The least exertion left her short of breath, and the back pain she felt on awaking worsened as the day wore on.
She could think of no reason for lethargy, pain, or her mood. In Sam’s absence she hoped to change: she would coddle herself, lie abed mornings, and be well by his return.
Following her first night alone, however, she awoke feeling heavy and swollen, as she sometimes did at the onset of menstrual periods, but it was ten times as severe. Ever since the farm burned, all during her captivity, her bleeding had been erratic in starting. This time it was later than ever, and this pain was apparently the consequence.
The ache turned intermittently to sharp cramps that bent her double, yet she did not bleed. Too miserable to move about, she brewed a pot of tea and read and dozed by the fire. As she drifted in and out of sleep, she became aware of stickiness between her legs.
Rousing herself, she hurried to the water closet and sat on the cold wooden seat, hugging herself and rocking in pain. She knew she was bleeding now, yet the cramps continued, and for the first time in her life she was frightened by her body.
Then a fierce paroxysm brought an end to the pain as clots of slippery tissue slid from her body. She knew in that instant that she had aborted a baby. If not that, then something was terribly wrong with her, something unnatural. She stood up, feeling shaky, washed herself, and tied a clean flannel in place. She returned to lie on the sofa and listen to her heart pound.
When Yesil arrived with full market bags, Florence said she wanted no lunch, just perhaps a light supper. Yesil peered at Florence’s drawn face and wanted to help, but Florence said she was having a bad time of the month.
“Well, then,” Yesil’s open hands and her shrug indicated the impossibility of changing a fact of nature, “I bring more wood. And make hot your tea.”
Yesil’s sympathy brought tears to Florence’s eyes, and when she was alone, she let them flow, whatever their cause. The hot tea warmed her body, and she yearned to sleep for hours and awake able to think clearly, yet sleep did not come. She couldn’t keep from thinking of a child unborn, dead without having lived. Dead and gone like so many others from her life, but this time she had brought it about. Was it terrible to feel such relief? Relief from pain is normal and of little importance, but relief from responsibility was not to be dismissed.
It was the consequence not of her, but their, behavior; she was not alone in this! She felt a flood of resentment. Sam, the father of many children, should have known better.
Finally, she dozed off and awoke in a dark, cold house. She rose and walked slowly to the kitchen, lit an oil lamp, and added sticks of wood to the fire. As she waited for the soup to heat, she decided that her relief was reasonable and honest. She would endure guilt for the lack of caution, hers and Sam’s, as well as for her inability to grieve for the unborn child.
The next morning, to her surprise, she felt quite well, her abdomen empty and not even sore, and her legs no longer wobbly.
By the time the sun had dispelled the morning mist, she was ready for a walk. The fresh air added to her sense of well being, and she headed for town with hopes of seeing a physician. She wanted to know if it was a miscarriage and if she must do anything in particular to assure her health.
When she reached town, she slowed her pace and looked down each cross street for a clue she hoped to recognize. It was not long before she saw a brass sign bolted to the white door: “SURGERY, hours 10 to 1, Anatol Czerna, M.D.”
Opaque white curtains covered the lower half of the windows, and she pressed the door’s brass latch. In a plain square room, benches lined two walls and were occupied by women, most of whom held infants or small children on their laps. Standing against the opposite wall, two men waited, shifting from one foot to the other and staring at the floor. The air smelled of disinfectant and of stale boiled cabbage and fried sausage, odors that clung to woolen coats that had hung in kitchens. One or two women glanced at her, neither curious nor friendly. She looked back at them, her hand still on the latch, then turned and fled into the fresh air.
In a side street she leaned against a wall while a crowd of women lugging market baskets tramped past without noticing her. She met a few others walking up the lane and tried to look as if she had a purpose there. On a street of small shops, she saw a pharmacy where a lone woman sat knitting behind the counter. Florence stopped just inside the door and spoke softly.
“Can you tell me where I can find a doctor?”
“Yah, Dr. Czerna has a surgery a few steps down that lane. Are you sick, yourself?” The woman peered sharply over her spectacles.
“No, not sick, but not well. I need to ask advice.”
“Ah, what young woman doesn’t, eh?” Her gaunt face split into a grin as if she’d made a joke.
“Tell me, daughter,” she whispered hoarsely, “Are you in the family way? Your husband doesn’t want another? Look around. I have medicines for every ailment.”
Florence rushed from the shop, her face hot. She walked the gray streets hearing church bells ring the noon hour.
Where the town square opened to the harbor, she crossed over cobblestones to sit on the stone bench beside the statue of Ovid. Here was another alien, one exiled for love and for extolling love’s pleasures.
“All things change; Nothing dies,” she read.
She gazed at foaming surf and clouds gathering over gray water. She should have waited for the doctor. She pulled herself to her feet and trudged back to the surgery, arriving just as its door opened. A woman came out cradling a baby, and as the infant’s howls of panic or pain faded into heartbroken sobs, pity gripped Florence.
It was too late now; the latch did not yield, and she turned from the door. Squaring her shoulders, she turned and, under a sky now heavy with the threat of snow, walked up the steep road to the empty house.
