Page 96 of Jane Deyre

Without the tiniest of kisses. Without looking back.

The day passes. The sun never comes out.

I spend the next few days taking care of Adele and readingThe Queen of Thornhillevery chance I have. In Ward’s unsettling absence, it’s both a distraction and a connection.

What follows, reader, is a heartwarming story of love and devotion... and a spine-chilling story of love and heartbreak.

The relationship between Edwina and Georgia deepens; the relationship between Edwina and Bertrand grows further apart. Each suspects the other is having an affair. They talk about a separation... a divorce based on irreconcilable differences. They no longer share the same bed, with Bertrand taking up residence in the guesthouse.

And then life dramatically changes. At the age of forty-five, Edwina miraculously gives birth to a much-longed-for baby. A beautiful little girl she names Charlotte. After her favorite David Austen rose. The words in which she describes this life-changing event move me to tears.

I wanted to give birth to my child at Thornhill. Where I was born. Against the advice of my doctor, I hired a midwife and had Grace by my side. Neither Alice nor Bertrand wanted to have anything to do with the birthing. Nor did Georgia to my great disappointment.

I wanted to give birth naturally. No epidurals or pain relievers. Squeezing Grace’s hand, I pushed and I pushed and I pushed. I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. Each thrust more excruciating than the one before.

“Please, my baby, come!” I cried out, tears spilling from my eyes, and on my next agonizing push, I felt something different. Something coming out of me like an alien. It was almost as if I were in a sci-fi movie. Somewhere lost in space. On a different planet.

“Push again,” urged the midwife.

I could hear Grace crying, her hand gripping mine so tightly it had gone numb.

With a thunderous roar, half shriek, half grunt, my watering eyes squeezed shut, I did as the midwife asked, and with all the force I could muster, I pushed once more. And suddenly I felt bereft. Empty.

My eyes still glued shut, I heard the midwife say, “Congratulations, Mrs. Rochester, you have a...”

“...Beautiful little girl,” wept Grace softly.

I opened my eyes slowly, and watched as Grace and the midwife cleaned her up. My tiny, mottled, peach-haired life-form. My sweet beauty. Her high-pitched wails were like music to my ears as Grace swaddled her and set her gently on my breast. Her little fingers clinging to me. Her heart beating against mine like we were one. Misty eyed, I gazed down at this little creature and felt the deepest of love, a powerful, ineffable connection that transcended all others. I kissed her dewy scalp.Inhaled the newborn scent of her. In awe of this tiny miracle of life. My daughter. The child I’d longed for all my adult life.

“Hello, my little Charlotte,” I whispered. “I will take care of you forever... never let anything happen to you.”

And that was the first vow I ever broke, if you don’t count my infidelity.

Just after Charlotte’s birth, Edwina drops a secret, explosive as a bomb. One that shocks me. And will shock anyone who reads the book. She confesses that the baby is not Bertrand’s. It can’t be. They haven’t made love in over a year. Bertrand knows it, but doesn’t admit it. Containing his resentment, he has a love-hate relationship with little Charlotte Mason, the beautiful child who bears his last name.

So, reader, you ask: whose baby is it?

Edwina doesn’t reveal the father’s identity. Rather she writes:

He was a dear friend. Understood my need. He did me a favor and I swore I would never reveal his identity. And that is a promise I’ll never break. Here in this memoir or here in this life. Speculate as you will, as much as you want, I’ll take this secret to my grave.

I wonder: Does Ward know who the father is? Did Edwina tell him?

And I also wonder: Why hasn’t Ward called me? It’s been close to five days.

Over a week goes by and not a word from Mr. Rochester. Not an email. Nor a text. Nor a phone call. And when I try him, he’s either unreachable or unresponsive. Worry seeps into my blood vessels and affects everything I do.

During one of my daily acting lessons with Edwina, I stumble on my lines. Something I never do.

“Dear, what’s wrong?” asks Edwina, seated in her throne chair like the queen she is. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“Have you heard from Ward?” I ask, my voice wavering.

“He’s away on a difficult undertaking,” she answers vaguely. Her head shakes more than usual.

“Can you tell me where?” I ask hesitantly, dreading an answer that will crush me with despair.

“Unfortunately, I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t tell a soul.”