He smiled as if to humor me and then he looked around, remaining on the floor at my feet. "It has to have been very lonely for you here, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui, monsieur."
"You miss your friends, I'm sure."
"I miss my mother and my freedom to go where I want when I want."
"I'm sorry. Really, there must be something else I can do for you," he insisted. Then he rose and sat beside me. "I know. I could visit you more often," he suggested. "Amuse you, comfort you. You're a lovely girl. You shouldn't be so alone. It's not fair."
"I'll endure it. As you said, it's not for much longer." I shifted on the bed so I wouldn't be sitting so close to him.
"Yes, but as you said, every day is like a week, every week a month, a month a year, when you're so locked up and without company. We can play checkers or just talk, and I can comfort you with my shower of affection whenever you need it. Pregnant women need affection, even more than women who aren't pregnant, no?"
He reached across my lap and took my hand into his. I started to pull back, but he held on to me.
"You needn't worry now. The damage, as they say, has already been done. You can't get any more pregnant. You won't have twins," he added with a laugh.
"Please, monsieur." I pulled my hand from his, but he took it again, pressing firmer, more
desperately.
"Gabriel, I'm lonely, too. It's not just for you that I make the suggestion."
"Monsieur Tate . . ."
"Pregnancy does make a woman even more beautiful," he said. "Here you are locked away in this closet, shut away from the sunlight you love so, and yet you still bloom with a freshness and a radiance that makes my heart skip beats."
"I don't feel fresh and radiant."
"But you are," he insisted. "These past months I've lain in my bed and stared up at the ceiling thinking about you closed up in this room. I go into Gladys's bedroom to hear every movement, every squeak, and a few times," he confessed, "I've watched you from a distance or from the shadows and admired you for what you are doing for your parents and for the baby."
"I do what must be done," I said, my voice weak because of the way my heart thumped with fear and anxiety, imagining him hovering below listening for a squeak in the ceiling.
"Your courage takes away my breath and in my eyes makes you more beautiful. If you will only let me give you real comfort," he said, and leaned toward me to kiss my cheek, his hands moving up the sides of my body toward my breasts.
Surprised and terrified, I put my hand on his chest and held him away. "Get out, monsieur. Now!" He hesitated. "I will scream. I warn you." My throat tightened, but he saw the determination in my eyes.
"All right," he said, standing and pumping his palms against the air between us. "Stay calm. Relax. I'll go. I just thought you needed some comfort and . . ."
"I don't want you here," I said, tears burning beneath my eyelids. "I don't want this kind of comfort."
"Okay. Fine. But what I'll do is look in on you from time to time to see if you are all right."
"No, don't bother."
"It's not a bother."
"Monsieur," I said firmly, swallowing back my tears to make my words sharp and firm, "if you set foot in this room again, I will complain to Madam Tate and I will leave this house. I swear I will."
He shook his head. "Where do you get your strength?" "From my sense of what is right," I replied pointedly. He was silent and then he retreated to the doorway where he paused once more to look back at me. He sighed deeply and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, and descended the stairs quietly.
I waited until I heard the downstairs door close. Then I let out a breath and felt my tears pour hotly over my lids and down my cheeks. Now that he was gone, I was filled with amazement. How could he come up here and, pretending to be remorseful, try to seduce me again? Madame Tate was right, I thought, men must have raging hormones that turn them into monsters. Had he no shame?
I went to the window to take deep breaths. My heart was still pounding.
If Mama knew what had happened, she would rip me from the place in an instant, I thought. Maybe what I was doing was not so wise. Maybe I shouldn't leave my baby in this house, rich people or no.
Oh, I didn't know what was right and what was wrong anymore. I couldn't throw myself on Mama for the answers. I knew she was so selfless she would choose what would make life easier for me, no matter what the consequences to her. If only there were someone else to speak to, someone else I trusted and loved and someone who loved me.