She was in a heap at the foot of the second-floor staircase with blood on her nightgown.
Obviously she had tripped, or perhaps flung herself down the steps in a moment of angst.
There was too much blood for the bleeding to have been external.
Cal was therefore quite surprised when the doctor, after examining her in her room, informed him that she had not suffered a miscarriage but that she had torn something inside and would have to remain in bed while she recovered.
"I don't recall mentioning her condition to you."
"I'm well aware that she's several months along," replied the doctor. "She's been coming to me for two or three weeks."
"Of course she has," said Cal, smirking.
*****
He was disappointed, almost.
"Caledon, you sly dog. I'll never understand where all of your luck comes from."
"I make my own luck," said Cal dispassionately, smashing a half-burned cigarette into an ashtray. Though he realized now that he hated the thing growing inside Rose—hated where it had come from and what it meant—and also that he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. What could he have done…pushed her down the stairs again?
If her fall had killed the baby—how delightfully simpler things might have become.
Yes, he would lose her again when she no longer needed him.
But he would also have nothing left to think about.
It must have been well past midnight. Cal had lost track of the time, lost track of the drinks, lost track of the mindless things his table companions were saying.
Vaguely it occurred to him that he had once enjoyed this sort of mingling.
*****
Cal took his leave of the other gentlemen and stumbled out of the dark tavern. Yellow streetlights blurred and swam overhead as he made his way toward the car, where his chauffeur sat waiting.
"Late night, sir?" said a woman's voice from somewhere to his right, and Cal laughed too loudly.
"Not late enough," he heard himself reply, although he had no idea what he meant by it.
"The night is still young…"
Wiping spit from his mouth, Cal turned to look at her. She was in her early twenties, her lips and cheeks heavily painted, her angular face hovering somewhere between beauty and ugliness.
Probably a prostitute.
You unimaginable bastard—
*****
She was limp and mechanical, cool and unyielding, not soft, wet, warm like dear sweet beautiful Rose would have been—
His hand dug brutally into the back of her neck as she slammed herself against him. He hoped she would bruise. He hoped she would remember him by the marks.
Because Caledon Hockley refused to be just another notch in anyone's belt.
*****
The mansion was cold and silent and dark when he got home. He didn't care about waking the servants and didn't bother to be quiet. He dragged himself upstairs. Saliva kept filling his mouth and throat. His stomach was churning. He swallowed again and again and again, trying not to get violently sick on the floor.
Rose's bedroom door stood open.
Cal paused, gripped the doorframe for support. He could see her bathed in moonlight, lying on her side with the covers half off.
Her eyes shone in the dark.
She was awake.
"Cal," she choked out, her voice on the edge of tears.
All of a sudden he saw her as pitiful and frail, a child trapped by mistakes she had perhaps not realized she was making—
Cal moved closer to the bed.
"How did I let it happen?" Rose whispered. "How did I come to this?"
He knew she was talking about much more than her tumble down the stairs.
"It doesn't matter how," said Cal, sitting next to her on the bed. She was medicated for the pain, he knew, probably only semi-conscious of what she was saying. He could have said anything to her just then, any number of horrible things, abused her with every cruel thought he had ever had about her, and she wouldn't have been able to retaliate. She would just lay there as though she were dying.
Instead he reached out and gently touched the side of her face. It was wet with her tears.
"I just wanted…"
He didn't want her to speak, didn't want her to tell him what she wanted—
"I just wanted to be loved…happy…I didn't mean for…"
She wept.
She was reaching for him, holding on—
Through his drunken haze Cal knew he wasn't supposed to be there.
Rose probably didn't even realize who he was in her delirium.
Yes, she had called him by name, but he doubted he was more than just another figure to her.
He patted her awkwardly on the back, wishing he could tear himself away from her but completely incapable of doing it.
"I don't want to hurt myself," she whispered. "I don't want to have an accident…hurt my baby…"
She clung to him harder.
He couldn't bring himself to embrace her.
"If something happened…I couldn't…I would be…oh God…"
That horrible, blunt darkness he felt when he thought about her bastard child was rising in him again. He wanted even more to draw back from her. But still he didn't try to disengage her from him.
"Please don't let anything happen…"
Damn it, Rose.
"Please… Cal…"
There were so many things he could have said.
But none that she would have understood.
"Cal…"
"Nothing," he said softly, "is going to happen to you."
And then he found it within himself to pry her off and sloppily tuck her in when she slumped back into her pillows.
He staggered to his room and passed out drunk on top of his own bed. In the morning he woke up drenched in sweat and vomit, his mind shattering.