Seacliff

Chapter thirty-seven: Scotch fumes

1919

The ensuing tea-time conversation never touched on sensitive topics, such as Sir Alexander, and contained mainly social updates from the Edinburgh elite. James did a great job in sounding interested and it was obvious he loved his mother, but Saoirse could see his patience wearing thin.

"Will you be staying with us, mother?" James abruptly questioned at some point.

"Oh, I..." Lady Mortimer hesitated. "I would love to, only... I know you weren't expecting me... Perhaps you had other plans, I would hate to trouble you."

"No, no trouble at all," James replied, standing up. "There's plenty of room. Would you like to see the beach? It's not far from the house."

"Oh, yes, please."

James winked at his wife as he brought his mother her coat. Saoirse ran to the telephone as soon as the back door closed. She needed to alert Natsume to postpone his arrival. Then she erased all trace of James from the guest room and changed the bedsheets.

After James and his mother returned from their walk, supper felt tense despite Saoirse's best efforts at cordiality. Lady Mortimer seemed pleased enough, yet her son stewed in a glum mood, speaking in short sentences and avoiding eye-contact.

He retreated to the marital chamber that night with a half-empty bottle of Scotch and his shirt undone. Saoirse was sitting up in bed with a book when her husband stumbled into the room.

"You should take it easy with the whiskey," she suggested. "It doesn't really help."

He slammed the bottle down on the nightstand in response. The amber liquid within sloshed about like a restless sea.

"How would you know?" James grumbled at his wife.

"I've tried it myself and it only gave me more grief."

The doctor fully discarded his shirt and unbuttoned his trousers. "Was this last year, after the war?"

"Yes." Saoirse didn't look up.

He ambled to the disused fireplace and the framed photograph that now adorned the mantelpiece. Saoirse in her blue-and-white Nightingale uniform, with little Ciara in her arms. Their recent wedding portrait had replaced it in the front room downstairs.

"What happened to her?" James asked. "Auntie Aoife never spoke of... she never..."

Saoirse gulped.

"It's your daughter, isn't it?"

Her breathing trembled. She cleared her throat. "Her name was Ciara Florence Quinn. She was seven years old when the Flanders grippe took her."

Silence.

Then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Saoirse closed her book and slid under the duvet. "Goodnight, James. Maybe save the rest of that Scotch for another night, eh?"

James made no answer. He shuffled into his pyjamas, then put the light out and got into bed beside her. For long moments, his loud, irregular breaths resounded in the oppressive quiet of the night.

"Saoirse..."

"Hmm?"

He turned around and curled up at her back.

"Can I... can I touch your tummy?"

Saoirse giggled. "Of course."

She faced him and guided his hand under her pyjama blouse.

His palm flattened on her bare belly. "Is it a boy or a girl, do you reckon?"

"I don't know." She rolled on her back. "And it doesn't matter. I'll love it all the same."

A tender moment prevailed, his thumb stroking her skin.

Ruined when, out of nowhere, he lunged to kiss her mouth and she dodged his lips, startled.

"James!" Saoirse scolded, a hint of laughter in her voice. "What's gotten into you?"

"Can't a man kiss his wife?"

"Why would you want to kiss me?"

His hand on her abdomen attempted to stray lower and she swatted it away, sitting up.

"James! What in the world are you doing?"

"Maybe I can be normal!" He rose and crawled closer. "Maybe I can be your husband. Maybe if I just try..." His arm braced her back, his fingers clutching her shoulder. "Maybe I can be like Sorley! He's made love to us both. Clearly, he's not bothered either way. Please..."

She shook him off and jumped to her feet. Her thumbs instinctively rubbed the rings on her fingers. The Claddagh ring on her right hand, still showing that Sorley had captured her heart. And Charlie's ring on her left, signifying James's devotion.

Torn between her duty as a wife, however counterfeit, and her own personal beliefs about the intimacy of lovemaking, she plopped down on the window seat, hugging her own body as if she could hold herself together.

"I can't," she murmured. "I can't... . I love you, James, but as a friend. I know I once – I shouldn't have... . But I really can't – "

He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers locked prayer-like. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

He stood. "I'll sleep downstairs on the sofa. I'm so sorry, Saoirse, I – "

She walked over, taking his hand to stop him.

"I suppose I ought to take it easy with the Scotch, after all."

"Was it something your mother said that upset you? Your mood's been awful since supper."

They held hands, standing within inches of each other in the dark.

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?"

"Not really, no."

He pecked her forehead, then rested his against it. "Would you mind if I told my mother about the baby?"

"Wouldn't it be too soon to know?"

"I'm sure everyone, maman included, already suspects we've had our wedding night long before our actual wedding. She'll be happy to know that her son, well..."

"I don't mind, James. If you think it'll make her happy, rather than upset."

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me. Come along now, let's go to sleep."

He resisted for a second when she pulled him towards the bed. "Are you quite certain?"

"Positive." She tugged at him again and he relented. "Just don't try anymore tricks, all right?"

"I won't. I promise."