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"Didn't you love your father, Madame Tate?" I asked softly.

She replied with a short, thin laugh, and then said, "Love him? Of course. He demanded it."

"How can you demand love?" I asked.

"My father could demand the sun to rise or fall." "I don't understand," I said.

"Be happy you don't," she replied, and then, with her hand on her 1pwer back as if she really did suffer from the same aches I experienced, she groaned and added, "I've walked enough. Watch the time," she warned, "and be sure to get upstairs before anyone can discover you."

She left me standing in the corridor.

On my way back upstairs, I paused in the doorway of the den and gazed up at the portrait of Gladys Tate's father. What sort of a man thought that love demanded was any sort of love at all? I wondered. His painted eyes seethed to be shooting needles my way and his firm lips appeared caught in a sneer. I didn't linger and went up to my tiny world even though I had more time to wander abou

t this dark and foreboding house.

Gladys Tate had lived up to her promise to Mama: She had kept Octavious from me from the day I had arrived. Only once or twice did I hear what I was sure was the sound of his muted voice below, and once, when I was gazing out the window at night, I thought I saw him standing in the shadows looking up at me, but either I imagined it or he stepped back into deeper darkness and was gone in an instant.

Almost a week after Gladys Tate had told me about her disastrous honeymoon, I went downstairs after hours to take my bath and empty my chamber pot as usual. After I undressed, I studied the changes in my body,, noting the stretch marks on my breasts and abdomen. It was harder to. get in and out of the bathtub, too. Every muscle seemed to be aching these days. I had a good soak, brushed my hair, and put on my nightgown, but the moment I returned to my quarters, I sensed something different.. When, you have spent. as much time every day m a room as small as mine was for as long as I had, you get so you can smell the slightest change, much less see it The lamp was very low, so I turned it up, and when I spun around, .I found him standing there in. the corner, his back to the wall.

"Monsieur Tate!" I exclaimed.

He stepped forward quickly, his finger on his lips. "Please. Don't scream."

"What is it you want?" I demanded. "You frightened me," I said angrily.

"I had to sneak up here, of course. I'm sorry," he said.. "Please, relax. I'm not here to hurt you or bother you,"

"What do you want?" I demanded, my heart thumping like a tin drum.

He wore a white cotton shirt and a pair of dark slacks. His hair was combed neatly, and the aroma of his cologne reached my nostrils in waves. He smiled.

"I just want to talk to you for a few moments," he said, his hands up to keep me from screaming.

"We have nothing to say to each other. I must ask you to leave immediately," I said, jabbing my finger toward the door and then pressing my nightgown against my bosom to give me some more cover from his searching eyes.

"I don't blame you for hating me," he said. "Nothing I can say will change what I have done to you or make things better, but I thought since you have been here awhile, you might at least understand a little more about my situation, and perhaps, I was hoping . . you would be somewhat more sympathetic."

"I don't understand anything except you are a horrible person, mean and selfish."

"Perhaps I am," he admitted. "I don't want to be." He lowered his head. I retreated to my bed and sat with my arms folded over my bosom. With his eyes staring, I couldn't help but feel naked even though I wore my nightgown. He raised his head and smiled again. "How is everything?" he asked. "Is there anything you need?"

"My freedom," I replied.

He nodded, the thin smile evaporating. "I understand everything's going along as it should and it won't be much longer."

"To me each day seems like a week, each week a month, and each month a year. Not to be able to go outside when the sun is up, to have to walk through the house on tiptoe and stay within the shadows until I feel like a shadow myself, is torture," I pointed out with tears in my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. Then he added, "I pray for your forgiveness every night. I know you probably don't believe that, but it's true. Despite what I have done, I am a religious man. Why, Gladys and I haven't missed a Sunday service since we got married. We even attended church during our honeymoon."

"It's not only my forgiveness you must pray for, monsieur," I replied, my voice as cold as ice. If indeed there was any forgiveness to sprout in my heart, it was far too early for the seeds to open. I was still in the winter of my suffering, and my heart was far from a fertile place for a pardon to blossom.

His smile returned, and even in the dim light I could see it was a small, tight smile.

"If you are referring to my asking for the forgiveness of my illustrious wife, I don't think the weight on my conscience is as heavy as you would imagine. By now, even confined to these quarters and restricted in your movements around our home and property, you must have reached a realization about our relationship," he said.

"That's not my business."

"I know. Unfortunately, it's no one's business but my own. Remember the things I told you at the pond? They weren't lies, only now you probably see it's even worse than I described. We haven't been as husband and wife for some time. I'm hoping that when the baby is born and she becomes a mother, things will change."