“You were right to do it,” Patrick assured her. He had no clear idea what Sophie was talking about, but he kept stroking her silky curls.

“No, no, I wasn’t,” Sophie choked. “Because everything was going well before he came. They were about to send me out of the room, and even though it was painful, she was brave … but when he appeared, and she thought he was going to take the baby when it was born, it just stopped. It stopped working. I told her, I kept telling her, that I wouldn’t let him take the baby, but she didn’t believe me.” Sobs took over her voice again.

Patrick cursed softly, under his breath. When he spoke, his voice was as ragged as hers. “It’s not Alex’s fault,” he said. “And it’s not your fault. Births don’t always work, especially with the first baby. The baby, or the mother, can die.”

“Or both,” Sophie said drearily.

“Or both,” Patrick agreed. He rested his cheek against the head of the woman whose name he hardly knew. “But it’s not your fault. Alex realized what an ass he’d been, and he was on his way back. He loves her, you know. He was a fool, but he loves her. So he should be there. When I saw this happen before, in India …” He trailed off.

Sophie raised her head and looked at him, her blue eyes drenched in tears. “Did she suffer? I mean, at the end?”

“No. No, they called the husband, and he went in the room and was with her.”

Sophie dropped back against his chest, exhausted.

“How long has it been?” she whispered.

“About three minutes.” They both listened, but there was no sound from the hallway, not even the doctor’s returning footsteps.

In the master bedchamber Alex sat down on the bed beside Charlotte. She was very far away, in some private space of her own where there was no pain. He could see it in the frail whiteness of her face and her hushed breathing. He took her hands in his. As always, her delicate hands were dwarfed by his huge fingers. He had a sudden flashing memory of her fingers deftly holding a thin brush as she turned about to laugh at him, flicking a spot of red onto the front of his white shirt. He had growled in mock anger and swooped down on her, carrying her to the divan. He was such a fool! Why didn’t he know that a man and woman don’t make love like that, heart and soul infused into each other, unless there is true emotion between them? He had confused Maria’s cold, loathsome couplings with their joyful passion.