Quietus

I don't pretend to know / The challenges your facing / The world you keep erasing and creating in your mind / But I'm not afraid / I know who I married

Lin-Manuel Miranda, Hamilton

It was a hard pill to swallow knowing that her husband hadn't just robbed her of her unborn babe, but of the one she had bargained, too. Rachel had over-stepped her bounds and Vincent had punished her accordingly; if, perhaps, Rachel had remained quiet like the wallflower he assumed her to be, Shabine would still be tucked away safely in the gardens the child loved so dearly. She had foolishly thought that if she kept a distance, kept Shabine at arm's length, then Vincent would leave the child alone. Really, she should have known that it was merely a false hope.

She hadn't even had the time to approach him about it. Instead, Vincent's sister, his strict, calculating sister had intervened. She had stolen her still growing baby from her stomach before Rachel even had the chance to meet them. How could she, a mother, rest at ease knowing she signed both her children away? Rachel had never felt like more of a failure. And yet, she couldn't say a word about it. Vincent had never looked happier—she knew, she knew, on some instinctive level, that he'd always value Francis more than herself—than when his sister formally allied her new household with her old one.

That was only what Rachel managed to gleam from the conversation. There must have been so much more beneath the surface she was blind to. Rachel hated it. She was not Vincent's equal. She was his trophy wife. A being who warmed his bed and gave him children. That was all she was and all she'd ever be. Vincent… was not the man she loved. The man she loved held her hand, smiled at her tenderly, and made the effort to involve her in most of his affairs. Here, she was held hostage by a ghost. A mere shadow of the man she used to know. The fidgeting, the paranoia, and the lack of answers had taken something from her. She wasn't sure if it was her security or her lenience, but regardless, she lacked both.

(—In another life, she wondered, would she be more accepting of his deception? Would she have accepted it with open arms and never dared to look farther? She shuddered at the thought.)

She… Rachel was a Phantomhive. Vincent had to treat her as such. He couldn't deny her! Her gloves creaked as she dug her nails into her palms, the smooth fabric being the only barrier stopping her from piercing her own flesh. Rachel may not be as clever as her sister or even as manipulative as Francis, but she was enduring, forever patient, and most importantly scorned.

Vincent hadn't even so much as considered her opinion when he agreed to Marchioness Midford's arrangement. Her husband had become greedy, foolish even, blinded by the bond he held with his own sister. And what was a Wife, if not a partner to depend on? When her husband failed, it was up to her, his wife to fix his errors.

That is why—once their…. guests, family, and day-staff had vanished into their rooms—Rachel cornered her husband in the cruelest possible way. She had used her body, as broken as it was, against him. Her palm had glued itself to Vincent's chest as she guided him to the duvet and shoved him down with what little strength she had. He had let her of course, she held no misconceptions about her meager frame, almost eager to see where the night would lead him. An arrogant man, he was. To him it must be a dream, she thinks, to have everything fall into place as well as it did. If she was honest, she wanted nothing more than to fade away into ignorance. To simply let Vincent do as he pleased. But then again Rachel had been idle for far too long. Had she not, when she first laid eyes on her husband, claim to want to stand by him? To be there when he achieved more than any else? How could she do such things if she allowed him to destroy everything he worked for? Her thighs clenched tight around his waist.

"My love," she kissed his neck, smugly staring at the lipstick stain, "you have been a very silly man, haven't you?" He flinched beneath her, his body rigid and ungiving against her boneless form. "You have grown obsessed. Foolish. Selfish." She ground her pelvis against his, "I want to know… where has my husband gone?"

His hands brushed against her shoulders and clamped tight around her upper arm. "What nonsense are you speaking, Rachel."

"Nonsense?" She laughed. Her fingers scratched at the skin she could reach, "No, I speak the truth. It is you who let the madness in." She leaned as close as she he allowed, happy, almost, that he looked at her as if she was a threat. "I'll ask again. Where has my husband gone?"

The only warning she received was the tight flex of the cords in his neck. The bed groaned as she was pinned, his body looming over her in a way that made her navel warm. "Your husband is here." He spoke softly, wonder filling his eyes, "He has never left. You are only just seeing him. Is it frightening? Do you regret marrying him?"

"I do not. I simply regret not knowing him sooner." Her lip quivered. How long had she let her husband sink into insensibility? "I regret not giving him more." There was so much she could have done, if only she had approached him as his equal, rather than a shy slip of a girl. She had let him stand alone, and for that, she will never forgive herself. "I regret being idle."

