The cathedral bells chimed for two in the morning and the late autumn rain hammered against the windows of their bedroom, but neither of these noises were what was causing d'Artagnan to lie awake in bed, unable to sleep.
He was propped up, his head and shoulders against the wall and Constance was curled up, sleeping soundly, with her head on his chest and her arm draped across him. The gentle snores she was making usually would make him smile, but this time, with a hand resting on her growing stomach, d'Artagnan was thinking of other things.
Lately he'd had trouble sleeping due to the various things on his mind. Last night it had been Constance and the baby, the night before it had been an assassination attempt on the Queen that had been far too close for comfort. This night, however, the Musketeers preoccupied his thoughts. One of the best in the regiment had been killed when trying to subdue a simple drunken fight – he had been alone and unaware that half the tavern was armed and, ultimately, five drunkards with daggers will always beat one Musketeer with a sword in a confined space. Not only was it a blow to d'Artagnan personally, as the murdered man had been one of the most senior ranking Musketeers and someone he trusted for advice, it was a massive hit to the morale of everyone who lived and worked at the Garrison. Constance had been particularly upset.
He glanced down at her and brushed her hair out of her face. She had a pink flush across her cheeks from their combined body heat, but that was all. The black eye she had gained from the attack in the market had faded away to nothing weeks ago, something d'Artagnan was relieved about. Every time he'd looked at her while it was there it had made him feel sick to his stomach, remembering the thief striking her and seeing her fall.
But she was fine now, and, more than ever, she was throwing herself into her work at the garrison, despite him pleading with her to take it easy. The problem was there was just so much to do. An issue that was particularly pressing was the regiment's intake, specifically one Musketeer hopeful named Moreau. The boy was scarcely older than seventeen, yet d'Artagnan saw so much of himself in him he couldn't just forget about him. Moreau had also lost his family and travelled to Paris. He had passion and strength of character and wanted more than anything to serve France as a Musketeer. The only slight issue was that he had next to no ability when it came to the skills vital for being a Musketeer. He couldn't shoot with any kind of accuracy, he had dropped his sword numerous times when he was being assessed, and d'Artagnan suspected that when it came down to it he would be unable to kill anyone – even if it was to save his own life.
At first he had hoped that all Moreau needed was guidance and training, but d'Artagnan was reluctant to take such a risk when the situation in the city, and even in the whole country, was still so tense. So he'd gone for Aramis for advice.
"Treville didn't take risks like that," Aramis had said when he voiced his concerns. "The whole point of the Musketeers is that they're the best – which means not everyone can be one."
"But, well what about me?" d'Artagnan had pressed. "I wasn't ready to be a Musketeer when I first came to Paris?"
Aramis had stayed quiet for a while, thinking how to best word his response. "But you didn't become a Musketeer as soon as you arrived in Paris," he said with a sly smile. "However, Treville wouldn't have even considered you if he didn't see something in you, no matter who you were. It was obvious to us all when you barged into to the garrison and demanded Athos' head that you had potential to become a great Musketeer, and you did."
After getting Aramis' word that he would find a job for the boy at the palace, d'Artagnan had let him go from the cadet training. He still felt guilty though. Everything he had he owed to Treville giving him a chance. What kind of Captain was he if he didn't give others the same chances he was given when in their position?
D'Artagnan was brought out of his contemplations by a fluttering movement under the hand that was resting on Constance's stomach. He froze, keeping his hand where it was, waiting for it again. Then he felt it, stronger this time.
"Constance," he whispered without moving. "Wake up."
She murmured sleepily but when there was another flickering movement her eyes shot open. She moved her hand to cover his and her mouth dropped open.
"Oh my…" she said, stunned. But then her voice became softer. "Wow… I can feel…" Her words faded to nothing and they led together silently feeling their baby's movements. D'Artagnan swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and when he kissed Constance's hair he noticed her eyes were shimmering with tears.
"Are you okay?" he asked as she brushed them away.
"I'm fine," she said, laughing quietly at how emotional she was being. "It just makes it so much more real, to actually feel him – or her – moving around."
D'Artagnan nodded. "It does. I can't tell if I'm excited or frightened."
"A mixture of both, I think," she said with a grin. Constance settled back into d'Artagnan's shoulder and traced her fingers on his chest absentmindedly.
"Have you made up your mind yet?" she asked, "Whether you want a boy or a girl?"
D'Artagnan sighed thoughtfully. "Obviously I'd be perfectly happy with either. But…"
"But?" Constance pushed. D'Artagnan furrowed his brow in thought and waited a while before speaking.
"But, the relationship I had with my father is something I miss and think about every day," he smiled sadly, as he always did when speaking of his father. "To be able to have that relationship with my own son would be amazing. To teach him to shoot, to ride, to be a good person who makes good choices, to be respectful and strong, I'd love to be able to do that for him – as I like to think my father did with me. I want to pass on some of my father to his grandson, since he's not here to do it himself."
"I understand that," said Constance. "But you can teach a daughter to shoot too – you taught me."
