At night, when she knew Sophie's cries would disturb the others, she'd press the child to her breast and rock her gently, instantly calming her. It was amazing that the same thing that she used to calm Melchior worked just as perfectly for Sophie, just pressing her to her chest as she sat in her bed.
Tonight, however, nothing seemed to be working, and it was entirely her own fault.
"But— what are you doing out here, Wendla?" a very tired Anna whispered, closing the door to her and Margarete's room behind her.
"It's— she needs to be in her crib to sleep, and I can't—"
"Well, don't be so modest! You're perfectly well-dressed! Besides," she scolded, her tone stern, "this was your idea, bringing this boy into the house!"
Wendla shot Anna a terse glare, bouncing Sophie gently in her arms as she stood. "Anna, if I confess of something to you, will you promise me not to tell any of the others? But— you must promise!"
It was silly even to ask; any girl would have agreed in a heartbeat in the hopes of finding out a well-coveted secret from another girl, and Wendla held her breath as she clutched Sophie closer.
"He's... the father."
Anna's eyes went wide as she stared at Wendla, the whispered confession hanging heavy in the air. A million unanswered questions appeared to race through her mind all at once as she blinked almost owlishly at her.
"But— that's—"
"Anna, please, you need to believe me."
"No, I— it's just—" Seeming to take a deep, controlled breath, Anna gave a terse nod, her hands smoothing down her front somewhat stiffly as she tried to process the information before her. "Of course I believe you, but I thought you were both from—"
"— yes," Wendla nodded, her gaze pleading with her. "I don't know how it happened, Anna. But you can't tell anyone! I can't lose him again!"
Throwing her another look, she quickly nodded, taking Sophie out of Wendla's arms to gently bounce her in her arms. "Bring her crib into my room. She can sleep there tonight." Hesitating somewhat in the doorway, Anna frowned. "Does— does he know? That he's a father?"
Wendla just shook her head, quickly turning her back as she moved to fetch the basinette.
"Wendla—" Anna's voice stopped her, her hands frozen on the cool handle of the door, "just— be careful. Don't bring another child into this world that you can't provide for."
She didn't see Melchior again that night, choosing to sleep out in the rocking chair in the kitchen in which she breast-fed Sophie. She hadn't expected him to wake up, and the thought of sleeping beside him again when he could wake at any moment seemed too terrifying, too daunting with memories from a time when she'd been still so innocent and her whole world had felt differently than it did now.
Still, he had to eat, and she couldn't avoid him forever. There were things to talk about, things to address between them.
As the door shut on Wendla again, she sucked in a deep breath, Melchior holding his breath for some kind of revelation from her as she fought back tears.
"Our time..."
"Yes," he whispered, nodding urgently.
"I-in the hayloft."
"I know."
"Did you—" holding his breath, he watches her swallow, staring at the wall opposite him, lips drawn together in a thin line. "Did you know what would happen? Whence we would lie together?"
Wendla refused to look at him as he closed his eyes, hanging his head in shame.
"Yes," he whispered quietly, shaking his head all the same. "But— that wasn't why I laid with you, Wendla, you must know that! What I felt for you in that moment could not have been stronger, I— I wished so badly to be with you, to be one with you, as close as our bodies would allow us to be. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that you would be with child!"
With his words, Wendla finally came undone, a choked sob escaping her throat as she shook her head, sinking to the floor. She looked so small, there, as though the weight of the world had been crushing her all this time, Melchior too far away to protect from it as he sank off the bed and to his knees before her, wishing the shooting, stabbing pain in his leg would disappear, his hand reaching out to gently grasp hers in his.
"Wendla, please, I never meant to force you! My perfect, sweet, beautiful angel, I never meant for any of this to happen! You must believe me!"
Watching her nod just faintly through the onslaught of her tears, Melchior felt relief bubble up in his chest, crawling closer to hold her hand in both of his as he shook his head.
"She's just like you, you know," Wendla whispered, Melchior feeling like his throat might close up any second, his chest unbelievably tight. "It was so hard to look at her and know that you weren't there anymore, Melchi. That I was all alone in this. It's been so hard without you, I hardly know why I did not simply give in to the darkness and let it consume me."
"We have a daughter," he muttered quietly, shock still gripping his chest tightly in its stronghold, the weight of the statement bearing down on him with surprising vengeance.
"Yes," she nodded, wiping her tear-stained eyes.
"I— I will take full responsibility," he whispered softly, finally meeting her gaze as he squeezed her hand. "This is my fault, why would I not."
"Melchi..."
"I'm going to take care of you both," he vowed, shaking his head again, adamant as ever. "I will. I promise you, Wendla. I will take you away from this place, provide for all of us. I— I have a small room above a library where I work. The old man will die within a couple of years, I'm sure, and since he doesn't have any friends or relatives, that means I'll be taking over. Making a profit and being able to provide for us. As a family."
Feeling Wendla bury her face in his front, her head cradled tightly against his chest as he clung to her, Melchior could hardly stop himself, a soft sigh of relief slipping past his lips. This, this was heaven, here in Wendla's arms, with her tucked close to him, her body so near his that he might die if he could not touch her.
