The Lover's Children novel Chapter 68

JAMES

In the bedroom, Michael holds Charlotte, stroking her hair, talking quietly. “Shhh… It’s alright, Babe. It’s just one of those things.” Gently, he rocks her as she weeps into his chest.

We leave them to themselves; give them the privacy they need for a while.

On the scale of things, ranged against wars and famines, terrorism or natural disasters, their tragedy is a small one; Charlotte’s miscarriage of Michael’s child. But it’s not small for them.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

Downstairs, in the lounge, Klempner stands, hands clasped behind, his back to the fire, swaying from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again.

Cara napping by her side, Mitch knits: tiny blue gloves, now no longer needed by their intended owner. Periodically she puts the work down on her lap to draw a finger under her eyes, then takes it up again, the needles clicking rhythmically. Klempner watches her sidelong, frowning. His mouth opens as though to speak, but then snaps shut as I give a quick shake of the head.

Beth, on the settee, feeds a contently gurgling Adam. Richard, seated next to her, makes a show of reading his paper. But he’s been reading the same page, the same quarter of a page, for twenty minutes now. Eventually, sighing, he folds it away and simply sits, staring into the fire.

Even the dogs are subdued, picking up the vibes from the rest of us I suppose. Bear pads across to sit by Mitch, groans, then drops his head onto her lap. Scruffy circles on the hearthrug by Klempner’s feet, circles again, then drops down, his nose tucked under his tail.

The clock ticks.

Forty-five minutes…

An hour…

Time to check them out…

Back upstairs, I push the bedroom door open, quietly, just in case, and wait, framed by the doorway.

They’re still sitting together on the bed, part-turned away from me. Charlotte nods at something he says, swiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I know. It happens all the time. Like you say, it was probably for the best…”

Then she shudders and sobs again… Michael’s grip on her tightens… But she straightens up, resting her palm against his chest. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine…” She sniffles… “It was… just a shock. You’re right. It happens all the time. And it’s not as though it was far along. Too small to be a proper baby yet.”

Michael says little. Kisses her hair. Holds her. Strokes her. Murmurs something quiet.

Am I intruding?

Too soon yet?

Uncertain, I shift and the floorboards creak under my feet. Michael half-turns, looking over his shoulder. “James? It’s alright. Come in.”

Charlotte draws in breath, wipes palms over her cheeks, obviously trying to make herself presentable. “Master?” Tears still swim in her voice.

*****

CHARLOTTE

I’m not exactly crying anymore, but somehow, my eyes still leak tears down my cheeks. Michael’s body is warm against mine. “Shhh… It’s not great, Babe. We both know that. I’m disappointed too. And I do understand that it’s harder for you. But these things happen. We’ll get past it. You’ll see. We’ll try again and, in a year, maybe, you’ll be introducing Cara to her sister or brother.”

His closeness, his heat, the sweet-spicy scent of him is soothing, drawing me back to reality. “I know.” But I’m still snivelling. I swipe the back of my hand over streaming eyes and nose.

From behind us, the creak of floorboards. Michael shifts, half-turning to look over his shoulder. “James? It’s alright. Come in.”

“Master…” I don’t know what to say. The words won’t come yet.

“Charlotte?” He sits beside me, takes my tear-dampened hand and kisses the fingers.

Michael stands. “Why don’t I leave you two for a while. You can have a chat.” He brushes fingers over my cheek. “You’ll feel better for that.”

“Michael…”

But he clicks his tongue, drops me a wink. “It’s fine, Babe. You two have some time together. I’ll only be downstairs if you want me.” Stooping, he presses his lips to mine, then ambles out.

My eyes are swollen and I’m blinking to see properly. “Sorry, Master. I didn’t mean to make such a fuss. It’s just…” And a sob shakes loose from my throat before I swallow it again.

The grip on my hand tightens. “Sorry? You have nothing to apologise for. And everything to feel upset about.” He tilts up my chin, raising my eyes to his: soft, liquid, dark as a moonless night. “You look terrible, you know.”

“I know.” I’m sniffling again and drag my sleeve over my nose and eyes again.

He tuts, snagging my fingers. “That’s a very unattractive habit, you know.” Prising the fingers open, he presses something into my hand. “A lady may always ask a gentleman for the use of his handkerchief.”

Despite myself, I find myself laughing as I clean my face. “Sorry.”

“That’s better.” He draws a thumb over my cheek, wiping under my eyes. “Your mascara’s all to hell too.”

I swipe under my eyes, drawing black streaks across the previously white linen, then wind the handkerchief tight in my fingers.

He extracts it gently from my hands. “A great improvement.” He kisses my forehead, then once more takes my fingers in his. “So, how are you feeling now?”

How do I feel?

I slump, letting out air. “A bit of a failure. I’ve let Michael down. He works so hard to make everything here perfect and…”