Bring Back My Bonnie to Me
September 1920

Three weeks. Today marked three weeks since she was born, and since she...since she had died. In the quiet of the nursery, he held the baby securely in his arms. Dreamy light pooled around them. Tucked away in the window seat, he felt safe from the outside, even if he knew it wasn't true.

He examined his newborn daughter's sleeping features: the tiniest curve of her nose, the crest and fall of her perfect pink lips, and the long dark lashes that kissed her cheeks. What a bittersweet world in which they lived. A world where something so perfect could be born of a thing so black and grey. A dream born of a nightmare. The longer he gazed, the more he felt it. His chest grew heavier and heavier and soon his heart felt dangerously thick. He choked back the lump that began to rise in his throat and found the sunlight of the window. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Somehow it was hard to believe it'd been three weeks. Sometimes the time felt slow, agonizingly slow. Other moments time felt fast, like it had all happened just last night. The worst, though - the absolute worst - was when time seemed to not happen at all. When he'd wake in the morning and look over to his right, and she wasn't there. The wound felt fresh then.

Suddenly his arms felt tired. Kissing the infant's forehead, he stood from the window seat and moved to lay her into the cradle draped with lace. The metallic sound of the door clicking open stopped him, and he stood still, waiting to see who entered.

"Oh. I didn't realize...I'll leave you."

Tom was reassuring. "No. You're welcome to see her."

Robert cleared his throat and squared his shoulders before he came nearer. Closer he stepped, until he was an arm's length away. He looked on, then. Not talking, not moving, barely breathing, only watching the child sleep peacefully in her father's arms.

Tom could sense his father-in-law's discomfort. He knew he'd be too proud to say it or to ask. So he said it instead. "Hold her, if you'd like."

The trace of an aching expression crossed his father-in-law's face before he answered in his deep and solemn voice, "No. No, I don't think so."

He understood. Tom nodded and laid his child down into her cradle and stepped back. Both men remained silent, their attention resting on the baby girl between them.

The irony of the moment didn't escape Tom. The idea of the two of them standing here together. He thought of her and what she'd say. She'd say that it was exactly how it should be. Bound to one another eternally. They were family, after all.

In the distance, Tom heard the sound of what seemed like shuffling beads and swaying fabric. He looked up. Robert swallowed and looked away from the baby and stepped aside. Tom knew who it was before she came into the room. He took another deep breath.

The death had taken a tremendous toll on the happiness that his in-laws possessed in their marriage. In the first two weeks since her passing the two couldn't bear to be even in the same room. Her words would turn into acid and he would drink senselessly, leaving Mary and Edith looking to one another for comfort and support. Matthew was there, of course, and occasionally the Dowager, but Tom was too in the throngs of grief to feel anything beside it. But he did notice the pain between his wife's parents. Anyone could have noticed it. It was palpable.

The last few days had been different, though. And not just for him. There hadn't been any venomous strikes from his mother-in-law nor any stifled sobs from Robert. There had been quiet. He had watched from this very window as they once again took their walks on the grounds, albeit a little more slowly than they had before.

She entered the room, drenched in blackness, and her eyes found Robert. They widened slightly, but she didn't speak right away. She came closer to the cradle and looked down into it. After a moment of gazing at the baby, she gave Tom's nearby forearm a tiny squeeze. The simple gesture made him think of her.

Cora smiled gently and took a heavy breath, not averting her gaze. "I was looking for you." Tom knew she was speaking to Robert, and so did he.

He moved before answering. "I wanted to see Sybil."

Her name hung in the air. It felt loud. It was dense and it hurt, but Tom had no regrets. Cora and Robert, though. Tom looked into their faces. Tears brimmed his mother-in-law's eyes as she kept steady watch of his daughter.

He remembered his mother-in-law welcoming them home when they had come in for Mary's wedding. How she had embraced Sybil happily, kissing her cheek. He hadn't been the only one to love Sybil.

"I've started to call her Sybbie," he announced, though it wasn't true.

Cora smiled and looked at him, blinking. "Sybbie," she repeated. "How very sweet." She turned around to Robert. He stared at the floor, but looked up as he felt her gaze fall upon him. He said nothing.

The baby made a noise, a soft whimper, and Tom watched as she twisted her neck and stretched out her chin. The whimper began to rise into a cry and she straightened and wiggled her arms and legs.

"Oh no." He came to her and pressed his hand on her belly, attempting to sway her back and forth. It wasn't working. As her wails grew louder, he shushed her as best he could and began to lift her out. But Robert stepped forward and stood nearly behind his wife, his arm touching hers. He leaned down and let out a pin from beneath the cradle that Tom didn't know was there. It began to swing and the motion calmed the baby.

He remembered something Sybil had mentioned to him before. This cradle wasn't new. It had belonged to Mary and Edith as babies. And it had belonged to her. He peered down onto the cradle. One of his father-in-law's hands rested on the rail, rocking it gently. His other hand held his wife's.

Another lump rose, and Tom swallowed it down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.