Part 3
The library had always been Mara’s favorite room in the mansion. It was not the largest or most historically important. The ceiling leaked near the west window, and the heating system clicked unpredictably. But unlike the ballroom, it felt designed for human scale. Green-shaded reading lamps cast small pools of light over walnut tables. The shelves smelled faintly of wax and old paper. A brass clock ticked on the mantel with the confidence of something that had outlived several generations of emergencies.
Julian guided Mara toward the leather sofa.
When she sat, the pressure in her abdomen eased.
He crouched in front of her. “Any pain?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know.”
He looked toward Peter. “Call Dr. Avery.”
Mara shook her head. “She’s not on call tonight.”
“I don’t care.”
“She’ll care. Her daughter’s school concert is tonight.”
Julian stared at her.
Even frightened, Mara could see the argument forming in him: a school concert was not more important than this; Dr. Avery had told them to call; medical boundaries did not apply when Julian was afraid.
Peter interrupted. “There’s an obstetric triage nurse at St. Anne’s. We can call the hospital and follow their direction.”
Mara nodded. “That.”
Julian took out his phone.
His hands were steady until he unlocked the screen. Then his thumb missed the icon twice.
Mara looked down at the braid in her lap.
The ribbon at the end was still tied in the small square knot she used every morning. She remembered standing at the bathroom mirror before dawn, winding her hair while Julian slept. He had arrived from London three hours earlier than expected and come directly to the mansion from the airport. She had not known he was back in Rhode Island.
Had he planned to surprise her?
The thought was so ordinary it nearly broke her.
Peter spoke to a nurse, giving the relevant details without embellishment. Eight months pregnant. No fall directly onto the abdomen. No bleeding. Possible tightening. High emotional stress. Minor scratch near hairline. Peter paused, listening, then handed the phone to Mara.
The nurse asked her questions in a calm voice. Was the baby moving? Yes. Was there fluid leakage? No. Was the tightening regular? Mara had not timed it. Did she feel dizzy? A little. Had she eaten?
Mara looked at the untouched dinner plates visible through the glass doors to the corridor.
“Not since noon.”
Julian exhaled through his nose.
The nurse advised hydration, food, and immediate assessment if the tightening continued, became regular, or was accompanied by other symptoms. Given Mara’s stage of pregnancy and the physical stress, she recommended coming in for monitoring.
“We’re coming,” Julian said before Mara ended the call.
She handed the phone back. “I can walk to the car.”
“No.”
“Julian.”
“No.”
Peter moved toward the door. “I’ll bring the car around.”
“There are photographers outside,” Mara said.
Peter stopped.
The gala always attracted local society photographers. Tonight, because Edwin Harcourt’s family donation was expected to be announced, two regional newspapers and a public radio reporter had also been invited.
Mara imagined stepping into the snow in a staff uniform under Julian’s coat, her hair visibly cut, his hand around her waist. By morning, their marriage would belong to everyone.
Julian sat beside her.
“Mara, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“I know.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
“How.”
His jaw moved.
She reached for his hand. He turned it over and held hers, careful of her ring.
Peter said, “There’s a service exit through the conservatory. We can clear the catering vans and bring the car close. No press.”
Mara nodded.
Julian did not.
“No more hiding,” he said.
The words were not loud, but they were not gentle either.
Mara released his hand.
Peter looked toward the shelves, offering them privacy without leaving.
Julian saw the hurt on her face and closed his eyes for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong.”
“It came out honestly.”
“Yes.”
Mara placed the braid on the cushion beside her. “I asked you not to announce the marriage tonight.”
“You asked me seven months ago.”
“And every month since.”
“Yes.”
“You agreed.”
“I did.”
She waited.
He looked at the closed door. “I should not have.”
The apology did not comfort her. It shifted blame backward, toward every conversation in which she had asked for time and every reason she had given.
“I was trying to keep my job.”
“You are my wife.”
“I am also employed.”
“Not by Vivienne personally.”
“No, just by a board she controls, at a foundation your family funds, in a house your name is carved into.”
Peter studied the brass clock.
Julian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t understand the imbalance.”
“I think you understand it as someone who can leave the room.”
He absorbed that.
Outside the library, footsteps crossed the corridor. Voices remained low. The gala was continuing, or pretending to. Plates would still be cleared. Auction items would still be carried to winning bidders. Money had a way of insisting on schedule.
Julian looked at the scratch near Mara’s hairline.
“Did she cut you?”
“No. Her ring caught me when she grabbed my hair.”
His face went blank again.
Mara touched his wrist. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Turn into stone.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“It scares me,” she said.
Some of the tension left his shoulders. Not much.
Peter’s phone vibrated. He checked it, frowned, and silenced it.
“What?” Julian asked.
“Board members are asking whether the announcement is accurate.”
Mara laughed.
The sound came out thin and unexpected. Peter looked startled. Julian did too.
She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Peter said.
“It’s just—” She looked at the bookcases, the old clock, the severed braid on the sofa. “Of course they’re asking for confirmation. Not whether I’m all right. Whether the announcement is accurate.”
May you like
Peter’s expression changed.
He was a decent man, but he belonged to the class of professionals who converted crises into agendas before allowing themselves to feel them. Mara had watched him do it after a roof leak damaged a collection of maritime maps. He had arranged emergency conservation, notified insurers, drafted donor communication, and only then sat alone in the loading bay with his face in his hands.
