Chapter 130 - A Matthew or a Hope:

6th December, 1780

"Where are we?" Calvin called out, he had to pitch his voice to be heard over the galloping horses. "What are we doing here?"

Mark's eyes were pinned on the Plantation house as it grew larger with each step he drew nearer. Where were they? At Christopher Middleton's. What were they doing here?

Mark had promised Mage there would be a reckoning. He'd put it off for long enough. That was what they were doing here now, settling for the bastard who married Mark's daughter off to the man who'd raped her.

Who was still raping her, every single night of every single week. She'd suffered months of Bordon's abuse, because of Christopher Middleton. Her own uncle. He'd known, and instead of removing her from Camden and sheltering her, he'd washed his damned hands of her, leaving her to a life of torture.

He had to answer for it. By damn, Mark would make him answer for it.

He, Calvin and the fifteen militiamen reached the house, drawing rein at the front steps of the porch. The men did not know why they were there either, but they obeyed Mark completely now and they could see the grim look of death upon his face, not a single one of them sat their mounts without tension. There was the air of rifles being loaded and cocked, though none of them made a move toward their firearms.

Christopher and his overseer stepped out of the house, Christopher looked over the rabble of men, his worried eyes landing on Mark. He looked startled initially, then relieved.

Relieved.

Mark struggled with himself as he dismounted, struggled not to go for Christopher's throat right there in front of the man's house. He gestured to his men to stay put, while he strode up the porch steps.

"I was informed you were dead," Christopher said when Mark reached him. "I'm glad to see you are not."

"Inside," Mark snapped as he walked past. "Now." Mark marched into the hall, he met Celeste as she hovered in the doorway to the parlour, clearly fearing the British had come to burn down their home. She looked ready to faint when she recognised him.

"Mark," she breathed, her eyes filling with tears."You're alive. Gods, you're alive!" She reached up to touch his face. He blocked her arm with his, shoving her away with enough force to make her stumble a step.

"Don't touch me," he spat, pushing past her as he strode into the parlour. By now, Christopher was in the room also, Celeste stood with her head lowered, trembling hands at her throat. "Shut the damned door," Mark commanded. The overseer glanced at Christopher for confirmation, Christopher nodded once, and the doors were closed, making them private. "You knew the truth," Mark advanced on Christopher, fury in every stride. "And you married her to him anyway!" Mark roared, standing nose to nose with Christopher.

"You were dead," Christopher shouted. He'd been cautiously pleased to see Mark - alive - but now, Gods, his blood was boiling now. "It was left to me to me to make the decisions! Your daughter was pregnant and unmarried! What did you expect me to do?"

"Not marry her to her rapist!" Mark bellowed into Christopher's face. "You could have found someone else - anyone else but him!"

"No one else would have taken her!" Christopher shouted back, not backing down an inch. "No dowry, no inheritance, all was seized by the British with your little incursion into espionage! She was with child, unmarried, no fortune to speak of, who the devil would want to take her under those circumstances?"

"Then you should have kept her here and looked after her yourself!" Spittle flew from Mark's lips.

"Oh yes, that would have benefitted all of us, then, wouldn't it?" Christopher said, derisive. "Cilla had become my ward, I was responsible for more than just clothing and feeding her! I was responsible for her virtue! I would have failed her if I could not have seen her married - which I could not have done, of that I assure you! - I would have bought shame upon us all, that my own charge would be with child and unmarried! Besides, I hasten to remind you, Sir, that the damned child is his! He has every right to it! I did the best I could with a terrible situation. She was my ward! It was mine to decide!"

"You decided wrong!" Mark's scream rebounded from the walls, Celeste covered her ears and cowered in the corner.

"No, Mark. You decided wrong! When you put my sister into that man's bed!"

"Don't you bring Mage into this -"

"You whored my sister!" Christopher's shout was as loud as Mark's had been. "You did this! All of it! From start to damned finish! The spying part I can understand and respect. But to use your wife in such a manner, to use my sister! You bring shame to the Middleton name and how dare you do that!"

"The Middleton name can rot in the fires of -"

"And the Putman name can rot right along with it!" Christopher cut in. "You got caught spying, you stupid dolt! And my sister and niece suffered for it!"

"You're blaming me for Cilla's rape?" Mark ground out.

"Should I blame myself? Was I there? From start to finish, this is all your fault. I did the best I could with the plate of pig shit you laid on my table, don't you dare lay this at my feet!" Christopher's face was bright red, burning with rage.

