Wild Star by Catherine Coulter Page B

obvious scandal from in front of their noses. When you return, you will be welcomed gladly, by everyone I know, even the greatest sticklers. It is easier for someone to accept a baby, magically produced before his or her eyes, than watching one grow more quickly than it should. Of course everyone believes we married because you were pregnant, but your absence somehow ennobles you.”
    “So, we’re saving them from themselves,” Byrony said.
    “If you wish to put it that way, yes. I have been upstairs to visit Irene, and she assures me that she is feeling fine save for a slight backache. Also, Dr. Chambers agrees that everything appears normal. Is this also your opinion?”
    Byrony shrugged. How could Ira appear so cool-looking, his linen so crisp and fresh? She felt like one of Eileen’s limp dusting cloths. Even in September, her shift was clinging damply to her back by ten o’clock in the morning.
    “Forgive me, Ira,” she said, giving him as much of a smile as she could. “Irene is fine. The heat is enervating and she suffers, but she says little. I swear I don’t know how people can bear to live here! I can count on the fingers of my left hand how many days have been tolerable.”
    Ira looked thoughtful. He sipped at his hot tea, making Byrony wince. She’d drunk more iced lemonade and more water during the summer months in Sacramento than ever in her life. Boston in the summer had been hot, certainly, but Aunt Ida’s house had been large and airy, and blessedly cool.
    “Has Irene spoken to you about—about things?”
    If only she had, Byrony thought, it would have served to pass the time more quickly. Irene was like a clam. She shook her head. “No. I do not feel it my place to pry, Ira. If she was ever bitter about that man or the baby, she hasn’t let on to me. No, she seems really quite happy about it—content, I suppose you’d say.”
    “Good,” he said, relief in his voice. “All of this has been so hard for her. I’ve been worried.”
    What about me? Byrony wanted to ask, but she didn’t. She wanted to say that she now understood what it must be like to be jailed, but it wouldn’t do.
    “The baby is due in about two weeks,” Byrony said.
    “Yes, I shall return in time. It is important that I be here.”
    It was odd, Byrony thought, but she hadn’t gotten close to Irene over the past months, and she’d tried. But Irene remained somehow aloof, and the baby was Irene’s, not hers, and Irene didn’t seem to want that to change. If she spoke with any animation at all, it was about the child. Byrony wondered yet again how Irene would act once the child was born. How could she even begin to treat the child as her own? It seemed impossible to her.
    “I have a letter for you from your mother, Byrony,” Ira said.
    Byrony accepted the envelope from her husband. It had been opened, just as the two others had been. The first time, he’d said only, apology in his voice, “It’s your father, Byrony. I’m afraid I do not trust him.”
    “Nor do I,” she’d said, wondering what that had to do with anything, but he still opened the letters.
    The letter contained little news, not a word, in fact, about her father. Her mother, of course, believed her to be living in San Francisco, happily, with her new husband. She finished the letter and folded it back into its envelope. She would answer it and give it to Ira to post from San Francisco. The deception would be maintained.
    Suddenly she felt more lonely than she’d ever felt in her life. Empty. Tears sprang to her eyes and slowly trickled down her cheeks.
    “Byrony.”
    She gulped and swiped her hand across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ira, truly I am. It’s just that—” She broke off, uncertain of what words would spill out of her mouth.
    He rose and crossed over to her. “Poor Byrony,” he said, stroking her shoulders. “It’s been very hard for you, hasn’t it? I shall make it up to you, I promise.” He sighed. “You are so very