Waves of nausea began rippling over me. “I thought it might be all right, Henry. I never meant to hurt you. I thought I was doing you a favor, marrying you—I know you’ve always wanted that. I know it wasn’t perfect, but I thought I’d get over the past, begin again. I’d get pregnant quickly, and no one would know the baby wasn’t yours. Lots of people do it.”
“But we aren’t ‘lots of people,’?” he roared, storming toward me. “I am an individual, Venetia. Sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever realized that.” He sat down on the sofa next to me. “Look at me, Venetia. Take a good, long look at me.” His voice was firm, abrupt, and he looked straight into my eyes as I raised them to his. He looked different from every other time I’d seen him; open, alive, as if bringing everything he had left to this moment.
“Yes, I know,” I murmured. As his eyes met mine, they altered, relaxing, narrowing, his rage replaced by hunger.
“Venetia, I want you so badly. I almost wanted to ignore the baby and continue with the wedding. I tried to push it to the back of my mind, but I could never live with that. I hate Kitty for telling me. If she hadn’t come and ruined it all, it would have been perfect. I would have been the happiest man on earth. You would have been mine.” His eyes swept down over my body, and his hand moved to my waist. “You would have been mine,” he repeated, his hands moving fast, running up and down my side, his thick, clumsy fingers grappling over my thighs. I was calling for him to stop, trying to get his hands off me, but he carried on, yelling, “Is this the kind of girl you are, Venetia? Is this what you like?”
I realized that I needed to get out, so I used all my force to push him away, standing up to flee from the room. Only he regained balance fast and strode after me, his hand slapping my face so hard that I fell to the floor with an almighty bang.
Then Mama was there, standing over me, screaming, “What’s going on? What on earth are you doing?”
He promptly stopped and began to smooth down his hair.
“I think you should leave now, Henry,” Mama said briskly, feeling my forehead and helping me up.
He pursed his lips in annoyance. “Yes, I’ve had enough of her now,” he said with meaning, and strode out of the room haughtily.
Mama’s sad eyes caught mine as we listened for the second time that day to his footsteps hard across the marble hall, the voice of the maid showing him out. The great thud as the front door slammed, sending a shower of tiny dust particles slowly rippling through the air like a vanished apparition being laid to rest.
I began to cry; the pain in my body was immense and my head was pounding. Mama helped me upstairs and I collapsed on the bed.
I slept for a while, and then I heard Daddy shouting downstairs. Mama, who was sitting beside my bed, quietly got up and turned the key in the door. I knew she was scared for me, far more scared than I was. He can come for all I care. I know that I can cope with his temper; I know I can cope with anything. I am completely numb.
And that’s where you find me now, Angie, sitting in bed, trying to make head or tail of this whole miserable mess. Mama says I have a fever, and I confess I feel incredibly tired, so I must leave you here and get some rest.
Venetia
Friday, 9 August 1940
What a sad night this has been.
It was past midnight when Kitty scratched on the front door. The Colonel answered and came up to get me, and I opened my bedroom door in Harold’s old brown dressing gown and pattered down to find out what was afoot.
“Something’s very wrong with Venetia, and I think you need to go to the Manor,” she said quietly, adding, with a vague tremor, “And may I stay here for a while, please?”
I told Kitty she could have the small room and hurried back into my bedroom to throw on some clothes and grab my nurse’s bag before darting out into the night. I ran all the way to the lane, stumbling over twice as my thin torch roved over the uneven path ahead of me. At the Manor, I let myself in the side door and headed up the back stairs, stopping to catch my breath for a few moments before knocking.
My main dread—that Venetia was having a miscarriage—was confirmed as I entered the room. It was a tragic scene. In the dim mauve light of her bedside lamp, I saw Venetia sprawled in pain, weeping that she’d never forgive herself. There was a lot of blood and a strong smell of plasma. Mrs. Winthrop was dashing around with towels and cloths.
I sat next to Venetia on the bed and spoke quietly to her, gauging what she was going through, what needed to be done, whether we should take her to the hospital. It was early in her pregnancy, so at least she wasn’t going through labor, and slowly, throughout the early hours of morning, the entirety of her pregnancy was gradually ejected from her frail body.
“Is she going to be all right?” Mrs. Winthrop asked.
“Yes,” I said, although inside I couldn’t be certain. She was underweight, exhausted, and traumatized. She was running a fever and had lost a lot of blood.