Written in response to a prompt on tumblr by vinnyvangohsleftear

August 1890, Duneagle, Scotland

The scent of the tea lingering there beneath her nose was more than enough to turn her stomach. With her mouth watering and a cold sweat beginning to prickle upon her neck and face, Cora lowered the offending teacup to her saucer and took a deep breath down into her lungs, her stomach, to settle it. She took up a biscuit instead and nibbled at it.

"Is there anyone else I'll know?" Beside her, her sister-in-law was having no trouble at all drinking her tea. Her sharp features, bright beneath the expanse of the tent that the group of ladies sat under, seemingly twinkled in delight at the conversation. "Oh, what of Florence Duncan?"

"You mean Lady Florence MacLeod, of course. Or have you forgotten?"

Cora glanced back over to her right and to Susan, her husband's cousin she'd only met once before this trip north. Only once, but already she could tell she wasn't sure she much cared for Susan MacClare, cousin or not.

The two other ladies at their table laughed in their throats.

"She is rather easy to forget," the shorter of the two said. "And I daresay her new husband quite agrees."

Another titter of laughter, but Cora had somehow lost the thread of conversation. Looking to her sister-in-law, she saw Rosamund had lost it as well.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," the ladies all leaned nearer the table, and Cora felt herself lean in as well, as if she were the tide being pulled by the moon. Susan went on, "I have it on good authority that Ernest MacLeod has been seen, in London, with a certain Julia Albright."

"Sir Richard Albright's wife?" the taller woman sat straight again. "But you must be mistaken. She wouldn't be so indiscreet."

Susan, though, shook her head. "I'm sorry to say so, but it's no idle rumor." Her tone suggested she was anything but sorry, her perpetually scowling pout of a mouth briefly flickering up into a grin. "They were seen together thrice during the Season, Florence nowhere to be found."

Rosamund was the first to pick up her tea again, and Cora noted the other women followed her lead, though at the lingering roll of her stomach, she left hers firmly in its saucer. She chose another biscuit.

"It can't be believed. And on the heels of their honeymoon," the short woman was saying into her cup. "They were only married in March. I was at their wedding."

She ceased her nibbling and peered up at the woman who spoke on. She and Robert had been married in February. Only six months. Was it possible for it to happen so soon?

"To take on a mistress after only five months is rather indecorous, much less to flaunt her to all of Society."

"Quite so," the tall one met Susan's eye and they shared a knowing look, a look lost on Cora.

"Yes," Susan was lifting her chin haughtily, an air of superiority about her that Cora really couldn't understand, and lifted her cup again. "Of course, the decent thing would be to wait until she's had his heir. Or at the very least wait until she's in the family way."

Instantly, Cora's cheeks burned and beneath the table, she drew an arm around her corseted middle, as if shielding it from the women at the table—hiding it—the women around her all humming in a consensus. It was an agreement on what they spoke of, but a strange lack of outrage or anger at what Cora felt there should be. No. That wasn't right. As Cora peered around, blinking, she realized there was anger there—that soft, rather insidious anger the English upper class seemed to be so very good at. But it felt strange, uncomfortable, like an ill-fitting glove, the hem rubbing the movement of one's fingers all wrong.

Who exactly were they angry with?

"One does wonder why Julia would be associated with such a thing," Rosamund was casting her blue gaze around the table. "Though of course she's had two sons now. I suppose she is entitled to do as she pleases."

"Oh, yes. That's right." The taller woman across from them was nodding, the long feathers of her hat fluttering happily in the loch breeze, as if they were all speaking of something pleasant and nice. Something better fitting a picnic.

"I've told Shrimpie," Cora blinked to her right and found Susan, her chin lifted haughtily once again. "That now since little James has arrived, we ought to begin considering how we'll handle such a thing. I know he's had his eye on Lady Eileen, though whether or not she'd be interested in him is still rather unclear."

There was laughter at this—laughter—and Cora furrowed her brow. Was it meant to be a joke? She looked into her lap, glanced very briefly at the bodice of her gown and then up again. She brought the biscuit she held to her lips.

"Oh, I rather like to remain in the dark about who Leonard has chosen." And they all nodded at the short woman as she said this, and Cora found herself putting the biscuit she had tried to eat into her saucer, it too now causing a rush of quick-warmth up her chest and face. And then cold sweat down the nape of her neck. She had to press her fingers to her mouth as the woman went on. "And he respects me enough to honor me that; and I him."

"Oh, Cora!" Her name startled her a bit, and she looked at Susan who eyed her with feign sympathy. "Why you're as white as this cloth. I hope we haven't scandalized you, but I'm sure someone has told you."

She took in a shaky breath, unsure her voice would travel well over the nausea she felt. "Told me?"

"About the way things are here. The way marriages like ours are." Susan's smile fit unnaturally on her face, as if someone had drawn it on, forgetting to touch at her eyes. "Though of course, Cousin Robert is well-instructed in what to do and when to do it."

There was a ringing in her ears. No. Not a ringing. It was her heartbeat. The sound of her breath.

"—brother in the slightest. He is a great believer in rules."

To her left, Rosamund was laughing, a rippling of laughter moving across the table, but Cora had missed what she had said.

"So I shouldn't worry; you have plenty of time. I should suspect at least a year more, as you aren't yet pregnant!" Her sister-in-law's twinkling eyes were full of mirth, her shoulders rising and falling in the bouncing, musical way she spoke. But nothing Cora had heard had been funny to her. Nothing.