Mark's anger became a cold thing, incredulous that Christopher thought he had any sort of argument at all.

"You married my daughter to her rapist!" Mark said, his voice chilling the very air.

"I married your daughter to the father of her child, the only one who could save her reputation and the only one who could be forced to it! That he murdered her virtue is without doubt, but he became the only one who could save it!"

"What tortures is she going through, every single minute of every single day, because you made a decision you had no right to make!"

"No right? YOU WERE DEAD! They came to me! I took them in, I had every damned right! Assurances were made, Mark! O'Hara is there making certain they are adhered to! It's a name only marriage, Bordon is never going to lay with her, he will never lay his hands on her, she gets her inheritance and he doesn't get a groat of it. How in all hell was that the wrong decision to make!"

Mark glared, recalling Cilla's letter, which told him precisely this very thing. A titular marriage. Promises made and as yet unbroken. Protection from Bordon by his superiors. Still, he seethed.

"You failed my wife," Mark said. "You set her out, turned her away, left her to roam on her own -"

"You failed your wife! You failed my sister! Because fo you, she had an affair and it was exposed!" Christopher threw his arms wide. "You might be determined to try steering this sinking ship you've built, but I will have naught to do with it!"

"You bastard," Mark breathed. "You Goddamned son of a stinking whore!"

"Oh yes, resort to name calling, insults. Because you know I'm right!" Christopher curled his lip. "In every aspect, in every argument, I am right! You would have done no differently, if you were faced with the choices I was faced with!"

"You little bastard," Mark said. He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd expected apologies, expected for Christopher to beg to be forgiven! But this? Mark shook his head. He pushed past Christopher and strode for the door. "I was unable to rescue her, from the trap you have put her in. She is with him, every moment of every day, forced to endure him. Because of you. There will be a reckoning, Christopher, you can be sure of that, by damn."

"A reckoning?" Christopher said, lifting his chin. Mark threw open the doors and marched out. Christopher followed, chasing after him. "What reckoning! How dare you threaten me?"

"This is no threat," Mark said. He strode through the front door, cold air hit him like a punch to the chest. He took the steps by two, stopping only when he reached his men. "Burn it," he said. "Burn it to the damned ground."

"What?" Christopher exploded from the top of his front porch. Mark's men were already a commotion of movement, dismounting, ready to do as Mark commanded. "You dare!" Christopher raged. He turned and raced back into the house. Mark heard him screaming for his rifle.

"Rifles out," Mark said, almost calm. He pulled his and by the time Christopher, red faced and panting, came back onto the torch with his rifle, he was confronted with seventeen, all levelled at him. His face drained of colour. Celeste had followed him, she gave a small scream and raced back inside. "Put it down, Christopher," Mark commanded as his men began to fan out, some approaching either end of the porch. Christopher did not know what way to look, nor where to aim. He was beginning to look uncertain, he had no idea which way to point his rifle. It was one ball against seventeen. He could kill one of Mark's men, and find seventeen balls firing into his own chest. He began to lower his rifle.

In that moment of indecision, Calvin rushed him. Two steps at a time and suddenly Calvin was on the front porch even as the older man lifted his rifle back up, before he could do anything with it, Calvin's fist slammed into Christopher's face. Christopher stumbled back, the rifle fell from his lax grip and his hands flew to his bleeding mouth. "Do ye want me to kill him?" Calvin asked, sighting his rifle on Christopher. Who stared wide eyed over his fingers.

"No. I want you to fire the house. SO FIRE THE FUCKING GODDAMNED HOUSE!" Mark screamed and his men flew into action. In the middle of winter, there was a fire burning in most rooms of the Plantation home. His men rushed in, moved from room to room, finding anything that would burn quickly. They set whatever they could alight, then threw the flames toward curtains and furniture. They smashed tables to get the wooden legs, using them as firebrands to carry the flames throughout the home.

"You're mad," Christopher said helplessly as he stumbled down the porch steps. Negroes were fleeing the house, pushing past their Master. Christopher eventually came to stand at Mark's stirrup. "You are mad. This is your reckoning? By God, you better beware my own."

Mark lifted his leg and slammed his boot into Christopher's face. His brother in law went down in a crumpled heap right there in the muddy ground. Dismounting again, he took one look at Christopher on the ground, blood soaking his face from the crushed nose. He was not moving. He knelt, felt for a pulse. Unconscious, not dead. Mage will be pleased. He went into the house, he could hear his men shouting upstairs. Clever place to start, that - it gave them the ability to retreat down the stairs, burning as they went. He raced upstairs, wanting to be sure the men were being thorough. Calvin met him in the corridor, he was dragging Celeste along behind him.