Vincent kissed her once. Twice. Thrice. Before he let her go, "Then I too must share my regrets, for I am a man with many," he paused, a heavy weight resting against her stomach. "I regret ignoring my wife," he whispered as he shifted against her center, "of underestimating the woman she was," her core ached, a familiar heat splitting at muscle and flesh alike, "and not gathering her council." Vincent slid home, joining them at the seam and taking her into his arms.

"Such words," she whimpered into his shoulder, "should not be said lightly." She huffed, unable to bring her eyes to meet his own. She was walking a thin line, forcefully ambushing him as she had. Rachel should be lucky that he was humoring her. "Do not lie to your wife."

"I wouldn't dare—" Vincent groaned as he hitched her leg up higher onto his waist, "—not when my little wife has proven herself," his breath caught when her nails raked a line down his backside, "quite the handful."

Well, at least she caught his attention properly. But, in return, she had laid her cards bare for him to see; there was nothing left to hide, Rachel had chosen to gamble it all, just he had hours prior. Could she keep his attention? What more could she offer that she hadn't already? "Tomorrow, we will talk." She told him sternly as she arched into his touch, "I refuse to stand down. I wish to be by your side. As your wife—" Rachel moaned and tried to fight against the tremors shocking her legs. "As a Phantomhive."

Her husband, her darling, stubborn husband. Rachel loved him; she swore she did. He just made it so difficult sometimes but then—but then… he'd do things that would make her fall head over heels once more. Silly things like adding an extra dollop of crème to his beverages, or smoothing or hair, or hitting that spot again please. And then there were moments like the one they were trapped in. Moments, seconds, that felt so delicate, inconceivable. Vincent, for perhaps the first time in a long time, had been shaken by her words. His generous movements slowed, became sensual, and Rachel ached at the change of pace. Her husband became gluttonous. Grabbing and skittering over her skin as if it would dissolve the minute he let go. She was a coward, one who didn't dare speak. One who chose to let herself become overrun with emotion.

Vincent. Her strong, unshakable, stubborn husband was crying. Near impossible to perceive, but then again, Rachel had always paid far too close attention to the man she was joined with. Every breath, grind, and heartbeat were observed, felt, with such intensity it worried her. It was an obsession.

So, she did what she did best. Rachel smoothed hair back from his face, smothered his lips with kisses, and tried her best to make him forget his fears.

(—Her husband, her husband, her precious, conceited, husband.)

When dawn's light peered through the thick drapery and Rachel found the strength to rise from her plush bed, she couldn't help the sick satisfaction of seeing her husband so vulnerable. She dressed quietly, not bothering to call for assistance. It had become a mindless task, one that, when she entered her second trimester, would be near impossible for her to do alone. Until she was physically unable, she would do everything she could without assistance—if only out of spite. Just as a Phantomhive Matriarch should.

Rachel picked up a pen. Writing was a novelty. Not something many women could do, but something she picked up out of admiration. Vincent's words were messy, undeniably. But there was a charm to his penmanship. The letter's themselves were tenderly cared for with long sloping calligraphy and distinct thoughtful placement. He made it an art. In comparison, her script seemed like a pale imitation but still, she wrote.

The Social Season was quickly nearing. While her husband would attend a party or two, he never went out of his way to host one. She understood why, of course, but that didn't mean she approved. As one shall say: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Now, Rachel wasn't hasty, she wouldn't dare act before her husband approved of her plan but that didn't mean she couldn't get a head start. Names spilled onto the page, many of whom she had heard Vincent speak fondly of and some whom he only ever whispered with hatred.

If she was asked why she wanted to host a party, she could simply feign girlish fantasies.

In reality… she had heard some concerning rumors from her old pen pals. Rachel would never fool herself to say that her social networking was anywhere near as apt as Angelina's but that didn't mean she didn't have one. Indeed, where she lacked high-footing connections she more than made up for in subtly. After all, Rachel Dalles had been a simple, kind, ditsy girl. Why would Rachel Phantomhive be any different? Many of the women she remained in correspondence with had long since married, not all of them in joyful union. The things they let slip in unassuming letters were worth their weight in gold.

Like, for instance, a husband who started becoming a bit too violent or perhaps, the gardener whom started returning home from town with stained clothes. It was the little things that were filtered in through her network. Sometimes though, bigger things would occur. Things like, for instance, a man who stared a little too long at a young daughter. A man who had taken an interest in adopting younger children. A man who loosely traveled in Vincent's outer circles.