It would be weeks before she could look for Sam’s return. She recalled having planned to use his absence to sort out her hopes for a future. Assessing what had brought her to this point, she concluded that with every step away from Widdin her hopes had grown. She hadn’t really made choices as her good fortune grew, but now the coincidence of Sam’s absence at this time allowed her to choose whether to tell Sam what had happened. Perhaps he had a right to know, but what if it caused him to change his mind about keeping her with him?
For the first time, Florence thought about marriage. It had taken her so long to know he wanted to love her that she hadn’t wondered whether he would marry her. She thought of Adrianna’s love for Singh and pondered whether being lovers ever led to marriage. But what did it matter so long as no child was born to suffer for his mother’s disgrace?
She had been saved from disgrace by a baby’s death.
The thought weighed so heavily she couldn’t breathe. Then she imagined that Adrianna might tell her to be grateful for what happened and to learn from it.
She lay in the big bed, unable to sleep. Finally she got up, wrapped herself in a quilt, and went into the room she’d called a nursery. Lying on the narrow bed, staring at the frosted window panes, she fell asleep.
When she awoke it was morning and she put her feet on the icy floor.
She hurried to the other room for slippers and robe. Downstairs a fire blazed in the fireplace, and the kitchen stove radiated heat, and Yesil had left muffins in the warming oven. Tears sprang to her eyes.
She made a pot of tea and, as she ate a muffin, made the simple decision to count the days of the month and then to insist on Sam’s using his interventions. She knew she wanted, more than anything else, to feel secure.
She wanted Sam, and that meant going to Africa. Sam wanted her, but not so much as he wanted to find the source of the Nile. She had a choice: she would not tell Sam she had miscarried.
Chapter 10
“Marry her, man! You know word is bound to get back. Don’t wait for a scandal. If you love her, marry her. If not, find her a situation and leave her.”
They were in Budapest
when Charles Liddell took the liberty to scold him. Sam turned away to let his anger cool. Liddell had waited until they concluded their business, and Sam knew if he’d been open with him in Constanta the rebuke might have been milder. Price had unwittingly exposed Sam’s deceit by asking about his beautiful Hungarian “niece,” and Liddell had not so much as blinked. But on their way back to the hotel, Liddell asked if the “niece” and Sam’s lovely wife were one and the same.
Sam’s admission brought on Liddell’s stinging rebuke.
“I’ve never heard a hint of scandal connected with your name, Sam, and what I saw in Bucharest wasn’t disreputable,” Liddell added. “Clearly you have a woman worthy of the best treatment, a woman of grace and intelligence.”
“You’re right,” Sam agreed, wondering uneasily if Liddell had heard of Val’s escapades and found them disreputable. “I’ve bungled this. I’m not in the habit of behaving like a bounder.”
“I believe that, Sam, but you had better set matters right before you take your woman to Cairo. The British there are a tight little community, and you may be sure word will get back, if not to your family, to your London friends and associates. Her reputation will be beyond recovery.”
Liddell was right; however, he must know there was no way to undo the harm. Sam’s embarrassment led him to apologize:
“I assure you I’ll set matters right, Charles. You are a good friend to speak your mind to me.”
It was indeed, too late, and Sam saw that marrying Florence now would not render her immediately acceptable to his family.
As for the social stigma, friends would make allowances for a mistress, and still they might very well judge his behavior to be less than honorable.
On the train to Vienna, Liddell’s words and the chagrin of having his duplicity exposed unsettled him. He has been eager to see James, the brother whose approval he most valued. Now their meeting was shadowed by Sam’s guilt for having used Europe’s harsh winter as an excuse for not going to England. That, too, was a lie. He had been cowardly. He resolved now that he would talk openly with James and hoped for James’s understanding, even though it would do little to ease Sam’s conscience. In any case, he knew he could trust James to make things right with Min and the girls.
On the train platform James greeted Sam effusively, clapping him on the back and hurrying him through the snow to the waiting hack.
“I have a surprise for you, Sam, just wait!”
“I may have one for you too,” Sam said as soon as they were on the way to the hotel. “I have made up my mind to go to Africa, mount my own expedition.”
“That is great news, Sam! And you’ve decided to go it on your own?”
Sam then poured out his plan to leave within a year and enumerated several ways James could help him to provision the expedition.
“I have written out my specifications for rifles – you know the African elephant quite different from the Asian one, and bigger. I also require the usual measuring instruments and some surgical supplies. I have a list I hope you can fill, maybe in Sheffield or Sweden, or here on the continent. I know you’ll be able to locate them.”
“I’m at your service, Sam. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you in top form again. The European junket apparently was what you needed, and I heartily approve your decision to get on with your plans. We want to hear all about it.”
Sam noted that James said we and was smiling enigmatically as the small wrought iron cage bore them to the third floor. He hoped James hadn’t brought his wife, for much as Sam admired Louisa, he did not want to be the one to tell her about Florence. “What are you grinning about, James?”
“You’ll see in a moment.”
When James opened the door to their rooms, Sam saw Valentine rising from a chair and striding toward them.