"Mark, he stole my jewels!" Celeste said between sobs, her voice was barely coherent, one hand was scratching toward the bulge in Calvin's pockets.

"She was trying to save her valuables," Calvin laughed. He stopped in front of Mark with the struggling, weeping Celeste. He might not have known what this was about, but he did know that Mark was not about to show this family mercy. "What do we do with her?" He asked. He looked eager. Keen. Mark's breath hitched in his throat. He looked at Celeste, who was still struggling. And weeping.

"What do you want to do with her?" Mark asked softly, whispering, his eyes fixed on Celeste. Who had had a hand in Cilla's forced marriage to her rapist, where she would be continually tortured with that foul act, every night until Mark rescued her. Which was not today. Gods, not today. He failed her. Failed Cilla. She would be forced again tonight, tomorrow night, every night until… because of Christopher, and because of Celeste.

He dragged himself back from giving the order. He met Calvin's eyes, "get her out of the house before it gets dangerous. And take what you want, I care not." He said, addressing the jewels Calvin had stolen. "I'm going to ensure the house is alight," he said, then continued on down the hall, leaving Calvin to get Celeste out. He began looking into each room. Some were alight, others were still getting started, his men moving about with their make shift firebrands. A militiaman handed him the leg of a stool that was burning merrily at one end. "Once it gets started, there won't be much time to get out. Don't linger," he told his men as he encountered them. He entered yet another room to find no one in it at all, he held the burning chair leg to the curtains and watched the fire take hold. He did the same with the bed, burning the curtains, and the upholstery on the furnishings. Peter Scott burst into the room, waving his firebrand.

"Oh, you've already started."

"Take the next room," Mark said. "Tell the men, if they want to loot, then loot. I care not."

"Oh. Yes, Sir," Peter said a little uncertainly, before disappearing out the door.

The house was massive. It took some doing, but Mark was determined to see it in ashes. Seventeen men moved from room to room with their makeshift torches, setting curtains and furnishings alight, before retreating toward the main stairs and the servants stairs. The slaves and staff were gone, already fled the house. Mark told the men to stay in pairs, this was dangerous work and he didn't want to be waiting outside as the house burned, only to discover he had men missing. They did the same below as they did upstairs, lighting the parlour, the dining hall, the main hall, the office, all the smaller rooms until Mark was satisfied that there was no way in hell the fire could be extinguished.

Mark and a few others escaped the house and they reached the horses, seizing reins to lead them further back from the house. Those that were with him mounted, three so far. Mark counted as each pair emerged from the house.

"You're mad," Christopher was on his knees, swaying as he stared at the flames licking the inside walls of his home.

"You might want to come back aways," Mark advised. "You're a little close there, Christopher."

"You bastard. You'll pay for this," Christopher said quietly. "You'll pay."

"This was the reckoning," Mark said. "Anything else is pure indulgence."

Christopher tried several times to push himself to his feet, one of his negroes finally came forward to help him. Leaning heavily on the negro, Christopher fell back to Mark. "Where is Celeste?"

Mark was still counting the pairs of men, he had twelve with him now. Five more to go. Two rounded one side, two managed to get through the front door. And finally, Calvin Farshaw, he sauntered around the side of the house, carrying what looked to be a sheet or table cloth, folded at the corners to form a carry bag, heavy with loot.

"Did you get the woman out?" Mark asked him as he approached.

"Yeh, I did just what ye said," Calvin grinned.

"Where is she?" Christopher said, his voice filled with agony.

"In the kitchen, safe and sound," Calvin tied off the mound of loot to his saddle and mounted. Christopher was already stumbling with the help of his negro, in the direction of the kitchen. "Goin' to fetch a small fortune with these." Calvin patted his loot, Mark heard the tinkling of items clunking together. Cutlery and cups from the kitchen, perhaps. He didn't care.

Mark counted again, whispering a prayer of thanks when he counted seventeen. "You've done well," he complimented. "Mount up, we're leaving."

The militia was soon galloping back down the lane, leaving the burning inferno behind them.

Nearly two months since Mark had last seen Mage and the change in her was devastating. He and his militia had just arrived, the family had begun to emerge from the house onto the porch at the approach of the riders. Seeing Mage, standing on the porch looking so hopeful had twisted his already broken heart.