"True," laughed d'Artagnan. "What about you? Boy or Girl?"
Constance fell silent and she pulled herself up into a sitting position.
"Constance?"
Constance looked towards him and took a deep breath. "I ache for a little girl," she said, wrapping her arms around her stomach. "Whenever I see Marie-Cessette it makes my heart hurt with longing. I'd love to have my own daughter to watch play and sing and to teach her my own things, like cooking and dress making and healing. But I hope for a boy."
D'Artagnan blinked in confusion and reached out to take her hand. "I don't understand."
Constance shook her head and sat so she was facing him. She reached out and pushed back his hair, smiling fondly as she did so.
"What to have to understand is that you and your friends are a minority amongst men in that you believe that a woman is her own person," she said, carefully, trying not to sound accusatory. "According to most people, and even to the law, I am your property and I was Bonacieux's property before that, and my father's property before that. I have no control over my own life because it doesn't belong to me. I am so unbelievably happy to be married to you; you treat me with the respect that no woman would even dare to dream of and I love you dearly for it. You make me laugh, you make me smile every morning as soon as I wake up and see you." Constance caressed her thumb over d'Artagnan's lower lip before kissing him deeply. When she pulled away she placed her forehead against his and breathed a deep sigh.
"But," she said, in a sad voice. "This shouldn't have happened. In normal circumstances I would still be married to Bonacieux and you would probably still be captain of the musketeers, only with someone else led here beside you. Without our ridiculous luck I would still be trapped in the same marriage I was forced into by my father when I was only seventeen years old. I never hated Bonacieux, but he was cold, unloving, and occasionally violent. I never loved him. I did love my father, and he loved me, but he was dying and wanted to see his only daughter secure and safe before he passed away. To him, and most other people, "safe and secure" means "married to a moderately wealthy man twice her age that she has never met," so I can't blame him for it. Which is exactly why the idea of having a daughter fills me with dread – it's normal for girls to be treated like property." Constance blinked back tears as she finished and looked down, letting her hair hide her face.
D'Artagnan had sat quietly listening in a calm silence as she spoke, his face only showing emotion when she spoke of Bonacieux being violent. From the way his lips twitched she could tell he was remembering the time he struck her and split her lip. Shaking his head slightly, he took her hands and kissed her forehead.
"I didn't know, I…" d'Artagnan said in a low whisper. "I would never, I wouldn't ever treat her like-"
"I know," Constance said quickly, kissing his cheek. "I know you wouldn't. But… do you really expect the rest of the world to think like that?"
They had reached an impasse. D'Artagnan pulled Constance back down so she was lying next to him and the pair led in silence, both contemplating their discussion. She traced patterns on her stomach absentmindedly while he twisted a lock of her hair between his fingers.
"I have some news for you," Constance said, grinning.
"Oh?"
"I got a letter today."
"Who from?"
"My mother." D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows and shifted into a sitting position
"And what did she say," he said, mock fear colouring his voice. Constance laughed.
"She is coming to visit us," said Constance, quickly.
D'Artagnan's expression dropped from his face.
"What?" he said, in disbelief.
"Well she wants to be here for the birth of her grandchild, and I'd quite like to have her here, but she also wants to meet you." Constance smiled widely, trying to make him do the same. "And the last time I saw her you were at war. I miss her – she is my mother after all. She's honestly lovely and I know she will like you -"
"Its fine," he interrupted, looking genuinely pleased. "I can't wait to meet her, and if she makes you feel happier about the birth then even better." He put a hand in her hair and kissed her, before settling back and closing his eyes to go to sleep. Constance bit her lip.
"It isn't just her," she said, scrunching up her face and playing with her fingers awkwardly. D'Artagnan opened his eyes and gave her a questioning look.
"She's bringing my older brothers… all three of them. And Phillipe – the oldest – is bringing his wife Alice… and their two boys." D'Artagnan's eyes widened.
"Constance, I -" He shook his head. "I don't have a problem with them coming, I want to meet them all, but where will they stay? Your mother could stay with us but we don't have the room for seven people?"
"I know, but I have a plan! They can stay at my old house."
"At Bonacieux's?"
"Yes, there are plenty of beds and all it needs is a bit of a clean," she shrugged. "It'll be nice to have people living there again instead of it sitting empty and cold." D'Artagnan listened and nodded in agreement.
"That will work. When are they arriving?"
"Not until the end of March, so they have around a month to get settled in before the baby is born. It takes around a week's ride for them to get to Paris what with my mother and the children."
"We'll have everything sorted by then," D'Artagnan said, but then he looked at her seriously. "You have to promise me one thing though."
"What is it?" she asked. He smirked.
"That your brothers won't gang up on me, because you know I will beat them if it comes down to a sword fight." Constance laughed and hugged him tightly.
"I don't know; Phillipe was the best in our town," she said playfully. D'Artagnan smiled warmly and brought the bed sheets up so that they were both covered and wrapped her in his arms. She kissed his cheek and put her mouth to his ear, whispering softly.
"They are all going to love you."