"I hear your heartbeat, Melchi," she whispered, and he fought to hold back tears, aching to hold her closer, to be one with her once more.
"I never stopped hearing yours, Wendla. Wherever I was, I could hear it beating. It didn't matter where— you never left my heart, not even when I thought I'd lost you forever."
"I-I love you."
Melchior felt his heart constrict in his chest, his eyes going wide as he held onto her. No, no, she couldn't love him, not yet— they'd only just found each other, it was too soon. An inner piece of Melchior felt as if it recoiled at her words. What they'd shared in his parents' hayloft had not been love, it had been far too physical, regardless of how desperately his heart had hammered in his chest as he looked on her, felt her with him.
But now, with her— there was no denying it, his hand threading into her hair possessively as he held her close.
"And I love you," he echoed, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.
The responsibility he felt was far too great, and he relented easily as Wendla sat up on her knees to cradle him to her chest instead, tugging him close as one would a child. How infuriating it was, feeling oneself move so quickly from being a man one minute, to being a child once more the next, a scared little boy who knew little more than what was written in books.
But books could not explain the feeling in his chest, the way his heart skipped a beat whenever he thought of Wendla, the need to have her close searing through his body with terrifying urgency.
"How I've longed to touch you again," he murmured into her front, shaking his head against the soft, cotton material.
"Melchi— we can't."
"I can hardly think what I would have done if I had lost you, truly— if I had woken in my room above the library to find that this was all just a dream," he shook his head, pulling back to look at her, unrelenting wanting tugging at him. "That my angel was not so near me as I had hoped. Wendla, do you not feel it? The longing for— touch? For us to be one again, once more?"
"Of course," she whispered desperately, clinging to his arms as she looked on him. "Of course I feel it. I've thought of that night far too often since missing you, Melchi. But I was left with child when you left! I couldn't— will it not happen again?"
"You're right," he swallowed hard, fighting back his urges through the thick veil of lust and desire threatening to overwhelm him.
"We can't let that happen again," she whispered, softer then, her hand reaching out to softly caress his cheek. "It's too dangerous."
"Then at least let me kiss you again." Leaning his forehead against hers, he sighed softly, his lips begging to close the distance between them once more.
He'd hardly felt in control of his body the last time they'd been together. He'd been longing for that moment, to lie with her, their bodies as one, for far too long, and the sheer thought of it, the idea that he might let that moment escape him whence he felt so near it— he couldn't bear to let it slip away.
And while he didn't wish to force her again— if that had truly been what he'd done to her— he couldn't help but feel the same urge again now, to kiss her, touch her, feel her again.
So when Wendla didn't pull away from him, he didn't hesitate any longer, wrapping one strong hand about the back of her neck to pull her close, pressing his lips to her with desperate longing.
Over two years he'd waited, wished to find this moment again where he might kiss her, and this time, she wasn't even pulling back from him, wasn't hesitating as she presses her lips to his in return, whimpering softly as he pressed his body against hers in spite of the pain searing through his leg.
He ached, and badly, but he couldn't bear to tear away from his angel, the hope that her lips on his offered him, sighing softly in the wake of her.
Gradually, ever-so-slowly, his hand trailed from its spot in her hair to slip lower on her breast, grasping softly, first through her gown, and then, as his courage grew alongside his longing, past the lacing, past the hem covering her still-swollen breasts, nothing barring his hand from touching her perfect skin any longer.
But with his hand on her breast, Wendla struggled, squirming to break free from his hand, the way his finger teased greedily at her nipple, his pants already unbearably tight as he fought to keep her close.
"Wendla, please!"
"N-no!" she pulled away as he finally let her go, her eyes wide, dress askew. "Melchi, we—"
Attempting to right her dress once more, she quickly stood, her arms trembling as she cast a glance at the bare spot where formerly a crib had stood, before promptly turning on her heel to slip out the door again, leaving him to pick himself up and hobble back over to lie on the bed.
He didn't know how to control himself around her. He wanted her so badly, and it had been so long since they'd been together— how was he supposed to stop himself?
He could still remember the salty taste of his own tears, the feeling of harsh sobs wracking his body upon the sight of her grave, the knowledge that she'd left him just as Moritz had, the temptation of the blade at the thought of facing a future without her.
If he hadn't felt certain that love was real, and true, and possible, that moment had changed everything.
Now, he wished nothing more than to right his wrongs, to thank the world for giving him back his Wendla and love her fully and completely, as a— a husband ought.
"I'm going to make an honest woman out of her, Moritz," he whispered softly, nodding to the empty space before him. "She deserves a proper husband who loves her and will care for her— and our child. I— I'll marry her. It's settled then— as soon as I'm able."
And though Moritz didn't respond, Melchior couldn't help but smile softly to himself as he laid down to sleep that night, content in the knowledge that he might be able to make this right.
Wendla didn't come back that night, or the next, Melchior simply waking on occasion to discover a tray of food beside his bed and fresh bandages around his lacerations.
She was avoiding him, but by the second night, the crib had found its way back into the room, though he never actually saw the child meant to occupy it.