Seeing her almost emaciated…

Gods.

With barely a word to the others beyond what was necessary for common courtesies, he took her hand and led her into the house, asking her to take him straight to her room. And there they were now, upstairs, in the chamber Singleton had provided for her.

"You promised you would eat," he said, cupping her face, nearly weeping. "Gods, Mage!"

"I'm eating," she replied. He shook his head, his forehead to hers. Her eyes were dark and sunken. Her hair lax, no shine at all. Her arms, Gods, he squeezed them gently - they were skin and bones. Her cheekbones were far more prominent than they'd ever been, her cheeks sunken.

"Mage, my love," he pulled her to him, awkward with the child filling her stomach. "I'm going to stay here for a bit," he promised. "I'm going to make sure you eat, we need to get some flesh back on you, this is not good for you!"

"I'm eating. As much as I am able, but I can't stop worrying. You can't stay here. Cilla…" Mage's voice caught, she choked off. "It's been two months. Where is Cilla?"

"I tried," Mark closed his eyes and reeled. He'd come to tell her the dreadful news and now he was here, he could barely bring himself to do it. What would it do to her? She was already skin and bones.

"You tried?" Mage whispered. "Oh dear Lord, she is still with him?"

"I'm so sorry," he dropped to his knees before her and buried his face in her stomach. He told her all of it, from getting word that Cilla had fled and was looking for him, to the ambush, to discovering her trails throughout the night, to being captured again by Bordon. To the twenty dead Dragoons, and his taking his wrath out on Christopher Middleton. They were sitting on the bed by the time he finished, Mage was weeping and clutching her stomach, her face looking pained.

"She's still with him," she repeated, gasping as if for air.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I have a plan, Mage. I'm going to see her free, I vow."

"How, what plan?" She asked, gripping his jacket. "What plan!"

"Calvin Farshaw. One of my men. He is a Continental - they forced him to join them, the British did, but he was never one of them. He was a traitor among them, started to spy on them when Jack and Eric asked him to. He fled after killing an Officer, but not before taking a copy of O'Hara's cipher. And as he was a clerk for a while, he had the occasion to learn O'Hara's hand. And he took an impression of O'Hara's seal, he's still got it. He's forged a seal from it. Benjamin," he curled his lip, still furious with their betrayal. "Commanded that they be given over to General Burwell, to be used under his guidance. But I never did, I've still got them. And I've got Farshaw, he's loyal to me. Burwell would hang me as soon as look at me, I am not one of them anymore. I'm going to use them, to get Cilla out."

"Will it work?" She breathed, daring to hope. Her hands were still holding her stomach and she groaned, her face twisting.

"Are you alright?" He asked and she gave a quick nod.

"Will it work?"

"I think… Yes, it will. O'Hara was due to leave, he might already be gone. He won't be there to discredit any command we send. The Legion will be leaving Fresh Water soon. I have to consider the wording, but I'll think of a way - I'll have Calvin draft a missive that will have Bordon and Tavington led off in some direction with a small force, and straight into an ambush. As soon as Bordon is dead, I'll be able to get word to Cilla, and she'll be able to walk away. Simply walk out, with no one to stop her. No more Bordon, no more Tavington. She'll be free."

"Please," Mage whispered. "Oh Gods, please."

"I'll do it," he vowed, holding her close. "I'll do it, Mage. I'm so sorry I failed you."

"You tried. I love you, I don't blame you. I just want my little girl…" She wailed and sobs ripped from Mark's chest as he held her. "I just want my little girl," she whispered again.

"I know. I'll g-get her. I p-promise," he stammered between sobs.

Mark and Mage were forced to compose themselves, in order to rejoin the others. No one questioned his need to speak to Mage in private and when he joined them again, no one questioned how long they'd spent upstairs, alone.

Likely thought we were coupling, he thought heavily. If so, he'd let it stand, he cared not. None of them knew the truth. He spent time with Charlotte and the children in the parlour, he had to continually remind himself that Benjamin's children were also half Betsy, his late sister, and they were just children - still innocent, they did not deserve his fury as their older siblings did. They were oblivious, ignorant, it would be cruel to be disdainful toward them.