It was something Vincent would overlook, and on any other circumstance, she would too. The exception… Rachel lightly brushed a hand over her stomach. She couldn't afford to be careless over such things that had a chance of affecting her family. She wouldn't let that sort of activity draw in her family—Rachel would squash it before it even had a chance to form.

(—There was a chance that the Baron wouldn't even touch them, that he would continue to writhe in the mud like a worm beneath their boots, but she wasn't taking chances.)

So, she'd host a party. She'd either win them over with kindness and political contracts or… well, there was a reason why those of her surname had a habit of being nicknamed dog.

(—She'd tear them apart.)

Humming softly, she sealed up her envelope and crept quietly out the door. Patrolling the hallways, she crossed paths with Tanaka, who was on his way to wake up her sleeping spouse. He seemed a little surprised at her early awakening but did little more than nod. She briefly glanced at the tray of delicacies he carried with him before deciding otherwise. The sour taste in her mouth would soil any morning pleasantries, after all.

She paused, her eyes darting over to her old rooms—Shabine's rooms—and bit her lip. Rachel was not so busy that she couldn't stop to check over her child. Never would she let work overcome her maternal duties. As such, it didn't escape her that the curtains must already be drawn. Soft yellow light spilled beneath the crack of the great door, an acknowledgement of the time. Shabine despised waking up early and to see such was a rare sight. When had her child tampered down her bad habit?

While she wasn't looking surely.

That… that would change. It must. There were many things she had dismissed and looked away from and it was irresponsible on her part. She would give Shabine the guidance she needed. Now that the child had caught Vincent's eye there was no reason not to.

The naïve part of her that remained in existence wondered if they could dance together again.

The other darker, more obsessive part of her demanded to keep her baby up to par. To teach all the things that Rachel neglected. To ensure she survived and remained happy and whole tucked away inside of Rachel's arms.

She entered with a soft knock, "My love? Are you awake?" And she was. The tiny girl was sitting at her own desk, her toffee colored fingers stained ink blue. Rachel compared herself to her child and wondered what was so important that Shabine felt the need to write down. She longed to clean the mess from her fingers and usher her back into bed but refused the urge. "Busy this morning, aren't we? I would hope that you have some time to spare for your mother?"

"Yes, mother." Shabine smiled widely and Rachel's heart ached. Her daughter's pronunciation was far better than the last time they spoke. It was awful of her to wish that the child still slurred her words and stumbled over certain vowels.

(—She was four, she was four, she was four.)

"Excellent! Come, come, it's been awhile since I've sat to do your hair hasn't it? Allow me." Rachel picked up a wide tooth comb and some of the oils left out on Shabine's vanity. Only after they got comfortable and Shabine gave full access to her voluminous curls did Rachel finally feel at ease. The repetitive movements soothing her racing mind. "Tell me," she hummed and felt a shiver of satisfaction as one of the girl's coils twisted smoothly back into place, "how do you like your lessons? Anne tells me you've been picking up her practice well. Vincent was similarly impressed."

Shabine shrugged, "It's fun. Sometimes," she amended and fiddled with her night slip, "the math is hard. I do more to help." Yes, Rachel had heard about the deficiency and honestly couldn't blame her child for it. Rachel knew Shabine was doing supplemental work to help and hoped she picked up on them quick. Rachel herself was useless after the fundamentals.

"I believe in you dear. It just takes time." She said anyway, not wanting to discourage her girl. "Now… What was this I heard about your fine art time being put on hold, hm? You shouldn't fall behind you know; I still think you'd be a lovely dancer." She paused and applied a liberal amount of oil onto her palms. Her thumbs smoothed circles into Shabine's scalp while her fingers carded the smooth substance through. "I've been tasked with looking into a Madam to assist with those skills." She had a few in mind, after all, these were skills Rachel herself had been discouraged from, things she would have loved to do. With her own yearning in mind, she would never halt Shabine from exploring the finer experience of dancing and singing.

Rachel considered Ballet in particular for her child. It required excellent stamina and was a difficult art itself—it would, if anything, keep her busy. Besides, perhaps by learning the trade, Shabine would find further discipline in the art. Rachel had the pleasure of experiencing a few live performances and found the complex forms far more extreme than anything she had ever been taught. That in itself would go great bounds to impress her demanding husband.

