Vignette 10
"It exasperated her to think that the dungeon in which she had languished for so many unhappy years had been unlocked all the time, and that the impulses she had so carefully struggled with and stifled for the sake of keeping well with society, were precisely those by which alone she could have come into any sort of sincere human contact." -George Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion
While no longer sulking over her condition, she was far from being an ecstatic mother, and only hoped that the child would take after her like Rhett had said, for she could not bear it if another child (or even frighteningly, daughter) would resemble Frank in any way. It was in these moments of fleeting motherliness that she would think of a black-haired, black-eyed boy, though she would be quick to dispel such foolishness, such delusion. Though what had preoccupied her mind the most was the sickness, for all morning, nausea pricked at her like a minor inconvenience, growing gradually in its irritation as the day progressed. It was days like this that reminded her of why she despised childbearing, though her feelings had eroded ever since the raid, and what had once been a scorching hatred for her expanding waist had dwindled down to resigned distaste.
Why, she could barely stay awake as Rhett dropped her off at the mills, and he saw paleness in her skin and the sway of her body, trailing behind her as she trudged through the door.
He shouldn't have followed her. Should've stayed in that damned buggy.
Alas, misfortune caught up to them. She should've known, for such blissfulness could not possibly exist, that God had counted all her misdeeds and finally punished her for them. Had it not been her reputation on the line, she would have laughed at India's scandalized face as she entered the lumber mill, only to see Rhett's arms around her and quickly assumed the worse. Though the cruel irony was not lost on her—had they been caught in any other embrace, they would be right to deem it indecent and cause a nasty uproar over it. In fact, the innocence of it was quite jarring for she anticipated a much more disastrous fall from grace (if she could have fallen any further to begin with).
For a moment, she had the mind to defend herself—she was with child and he had merely been there to help her—but knew no one was willing to listen. In fact, they all probably thought it was Rhett's and anticipated, with spiteful satisfaction, for Frank or some near relative to call the man out. When she came home, he said nothing, but she knew someone had been eager to inform the wronged husband of his wife's infidelity.
"Am I even the father?" he had asked, after throwing a few choice words at her, at Rhett.
"You know you are."
He was silent then and turned away.
"I say this as your husband—you mustn't speak with him again."
Her mouth opened to say she could see whoever she pleased, but he began to limp up the stairs, the pity and guilt stealing the words from her breath.