They dined with Mr. Singleton, he noticed Anne and Charlotte both sending plates of various tidbits toward Mage, a nightly habit it seemed. They were trying to look after her, but even he understood that you could lead a horse to water, but you could not make it drink. He coaxed her, cajoled her, and in the end, Charlotte exclaimed how much more Mage had eaten - nearly twice the amount with Mark's encouragement, then she did any other evening. He despaired, for he hadn't thought it very much at all. If she was subsisting on half the amount…

Well. He was there now. He'd get flesh back on her bones if it was the last thing he ever did.

It came as a surprise to him when he saw Mr. Singleton paying particular attention to Charlotte, who seemed quite receptive. They were sitting in the parlour after dinner, Mark at Mage's side, Mr. Singleton at Charlotte's.

"He wants to marry her," Mage whispered, a smile haunting her lips.

"He has proposed?" Mark whispered back and Mage nodded.

"I think she might accept him."

Mark watched them together, Singleton and Charlotte. The gentleman was a quietly reserved man with a gently clever wit, very similar to Benjamin. They even looked a little alike, both tall with dark brown hair and blue eyes, around the same age… Mark approved the match, if Charlotte consented to making one, though Mark was a little worried that his sister had replaced Benjamin with an exact copy. Having said that, perhaps she just liked tall men with dark hair and blue eyes, just as Mark preferred tall women with blonde hair. Perhaps Charlotte wasn't replacing Benjamin, perhaps she was simply looking for someone to actually commit to her, after so many years of waiting.

"Do you think she'll be happy?" Mark asked.

"I hope so," Mage replied. "She deserves to be. Ooohhhh," Mage's face crinkled and Mark immediately saw that she was in pain.

"My love?"

"He is moving," she said. Her face eased as the pain faded. That ghost of a smile became stronger. She took hold of his hand and placed it on the side of her stomach, he could feel the baby moving beneath his palm.

It was glorious.

It was terrifying.

He'd failed to protect Cilla, how could he hope to protect this baby? And he'd failed to protect Mage… She was smiling down at him - a weak smile, watered down with unshed tears.

"Strong kick there. It's a boy, I know it is. I am going to name him…" He paused, thinking about it. Mark? After himself? Mark Junior? No, he didn't like the sound of that. "I'll call him Matthew, after my father." Charlotte gave him an odd look, but Mark ignored her. It was only right, naming his firstborn son for their father.

"And if it's a girl?" Mage asked. Mark was quiet a long time before answering.

"Hope," he said finally. "Hope…"

A sob burst past Mage's lips and she nodded, agreeing. She understood. Hope, that he's able to protect this child. Hope for a new world, with no British. With no Bordon. Hope, for a new beginning.

"Oh!" Mage gasped, holding her stomach. Mark watched her with concern as she straightened. "Oh that was much stronger… I think it's happening," she clutched her stomach with both hands. She turned to him when she had her breath back. "I think… It's happening."

"Christ, what do I do?" He lurched to his feet. The room fell silent, the others wary, even the children were infected by it. "Get the midwife?"

"She's one of Mr. Singleton's servants," Charlotte replied, already rising. "I will have her summoned."

"Is there anything I can do?" Mark fretted.

"If there is, I will let you know," Charlotte said. She met Mage's eyes. "Are you sure, is the babe coming?"

"I'm certain, Charlotte," Mage said, sounding frightened. "It's coming. Oh dear Lord," she cried out on another wave of pain.

"Children, come," Anne gathered them up; Margaret, Susan and William, she ushered them out of the room.

"What do I do?" Mark asked Mage, looking frantic.

"We will remove Mrs. Putman to her chamber, Mr. Putman," Mr. Singleton said, coming to stand at his side. "And then you and I will return back here. We shall smoke our pipes and drink wine until this is over. That is what you will do. Come." He stood on Mage's other side and together, he and Mark helped her to her feet.

"You've been having these pains all afternoon, ever since I arrived," he lamented. "Ever since I told you… Mage, is this my fault? Was it the shock?"

"Mark," Mage stopped, she cupped his face with both her hands. The wave of pain was passed again and she stared earnestly into his eyes. "I vow on my life, all will be well. Please, my love, do not blame… ohhhhh…"

"Upstairs," Mr. Singleton barked as Mage hunched over herself, gasping in pain. "Now."

"It's too soon," Charlotte fretted to the midwife as she met her in the corridor outside the chamber.

"It is," the midwife agreed.

"Seven months, you said. Will the baby survive being born at seven months?"

"In the middle of winter?" The midwife heaved a sigh. "I wish I could reassure you, I really do. If the baby is strong, perhaps. I can't say beyond that. All we can do is pray. We will do all we can."