That was, not until three days later, Melchior busy writing into his journal once more, the slow but steady improvement of his wounds allowing him to better sit up once more.
December 30th, 1893
My dearest friend,
I have been most negligent in writing to you. Talking is hardly a substitution, even if my sickness-addled brain would seem to disagree, but— I do need your help.
I wish to marry Wendla, my sweet, perfect angel— to make a proper woman of her so she might not have to feel shame in her heart knowing that she is carrying a child though her ring-finger remains bare. But I have no friends here, save for the old man, and hardly a way to access his counsel in this state, the invalid that I seem to have become in Wendla's care. She is a wonderful hostess, but I fear I am a burden to her. She hardly does come to see me, almost as though she is afraid of what we might do if left to our own devices. Bodies touching, loving, caressing each other— I need to feel her again, need to know that she's real. Lately, everything has felt like a figment of my imagination, and—
The creaking of the door stopped him dead in his pen's tracks, his head snapping up at the sound.
The child peeking its head in the door had a full head of light-brown, curly hair, the eyes blinking owlishly at him a brilliant shade of dark brown, much like Wendla's own. As it hesitantly took a step inside, he could make out the outline of a dress, smudged and yellow, a fluffy teddy bear clutched close to her chest as she closed the door and walked up to him.
She appeared to be sucking one some kind of Lutschbeutel, small fingers clutching onto one end of the cloth tied tightly about a small, round bundle of sugar, presumably to alleviate the inevitable pains from teething.
As her eyes searched him curiously, Melchior slowly sat down both his fountain pen and his journal, offering a small, hesitant smile.
Letting go of the beutel, she reached up to offer him her teddy bear, seemingly encouraged by his smile even as he slowly shook his head. He had no need for a bear.
But the little girl didn't seem to care, making a distressed noise around the sugar sack in her mouth as she pushed the bear at him a bit more insistently once more, Melchior finally reaching down to take it.
"Thank you," he offered quietly, smiling again as she nodded.
"Sophie, where—"
Even the bear seemed to freeze, stopping dead in its tracks as both Sophie's and Melchior's gazes shot to the door where Wendla stood, realization hitting Melchior like an ice bath, eyes wide as he swallowed.
"You're—" Wendla's cheeks had turned a bright shade of pink as she wrung her hands before her lap, obviously flustered. "You're not supposed to be in here," she admonished softly. "Come on, take your bear back and run out and play. Anna is out in the garden, you can go there."
Sophie offered an apologetic look to him as she took her bear back, slipping past her mother to scuttle out, Wendla still refusing to look at him.
"Wendla—" he sat up a bit, making to stand.
"Don't."
Her voice had taken on a softer quality, far more pleading with him than anything else, and she nervously ran her hands over the front of her dress. Whether she was telling him not to get up out of the bed or not to state the obvious, he wasn't sure, his gaze wavering over her abdomen where their child had once been.
"I've been a fool," he said softly, swallowing hard as his eyes seemed to plead with her, Wendla finally daring to look back at him. "How can I provide for you and our child as a family if we're not married?"
"I-I've been faring just fine on my own," she added slowly, her voice small as she kept her eyes trained on the floor.
"Fine isn't good!" he shot back, moving to stagger to his feet, quick to keep his weight focused on his good leg. "I— this is my fault. I should have been there for you, Wendla! All this time I could have been a good husband and father, and instead, I just thought about myself... again," he sighed, adding it almost as if an afterthought.
"Melchi, no, I— you couldn't have known."
"But I should have! I should have expected that this would be something that your mother might do— to keep us apart!" Sighing softly, he shook his head, seemingly frustrated with himself. "I'm going to provide for you, Wendla. From now on. I've hurt you— but I'm going to make this right. I have to! For you— a-and Moritz. And our child."
"You should sit. You're not well yet, and I do not wish for you to injure yourself again by reopening one of your wounds."
"Tell me about her," he muttered softly, even as he moved to sit once more, "— our child. Please— I truly wish to know," he laughed softly, almost as though in disbelief over his own words.
That afternoon, Melchior learned all about his daughter, Wendla reluctantly coming to sit by his side on the bed and grasping hold of his hand as she recounted her pregnancy, the arduous birth in the midst of the summer heat, Sophie's character and how similar, truly, she was to him, and every milestone he'd managed to miss. When she'd started walking, laughing— the fact that her first word had been papa and how hard Wendla had cried over his absence in light of Sophie's development especially. She was curious, impetuous, exceptionally bright, and had quite a temper, just like her father.
It was only when her stories began to quiet, when Melchior dared lean in to kiss her, that she decided it was getting late, muttering something about chores and Sophie and needing to leave.
It was all he could do to not lose his mind that night, his hand the only possible comfort for the wanting she'd left him with, hardly able to stop himself.
Knowing that he might once again touch his perfect angel, his Wendla, was proving to be his greatest salvation in a sea formerly raging with despair. There was no other girl, no greater girl that he could ever imagine lying beside, and if this meant he had to be patient and wait for her— marry her— then he would. Make a proper woman out of her, finally, just as he'd promised.
