But devil take it, the hurt did not lessen. Time did not heal or bring acceptance.
She had been confused but a little relieved as the months passed and her belly did not swell with the king’s child, as his attentions were enjoyable and she hadn’t felt ready to be a mother. But when the months turned into years, the confusion had turned into fear. She’d been advised to take tonics, to bed in certain positions, to pray. Nothing. Others had insisted it would be different in the holy bonds of matrimony, yet her belly remained flat with Fergus also.
Her husband had been so calm, so understanding, each month when she bled. She had raged and wept, pleaded and threatened and cajoled. It made no difference. Each month, as night followed day, her body taunted her with the harsh reminder there was something she could not command. And no manuscript, no ancient wisdom or physician, could explain why. Even her own knowledge of herbals…worthless. Worst of all, she was constantly surrounded by women succeeding. Shared tales of early nausea and fatigue, swollen bellies and ankles, the triumph of a healthy birth. All of James’s other mistresses had given him a child; before he’d wed Margaret Tudor, the cherished bairns had resided at Stirling Castle.
But Janet had failed.
And every time there came a new pregnancy or birth announcement, she had to be delighted. Smile even as her broken heart shattered once more and buried her under a rockslide of why. Why must she be the barren one? Why must she suffer the annoyance of bleeding and belly gripes each month but never the jolt of a little kick or the tranquility of rocking an infant to sleep? Not once had Fergus scolded or blamed her, nor had he yelled or hurled a single item. After a while they’d stopped speaking of children at all, and she’d been torn whether to love him more for such kindness or hate his admittance of defeat.
To be bested by strength, wit, or learning was one thing.
Bested by your own body?
Soul destroying.
“Janet?” said Marjorie, her brow furrowing. “Are you well?”
No!
She gritted her teeth. “Of course. I just need to use the chamber pot. Do let me out, my dear, or I shall be worse than an untrained pup.”
Marjorie grinned and shuffled toward the pillows to give her room. “Yes, mistress.”
As sweet freedom from the emotional tempest beckoned, Janet sat up and prepared to flee. Until Lachlan put his hand on her arm.
“Are you sure…you are w-well? Not upset?”
A pox on the man for knowing her history. Why did he have to see?
“Quite well, pet,” said Janet, twisting away from him and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Also quite serious about my need to use the chamber pot.”
Hurrying over to the other side of the room and behind an embroidered screen she could kiss right now for the privacy it provided, Janet covered her mouth and shrieked into her hand. Yes, it changed nothing. But if she did not lance the wound, it would fester inside her, and she did not have the luxury of tears. Although, later she would be drinking enough wine to launch a ship at supper.
Lachlan clearing his throat sounded like thunder rumbling in the silence. “Do you think, mistress…Marjorie conceiving a c-child would help…or hinder us?”
Janet shrieked into her hand again, furious when a tiny squeak escaped. Then she took several breaths, squared her shoulders, and walked back around the screen as though her burdens were feather light rather than crushing boulders.
“I cannot be certain, of course. However, it seems rational that the king and clergy might be less inclined to protest a union that would leave an innocent babe a bastard. If you are both ready to welcome a child early in your marriage, then by all means try for one…we really must dress. I’m sure suppertime is fast approaching, and we must not give any of the servants cause for concern.”
Lachlan looked like he might say something further, but she held up a hand and added a stern glare for good measure, and he fell silent.
No. She would permit no more distressing talk until she’d drained the manor dry of wine. Or celebrated her hundredth birthday.
Preferably the latter.
…
Lady Janet was not well. Not at all.
Lachlan pressed his lips together so he did not speak as he swiftly sponged himself with the cool cloth by the bowl of water, then dressed.
His mistress wore the same brittle, unhappy expression she had at the supper with the Campbells and the Sinclairs and the thoughtless comment about a woman’s true purpose. He knew her past miseries; the king had often spoken of Lady Janet’s sadness, his own disappointment in not having a child with his fiery one. Today he had been equally as thoughtless as Jean Sinclair, blurting out those words in front of Lady Janet when he could have easily spoken to Marjorie privately.
Damned fool.
The marital bedding had gone so well with the three of them together, as he was starting to believe they should be forever. Lusty and pleasurable and powerful. Then he had ruined it— twice, in fact. First the spending discussion, then asking Lady Janet’s opinion on a possible pregnancy for Marjorie.
Baseborn, hell-spawned fool.
Grimly, he watched Lady Janet and Marjorie help each other with their shifts, kirtles, and gowns. His wife kept biting her lip and glancing at their mistress, a sure sign she was troubled but didn’t know what to say. Not that he knew either. Even if he did, no doubt it would tumble out all wrong. Lady Janet had been so generous, so accepting of