"Yes," Charlotte agreed, her hands trembling as she followed the midwife into the chamber.

Singleton handed him some tobacco, Mark could fill his pipe. He was also handed a rum. Mr. Singleton began making idle talk, chatter, to help wile the hours and to soothe Mark's increasing nerves. Time did slip by, with slaves coming and going, building up the fire and offering sweetmeats. Long lapses of silence between the men, until Mage started up screaming. Mr. Singleton would start speaking again, each time those awful screeches charged down the stairs. It was the same as before when, nearly twenty-one years ago, he sat in his parlour with his father, while Mage gave birth to Cilla.

Hours, it went on for. Hours. Anne made regular visits at first, she appeared in the doorway, gave a brief report, before disappearing above again. Mage was doing well, Anne said. Her body is getting ready for the birthing, which is a painful process. Excruciating. But nothing to worry about. It's completely normal. Those screeches coming from his wife's mouth, so desperate and horrifying, were nothing at all to worry over. The screams made him think of Cilla and for a time, he was back in the dungeon, listening to his daughter as helplessly as he listened to Mage now. He forced himself to stay in the present for Anne was right - birthing was natural. Painful yes, but - as she said - nothing to worry over.

But things could go wrong. Mage was not young, not anymore. And her body had been through such rigours, the desperate fear for Cilla had made it nearly impossible for her to eat for nearly two months. And now the news he bought of his failure had bought on the birth two months too early. Things had gone wrong already and they might get so much worse. As the night drew on and finally broke into day, he realised that it had. So much worse. Something was dreadfully wrong. Mage's screams had stopped. Did that mean the baby was born? If so, why couldn't hear the babies cries? His child's screams should have replaced those of his wife, as the baby was dragged, kicking and screaming, from its warm cocoon. Why couldn't he hear the child? His palms were sweaty, sweat coated his forehead. The parlour was too close, too hot, for such a large room. Singleton was silent, unable to think of anything else to say. Mark was grateful for that silence, for he was listening hard for the slightest noise from above. The smallest sound, that would tell him his child had survived the birth.

At length it came. How much longer after Mage had stopped screaming, he couldn't tell. Ten minutes, perhaps. So much time had lagged. He recalled when Cilla was born, her screams of fury had taken over from the moment Mage's had stopped. He blew out a desperately relieved breath. The child was squalling. It didn't matter how much time had lapsed, the child had entered the world safely, where so many do not, especially two months too early. He laughed, a sound of pure release, and ran his sweaty palm over his sweaty forehead. Singleton grinned.

"I'll pour the rum. One of the women will be down soon, no doubt. You'll know soon if you have a Matthew or a Hope."

"Gods, I can't think of which I want more," Mark said. "Until two months ago, I hadn't even thought I'd be a father again! And now I am… A boy. I hope it's a boy. But I'll be just as happy with a girl. Either will be a gift I never anticipated having."

Either way, Cilla had a sibling. A brother or a sister. She was no longer alone. Dear God, this was wonderful. All that worrying had been for nothing. Not if the furious wails coming from above were any indication. The cries were coming closer now. A movement at the door. Mark glanced up as one of the women stepped in with a blanket wrapped bundle. Her face was grave as she pulled back the coverlet. He saw Charlotte from the corner of his eye but he paid her no heed. His eyes were for his child and his child alone.

"A boy, Sir," the woman said.

"Oh, halloo Matthew," Mark cooed down at the babe as the woman placed the bundle in his arms. Matthew looked so small, encompassed as he was in the blankets. And he was so light, Gods, so delicate and small and light. Mark's heart swelled to bursting as he gazed down at the little man in his arms. With his mop of blonde hair and his bright blue eyes and his chubby little cheeks. So handsome. Mark found himself crooning a childish tune as he gently rocked his son. His son. Gods, he never thought he'd see the day. He loved Cilla to distraction but he'd always yearned for a boy, an heir, a little Matthew. He lifted his head, smiled at his sister, finally ready to share his joy with another. Tears coursed Charlotte's cheeks and his heart almost burst. She'd been there when Cilla was born too, he'd been able to share the birth of both his children with his sister. This was family. His family. This was joy. He held his son up, as if to show her.

But Charlotte didn't look at the boy. Her tears turned to sobs, which was something she hadn't done, when Cilla was born. She hadn't broken down and cried as though her heart was being torn from her body.