“A few weeks later, Sam, and I’d have been in Ireland! It is splendid to be able to see you,” Val said and grasped Sam’s shoulders firmly and then hugged him.
Val’s feet were bare below his narrow tan uniform trousers, and his tunic was draped on the back of a chair near his polished black boots. His curly hair looked tumbled, and his clear blue eyes shone under heavy lids that gave the impression he’d been asleep. Val looked fit and so handsome that Sam thought, as he often had, how hard it must be for a woman to resist such a man.
“I couldn’t imagine a finer surprise! Tell me about yourself. Where will you be in Ireland?”
“Just outside of Dublin. I look forward to it, even though the land has seen some hard times. And isn’t Vienna a fine place for our reunion?”
“Fine indeed, although it must be a brief one. I have much to tell you both, most of it in strict confidence.”
“Not trouble, I hope,” James said.
“Don’t worry, this is steady Sam. I am the wicked brother,” Val laughed, “though at the moment, so far as I know, I’m not in any trouble.”
“Good,” Sam said, “take care to keep it that way when you’re in Ireland.”
“Maybe an Irish lass would settle you down,” James teased, “but don’t think for a moment Min would be glad for one of them in the family.”
“That’s more than enough about me. Let’s hear what Sam has to tell us.”
Valentine dropped into a chair and poured drinks from a bottle on the low table. Sam took off his coat and picked up a glass but continued to stand while James joined them.
“Cheers.”
James immediately told Val about Sam’s plan, and for some time they engaged in discussing the last unknown place left on earth. They spoke of the Nile’s mystery in ancient times and then of the present and opportunities for economic development that would bring Christianity to the continent and eradicate the slave trade.
“My ambition is modest,” Sam said. “I’ll use what skills I have as botanist, geologist, and geographer, but primarily, I hope to study the people and the places, act as an ethnographer, if you will, and meet the savage as he is. I do approach this expedition in many ways but, my dear brothers, my dream is to locate the headwaters of the Nile.”
At midnight, back from a long conversation over the many dinner courses, Sam poured them a nightcap. They were quiet now, all talked out, it seemed, as they stood in the middle of the room, and Sam finally said what was on his mind:
“I am fortunate to have found a companion for the long sojourn in the wilds.”
While they waited to hear more, Sam stepped away from them and looked out the window at the falling snow for several minutes before again facing them.
“Her name is Florence. She is a refugee from first, the Hungarian Revolution and then the Balkan uprisings. Despite cruel hardships, she is gentle and charming and possessed of a lively wit and fine intelligence. And she is, I believe you will agree when you meet, quite beautiful.”
“You mean to marry before you go to Africa?” James said, looking perplexed.
“I don’t think that’s exactly what Sam is saying, old boy.”
Val was addressing James, but he had tilted his head to look into Sam’s face, and his eyes were narrowed in speculation. “Sam said she is his companion.”
“We have not discussed marriage, but she is ready to go to Africa with me.”
“Then I’d say you may be the luckiest man alive,” Val said, “but somehow I suspect you see a dilemma in it somewhere.”
“I want her to go with me, of course, but it may not be the best thing for a woman to do.”
“You do mean to marry her, don’t you?” James asked. “Jamie, old boy, the essence is that he doesn’t mean to. Isn’t that right, Sam?”
“What do you know?” James demanded of Val. “Have you ever thought for ten consecutive minutes about marrying?”
“Stop it!” Sam snapped. “Whatever your opinions are, they interest me, but your quibbles do not. Let me tell you the entire story.”
Sam began with the day in Widdin when he went to witness the lustful infidels’ purchase of children. Then, in detail, he d
escribed the moment he saw a pale child about to be sold into slavery, and he finished his report with his leaving her, not a child but a young woman, in their house while he came to meet them in Vienna. He spared no details of his desire to possess her and his struggle to resist. He admitted vacillating and rationalizing and ultimately surrendering. He told them of his recent scene with Charles Liddell.
“So, there it is. I led this innocent young woman into a situation, the consequences of which she has little notion, and to which I see no simple conclusion.”
“Do you love her, Sam? Enough to marry her, I mean?” James asked.
“I hadn’t expected to marry again. One family is enough for any man. And now it is a trifle late; her reputation may already be ruined.”
“Good God, Sam, answer James’s question! Here is a ready solution: If you want her with you, marry her! What’s the bloody problem?”
“I wouldn’t have framed the question just the way Val has done, Sam,” James added, “but I would like to know.”
The vehemence of the brothers’ responses stunned Sam. Yet he knew he had to answer.
“So you both believe I should marry this young woman of uncertain background, a foreigner, and bring her home to my children? She is only a few years older than Edith. Think of one so young as their stepmother! I have not been able to imagine how the family would receive her.”
“I doubt that her age is what would matter to either Edith or Florence. Do you really believe this woman you love is so unacceptable?”
“No, James, not at all. But my view has little chance of being shared by our sister, maybe not my daughters, either. In addition, I am not at all certain Florence would care to live in England.”
“When is it you last wanted to live in England?” Val asked. “Marry her and take her to live elsewhere. Take her where men don’t study your pedigree before offering their hand. Then invite your daughters to come with you.”