothing.
I simply stand there. Maybe breathing, maybe not.
I straighten, rub my eyes, and look again, but nothing changes.
The truth is as unmistakable as those two blue lines.
I’m pregnant.
Withhischild.
With theMarquess of Patrias’sbaby.
“I can’t wait to go to Spain and tell him,” I tell my reflection in the mirror, when I can speak. Though I have to hold myself up against the sink. “I hope he’s pleased. Right before I kill him.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ittakesmelonger to get to Spain than it should, and not only because I fly commercial the way I usually do. Or even because I wait to see my doctor before I go. It’s almost as if there’s a part of me that’s dragging her feet, in no rush to leap into the confrontation I know is coming.
Or possibly I prefer my fictional versions of the man who came into my life as abruptly as he left it.