"Oh Mark," she whispered brokenly as she stumbled the last few steps to him. Her arms came around his shoulders and she began to howl. Mark grew tense, wary. Worried. Mage? He looked to the woman who'd handed him his son. Her eyes were on the floor. Anne stood just in the doorway, looking very much like someone had died. Gods. He shoved the baby - carefully - into Charlotte's arms.

"Mark, no!" Charlotte's cry followed him up the stairs, he took them two at a time, racing all the way up and then down the corridor. He burst in to the room, panting. Women - there were women everywhere - obscuring the bed. He couldn't see. Couldn't see her for women. They all looked at him, some clutching towels and blankets covered with blood. Too much blood.

"Sir, I'm so very sorry for your loss," one of them said, as if he'd already been informed below. As if he already knew.

No. The words made no sense. They were supposed to be congratulating him, for his son, his heir. Not giving condolences. He stumbled, somehow, made his way to the bed. Pain such as he'd never known, nothing Tavington and Bordon could inflict could hurt as bad as this, except for Bordon hurting Cilla. He stopped at the bed and stared down at his wife. Her eyes were open. Her lips parted, as if she was about to impart some secret. He reached out, touched her skin. It was already cooling. The noise that came from his mouth - he hadn't thought he could make. Someone put arms around his shoulder. He barely noticed. He was on his knees now, fingers clutching those of his wife, those inhumane noises bursting unbidden from his lips. So sorry. People kept saying it. Over and over. So sorry. Charlotte was rubbing his back. He knew it was her because he could hear her, he knew the sound of her weeping. The women paused in their task, filing out of the chamber to give him his privacy. He made to climb up onto the bed, to take Mage in his arms, one more time.

"Don't," Charlotte whispered, trying to pull him back. It was then that he saw the true gore. He'd upset the sheets covering Mage, revealing the bloody mess of her gaping stomach. "They had to… cut Matthew out," Charlotte explained, barely about to get the words out. "Otherwise we'd… have lost… them both…" Mark stared down at the awful wound, aghast, as Charlotte pulled the sheet back up to cover it.

"This is not happening," he shook his head, trying to dislodge the awful thing that was happening, trying to wake up. "This is not happening," he began to rock, hugging his arms to his body, standing there rocking. Like a madman. It couldn't be happening. Mage could not be dead. They cut the babe from her stomach. "Why did they do that?" He whispered. "They've killed her!"

"Mark, she was already gone," Charlotte said, her fingers again curling around his arm. "I vow it on my honour. I was here, I saw it. I felt her… go…" She turned her face, averting her gaze as her features twisted with grief. He stared at her, at Charlotte, unable to comprehend.

"You let them do this to her? You let them…"

"To save Matthew. They tried to bring her back, Mark. I begged them to save her and they did all they could. When nothing worked, I begged them to save the baby. He's an innocent, no matter who -" She cut short, her face closing to him.

"He is an innocent," Mark agreed. "Lord! All these months, Mage worried that Matthew would be raised without his father! Now he'll be raised without his mother?" Gods, it was not happening… Stumbling blindly, Mark climbed onto the bed, despite Charlotte's protests, her attempt to stop him. He gathered Mage's unresistant, cold body up into his arms, heedless of the blood, of the gore. He clutched her to him, rocking her back and forth as he keened. Even as he held his dead wife to his chest the same words crashed through his skull, over and over. This could not be happening.

Charlotte ran a weary hand over her brow. She sat beside the nurse, her fingers under Matthew's head, helping to cradle it as the baby opened his mouth wide for the nipple.

"Now," the woman said and Charlotte pushed Matthew's entire face into the nurse's breast. Matthew began suckling frantically, but he released just as quickly and started to wail. They'd been doing this for a full ten minutes already. "He's just not used to it. It takes time," the nurse said. She had the patience of a saint. Upstairs, Mark was laying on the bed holding Mage, unwilling to let go. He was covered in blood, from head to toe. The women wanted to get in there to clean, before any infections from the blood developed. But Mark would not budge. And now Matthew would not feed. Wasn't this supposed to be instinctive? Why wouldn't he suckle?

Matthew. Fancy giving their father's name to Bordon's bastard. Charlotte drew a hard breath. The baby was innocent, but Bordon had done so much damage, had hurt them all in so many ways. No son of Bordon's deserved Charlotte's noble father's name.

The nurse tried again.

