The endless waiting process is helped only by Sarah, who sits by her the entire time. Their hands are intertwined in a form of comfort that only Sarah can give. Frances isn't sure if the beeping she hears is coming from hospital equipment or her own head. Doctor Will Campbell sits across from the two women, his hands clasped, his face entirely expressionless. It's his way of consoling the sisters. If he doesn't show any sign of news, good or bad, they won't make any assumptions of their own. That means he won't be confirming death before it's certain, and thus he doesn't cause Frances to worry more than she has to. Right?
Wrong. Because Frances isn't stupid. She knows the warning signs; she sees the graveness beneath Dr. Campbell's masked gaze. It's clear her husband hasn't made it, and he's trying to find the best way to tell them. It isn't the first time a doctor has found it hard to break bad news to Frances, not in the least. There was that time the dog she and Sarah were so fond of died before it could receive medical treatment. The way Sarah had sobbed and sobbed until Frances began to cry, too, and then they were both dismissed from the clinic with puffy eyes and wet cheeks. Then there was the day their beloved grandmother had fallen gravely ill in her sleep, and Frances had been the one to discover her. Sarah was too young to remember the pained look on the doctor's face as he explained she hadn't made it.
And then there was all those nights spent with Peter, only to end in hurt pride.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Barden. Things like these happen. The best you can do is explain to Peter why you've yet to fall pregnant and then decide what your next move will be."
Dr. Campbell goes on to describe all the various procedures Frances could go through in hopes of becoming a mother, but she isn't listening. What good are various, possibly life-threatening surgeries if the pain was still there? No matter how hard she tries, the weight of her infertility would always be pressing down heavily on her. And she can't pass it off as a genetic trait, not when Sarah had been tested a few weeks earlier and pronounced perfectly capable of child bearing. No, it was solely and completely Frances' fault. And it would continue to be, except now it was public for the whole of Great Paxford to gossip about. The town failure, they would say. The wife who can't perform her single duty.
There's a knock on the door, suddenly, and Erica enters. She's the epitome of happiness, joy practically radiating from her body in a way only motherhood can cause. Because, unlike Frances, there is nothing wrong with Erica. In her arms is her new baby, Laura, only a year old, reaches up to play with her mother's hair. Dr. Campbell looks fondly at his wife and daughter, before remembering Frances, still sitting quietly in the chair.
"Darling, I'm with a patient right now." He gestures to Frances. Erica's face brightens even more upon noticing her friend. She waddles over – yes, waddles, because Frances can see plainly now that Erica is expecting another child – and beams.
"Frances! I didn't expect to find you here," she says, bending so she can kiss Frances' cheek without having to place Laura on the floor. "I hope you're here for only a checkup," she adds, remembering her and Will's home serves as the town clinic. Slowly, Frances shakes her head.
"No. I'm here for…" She scans her brain for the word she's looking for but comes up short. Well, Erica doesn't need to know, anyway. "Other matters."
Erica's cheery expression darkens, although the trace of a happy and expecting mother is still evident. "Oh? Nothing serious, surely?"
Will comes and rests a hand on his wife's shoulder, prompting her to glance sideways at him. "Erica, I think that's considered prying," he chuckles. Erica smiles and kisses him. The sight of the happy couple, their infant, and Erica's small yet visible bump is too much for Frances. She has Peter, yes, but she yearns for a child with him. Adoption isn't a possibility she wants to consider, not when Great Paxford is buzzing with children who're the spitting images of their parents. David, the Brindsley's new baby; Little Stan, so much like his father that he was given the same name; and then the infant before her, Laura, and her soon-to-be-sibling.
Erica notices the single tear that falls down Frances' face, who quickly tries to hide it with her sleeve. Erica's never seen Frances have a breakdown before, and, although this is far from one, it's still more weakness than she's ever witnessed, and definitely more than Frances cares to show.
"Frances, why…?" Erica wants to consider her words carefully, and in her thought process, rests a hand on her bump. Later, she'll realize this is a horrible mistake, for it seems to Frances that the whole world is taunting her.
She bolts out the door, covering her mouth with her hand to stop the rush of tears that threatens to escape, and yet a single sob manages to make its way to Erica's ears. Erica wants to run after her, to ask her what's wrong, but Will gives her a look that stops her from moving a single inch. He promises to explain everything later, and then ushers Erica out the door and invites his next patient in.
If they'll still want to come after they've seen the strongest – and stubbornest – woman in all of Great Paxford come barreling out the door crying.
They probably won't.
The funeral goes by in a blur. Sarah makes most of the arrangements. The WI are supportive and offer any assistance they can give, but Frances turns most of them away. All except for Joyce, who, surprisingly enough, provides more comfort than anyone thought was in her nature. She comes by every morning with a new story to tell – about the town, the villagers, her own experiences. Frances keeps her eyes pointed downward, staring at her own clasped hands for most of these visits, but Joyce continues to talk, and thus she continues to listen.
"I thought Mrs. Simms would be the one to take over the WI temporarily, but she's refused," Joyce says one morning, as the pair of them sit in the garden. Sarah is nearby, ever present, just in case her sister needs anything.
"Oh?" The tiny noise is all she can muster, but it's enough to keep Joyce talking.
"So your sister" – Joyce motions at Sarah – "concluded that the only reasonable choice for temporary president is me."
This does not take Frances by surprise. If anyone was going to fill in for her as president of the Women's Institute, it'd be Joyce Cameron. Headstrong, snobbish, and vain are often used to describe Joyce, a woman in her early sixties. But when it comes to leadership, Joyce is the obvious candidate. And besides, as Sarah would later point out, Joyce is selfless enough to sit with Frances outdoors, completely silent for hours when she could be doing other things.
Joyce leaves a few hours later. Frances finds herself waiting for the older woman's next visit. Sarah rests a hand on her shoulder, and Frances offers a smile.