Joan Wolf by Margarita

soft and unspeakably beautiful. “I am glad you are at home,” she said again.
    He watched her walk to the door, and when she had gone sat down to stare into the fire, a painful line between his brows.
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
    John Keats
     
    It was October. Catherine Alnwick had gone to London for a few weeks, and Nicholas refrained from riding into Chelmarsh to visit another widow-friend of his. He was apprehensive about being away from home and definitely felt guilty about pursuing his own illicit pleasure at such a time.
    He took out a gun one particularly fine day, and when he returned home he discovered that Margarita had also gone out. Nicholas frowned in displeasure. He did not want her driving around by herself. She had been gone two hours. Nicholas sent to the stable for his horse and set out to look for her.
    He did not have far to go. He was two miles from home, on what he knew to be one of her favorite paths, when he saw her coming toward him—on foot and leading the cart horse. He cantered toward her. “What the devil do you think you are doing?” he asked, fright making his voice sound harsh.
    “The wheel of the phaeton hit a stone in the road and broke,” she answered. Her voice sounded a little strange, and he looked at her intently. “Are you all right?”
    “I’ve started having pains,” she admitted. He swore. “Where did you leave the carriage?”
    “About two miles back. It can’t be used, Nicholas. The wheel is badly broken.”
    “You weren’t thrown?” he asked sharply.
    She shook her head. “I was coming home because I had started to get pains in my back. I suppose I was not watching the road as closely as I should have, but nothing serious happened, as I was going very slowly. I unhitched Hero and started to walk.” She stopped and he saw the muscles around her mouth tighten. He swore again.
    “I never thought to take the other phaeton.” He looked at his own horse. “Can I put you up on Cora, Margarita?”
    “No!” She sounded breathless. “I will walk back.” So with two sets of reins in one hand and with his other arm supporting his wife, Nicholas undertook what he was certain was the longest two miles of his entire life. Margarita was obviously in pain, although she was making a gallant effort to hide it. They were spotted as they reached the bottom of the long drive, and servants came running to take the horses from Nicholas. He dispatched someone for the doctor and, ignoring her protests, picked Margarita up and carried her up the drive and into the house.
    The woman whom they had hired as a baby nurse took over in Margarita’s bedroom and Nicholas was banished. Margarita begged him to fetch Mrs. Frost, and after the doctor arrived, Nicholas did indeed drive his phaeton over to Whitethorn.
     Mrs. Frost was alone in the kitchen. “Of course I’ll come,” she said readily to Nicholas’s question. “I promised your lady I wouldn’t fail her and I shan’t. Poor little thing, with no mother or sister or aunt to hold her hand and help her at a time when she most needs it.” The farmer’s wife took off her apron and disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. When she returned she had on her hat. “I’m ready, my lord.”
    ‘When they arrived at Winslow, Nicholas accompanied her upstairs. At the door to Margarita’s room, she turned and patted him kindly on the sleeve. “Don’t fret, now, my lord. These things take time-especially the first. Just you try to relax.”
    She opened the door and went in. Nicholas heard Margarita’s voice, breathless, as though in pain. “Mrs. Frost!” The note of relief in that cry was unmistakable.
    “There, there, my lamb,” came the farmer’s wife’s comfortable tones. “I’ve come to help you. Everything will be all right, I’m sure.”
    Slowly, Nicholas went back downstairs.
     
    * * * *
    It did not in fact take long at all. Three hours later a beaming Mrs.