"Now," the woman said as Matthew opened his mouth wide to let loose another scream, his face squished with fury. The nipple was shoved into his mouth, Matthew suckled, and for a wonder, he did not pull away. Not this time. No, he began sucking, frantically, drawing hard and making loud swallowing noises. Must have been starving. Well, they'd been at it for long enough. He made a mewling noise, this little sound of relief and contentment. He began suckling more slowly and the nurse smiled up at Charlotte.

"He's getting the hang of it now."

"It's about time," Charlotte said, exhaustion overwhelming her. She collapsed back against the chaise beside the woman. Faith was her name, her and her husband were indentured to Singleton. Pretty, with her dark hair and hazel eyes. About twenty-six years old. Ordinarily, one of the slaves would have been used for this, but none of them were nursing. Singleton didn't have any children, he didn't have the need for a wet-nurse. But Faith had an older child who was ready to start to wean. She had an abundance of milk and would have even more, now that the demand was higher.

"He's so beautiful," Faith said, brushing back the light brown hair from Matthew's forehead. "Such a handsome little man."

"I suppose he is," Charlotte said. She peered at Mage's son, searching for signs of the father and seeing far too many to count. It shocked her that Mark could look at this boy and see only himself. Lord, he was deluded.

The hair should have been a dead giveaway that the child was not his; the streak of ginger through the blonde. Perhaps it was the blue eyes that threw him off the scent. The little face - it was hard to judge, for all babies were pudgy. But his face did look far more broad than any face that had ever belonged to a Putman. No, this child was Bordon, through and through. Not that she'd ever tell her brother that, he was a little unhinged at the moment. Holding his dead wife and laying in a pool of her blood. Maybe that was a natural thing to do too, but she didn't think so. She'd listened as he told of what happened up north. Of dashing that man's head in with his tomahawk. Maybe that was a natural thing to do too, when ones child is threatened. But he'd described it so dispassionately, with such coldness. The hanging of the men. The shooting of the Dragoons.

Mage by contrast had hung on his every word, not for one moment seeing anything wrong with what he'd done. Charlotte despised Bordon as much as anyone could, but this? There was something wrong with Mark, Charlotte could feel it in her bones. She'd never tell a man who was capable of dashing in the brains of another, that the child he had named his own was sired by a man he so deeply despised. She would let Mark think he sired this child, for Matthew's sake, and for the sake of the mother who could no longer protect him.

Mage.

Charlotte's heart gave a lurch, her eyes filled again. It'd been awful, watching her sister in law as she faltered, grew ever more increasingly tired, until she could barely draw breath to speak let alone push. And then one of those breaths had been her last, it'd slipped from her and she didn't draw another. Instead, her body had gone slack, her eyes glazed over, her face relaxed as the body was free of all pain and endurance. The women were in such a flurry then, moving around the bed with lightening speed as Charlotte just stood there, wringing her hands and begging. One pinched Mage's nose and - of all things - began breathing into Mage's mouth. She'd never seen anything like it. And another started pounding Mage's breast hard enough to break ribs, when Mage did not begin her own breathing. She was slapped, too. Slapped hard enough to make Charlotte wince, even in her panic. Nothing had worked, and the women had tried so many other things. Until one of them said, voice somehow matter-of-fact yet filled with remorse all at once, that Mage was dead and the baby would die too, if they wasted any more time trying to revive her. Charlotte had begged for the baby, then.

For Bordon's child.

Gods. Begging for Bordon's child.

She laughed softly, it had an edge to it that she didn't like, so she stopped. It made her sound mad, that laugh. As mad as she feared her brother had become. The nurse gave her a look.

"Maybe you should go to bed, Mrs. Selton," she said kindly. "I know you think you probably won't be able to sleep under the circumstances… But you must be absolutely exhausted."

"I can't," Charlotte shook her head. "The children are going to need me." Never a truer word was spoken. Both aunts had played a very strong part in the children's lives since Elizabeth's death. Both had tried their damnedest to fill the void left by their mother's passing. They were going to be devastated, when they woke up to discover that Mage was gone. Which was going to be very soon. Anne was in the nursery with them now, she had gone there in order to be there when the children woke, and to keep them there until Charlotte said so. It was well past dawn, they would want to come down soon. To see the baby. To be told that their aunt was dead…

"Maybe you could just close your eyes here for a moment?" Faith suggested. That sounded like a mighty fine idea. Charlotte reclined against the end of the chaise, a small cushion beneath her head. She closed her stinging eyes and felt immediate relief. Her breathing slowed, became shallower and without even realising it, she began to drift to sleep.