"I don't like dancing." Shabine murmured and Rachel flinched. Half formed hopes and pleasures wilting like her favorite sterling roses.

"What do you mean? I know you enjoyed it," Rachel pressed, "we had fun." Childish rebellion, it had to be. If Shabine had told her this sooner Rachel may have been more lenient. She couldn't let her resolve crumble this soon. "None of that." She scolded when Shabine huffed, "You will grow to love it,"—as if she didn't already, honestly, this girl— "I'm positive." Rachel finished up her task and wiped her hands clean of the oil. Pulling back the mass of raven hair and tying it up, Rachel admired her work. "Now, then!" She smiled, "Such a pretty girl. Tidy up in here and I'll send in someone to help you dress."

She still had to slip the letter into Vincent's study before she herself could go enjoy whatever pleasures were prepared for their morning meal. Closing the door and sending a notice for a Lady's Maid Rachel continued onward. She considered stopping by Anne's room but dismissed the idea, she had waylaid herself enough.

Breakfast was certainly an…. Affair, to put it lightly. The weather had been nice out and as such, the meal was taken open-aired. The table was by no means small and even still, Rachel felt far too close to Francis. She didn't hate the woman, honest, she didn't.

Rachel was simply too well-aware of her scheming.

The way the Midford Marchioness treated Shabine didn't score her any points on Rachel's list, either.

Callous, she was. Her eyes cutting and sharp as she observed Rachel's little girl. Rachel knew the look: the expectation. Francis was sizing the girl up, observing the way she cut and chewed her food, the way she sat, and even the little habit her daughter had of swinging her legs instead of crossing them. It looked as if Francis was pained in Rachel's opinion. The elder woman spoke in such stilted phrases, subtly—or perhaps not, if Rachel herself could pick up on it—poking and prodding the girl and her intelligence. Vincent was no better, Rachel glowered. He had been coy, making hard eye contact with Rachel and crinkling his nose as if he was amused by her frustration.

And finally, when Francis asked what his plan was, he replied in such an infuriatingly cool tone:

"Isn't it obvious?" He delighted from his sister's confusion, "Every Phantomhive has a shadow."

Francis nodded, her spine straightening further and a wave of chill becoming visible, "I see. Such importance, brother. Big shoes to fill for such a tiny git. Let's hope she doesn't trip, shall we?"

"Maybe." He admitted nonchalantly, "but then again, the same could be said about…" his eyes drifted over to his sister's infant. She took offense but played the words off with a smirk.

"May the odds be favorable." She mock toasted Vincent, her hand never shaking as she raised the glass and then downed it in one.

Rachel envied her own sister whom wisely avoided the verbal spat. Rachel rested her cheek on her knuckles, looking a little closer at her precious sister. Anne had become far more outspoken—not that it was a bad thing. In fact, Rachel was pleased that her sister had finally managed to come into herself and use both her intelligence and wit hand in hand. Her sister was someone to be feared, for sure.

(—She'd never not see how Angelina looked at her husband, but she was allowed her fantasies.)

Besides, Anne had picked up the slack in places Rachel had dismissed. She could be what Rachel could not to Vincent. To Shabine. The way that Anne softly brushed crumbs from Shabine's lips made something in Rachel ache. The two of them were alike; Rachel figured Anne saw something of herself in the bookish child.

It would not be amiss to call it jealousy, the way Angelina captivated her family. It made her angry, Rachel thinks as she turned away to accept a fresh scone from Tanaka, that Shabine had started looking towards Anne whilst Rachel was bedridden.

There was no one to blame but herself, she supposed.

Ah, well, just one more thing to fix.

Before I get into this chapter's notes, I'd like to take a second to say that last chapter has been updated, please go reread that if you haven't! Minor changes were made, but plot was tacked onto the end. That being said It's a little difficult to write a culture not your own so I hope I'm doing it justice and not making any horrible errors. I should invest in a Beta Reader.

But anyway, say goodbye to plot. Just know by the time Jack the Ripper shows up, major events will be changed.

Previous Arc: Childhood

Current Arc: Family

Chapter: 2/?

(To clarify about POV changes each chapter: I am currently cycling through characters as they appear and their relevancy. Next Chapter will still be from Shabine's perspective's, then Angelina's, and ending with Francis. After, the cycle will repeat, excluding Francis. Does that make sense? I will go through main character's perspective's as long as they are relevant to the current plot so people like Francis would only come into play as long as she is interacting with Shabine, technically.)