The other ladies laughed and then leaned in again, speaking once more of the unfortunate Florence MacLeod, but Rosamund, instead, leaned closer to Cora.

"Rather clever of you, actually. To wait." Cora looked at her sister-in-law as she whispered hastily, casting her eyes quickly to where the group of approaching men came toward them, their low voices carrying easily on the breeze. "He'll never admit that he's a sentimentalist, but he is. Remember that."

Cora frowned, and again her hand found her middle. "But what do you—"

"I see you've started without us!"

Shrimpie's voice signaled the end of the moment, and Rosamund whipped around toward the men, her own husband, Marmaduke, smiling down at her.

Susan welcomed them, too, calling, "We thought you may have all gotten lost in the heather, and we were starved!"

The ladies around her were laughing again, the men too, now, and Cora tried her best to feign a smile as she found Robert's eye.

Her Robert. Her Robert who lifted his chin in search of her. Her Robert who sighed a smile when he caught her gaze. Her Robert who moved around the other husbands toward her.

Oh, how much longer would he be her Robert?

"I hope you've managed to eat something?" His voice was quiet in her ear, meant only for her, and she felt herself nod as he touched her arm. Her arm that encircled their secret. It all quickened her heart, oh her heart that she knew would be eternally his.

. . .

She felt she could tell, could see the small difference in her midsection as her maid had changed her into her cotton slip. Of course, Cora would never say so aloud. She'd never say how she studied her reflection in the mirror there, eager to see the change she felt within her begin to show without. Especially since, while lying flat in this large open bed, her tummy dipped down the way it always had between her hipbones, no evidence whatsoever of the child Robert had nestled there inside her.

Hers and Robert's child. A baby.

She smiled at that, in spite of the nausea she felt, and let her left hand rest upon it, praying her continuous, silent prayer that it was growing the way it should. That all this discomfort meant that everything was exactly the way it should be and that in a little less than seven months more she'd be holding a squalling newborn.

Their newborn.

She closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and let the air ease from her slowly, calming the waves of heat, sweat, and rolling bile.

She moved her conscious mind elsewhere, somewhere besides the awful way she felt, and focused on thinking of other things: the stain she saw on her dinner glove, the way she'd ask Perkins to style her hair in the morning, the weight of baby James in her arms earlier, Susan scarcely holding him at all as the other ladies took turns.

And then her thoughts trickled downward, down again towards the memories at lunch, the easy way Susan had accepted that now she'd had an heir, her husband could do as he pleased. To be with anyone he liked. That they'd even discuss such a thing was so far from Cora's nature that she couldn't imagine how the conversation would go. Would she, too, in half a year's time, be expected to look the other way as Robert did as he pleased? The very idea that Robert would ever lie with another woman immediately made Cora feel ill again; the idea that he would want to be bare with another woman, to be as intimate, as private, together as they had finally become—naked, and touching, and soft, and laughing as they kissed—made her mouth water as a precursor to vomit, and she deliberately breathed deeper, more purposefully, to quell it. Oh. She'd already vomited twice today.

The sweat of her nausea was still at her hairline as she heard the sweep of the door, so she kept her eyes closed even as he came in. She kept her eyes closed, but found herself smiling at Robert's quiet noises as he made his way into the room. She smiled, but at another rush of damp heat to her face and neck, she also heard herself groan lowly.

"Oh, you aren't yet asleep?" he whispered towards her. She could hear him move closer. "Or did I wake you? I apologize."

She shook her head. Slightly. "No. Not asleep," she managed, and then took in another deep breath as he climbed into bed beside her, the mattress rocking her. "Sick."

He stilled. "Oh." And Cora noticed as he positioned himself much more slowly besides her.

She breathed evenly, calming a sudden churning. "Mm," she hummed lowly, settling it. "I do wonder why they call it 'morning sickness'* when it seems to happen at all hours of the day."

"Can I help? Or call for Perkins?"

"No," she felt herself smiling again. "But thank you."

"I could find a different place to sleep. I'm sure Shrimpie could search me out a different room."

At this, Cora opened her eyes and found her husband, his soft waves of hair warm in the firelight, his pinched expression of concern acutely endearing. She let her hand fall from her middle to grab his own. "Don't you dare," she teased. "I want you here."

She was rewarded with a smile. "Then I'll stay," he whispered again as he lent over her and pressed a kiss to her temple.

"Good." Cora closed her eyes again, her chest blossoming with his words, her heart breaking with his tenderness, echoes of her thoughts tossing around with the waves of nausea.

He'd not yet told her, though she had begun to suspect. He'd not told her he loved her, not once, even though he slept beside her without being able to be physically intimate. Even though he reached for her hand sometimes as they walked together.

Another wave of nausea as turned down the lamp.

No, he'd not told her even though she had retched every day for nearly a month, even though her breasts were swollen and endlessly sore squeezed in her corset, even though her head hurt from the moment she woke until the moment she went to sleep, all this because she carried his child within her. No. He still had not told her he loved her. But what was it that his sister had said? Robert was a sentimentalist? What did she mean?

And suddenly, without any warning, she felt her eyes begin to burn. To tear.

He was so kind, and so sincere. If he'd not told her he loved her, perhaps he still did not. And if he did not, perhaps in six months time, he would do just as all the other women's husbands did and find someone else in which to pour his affections.

She drew in more air, now, dangerously close to weeping, and shook her head.

He'd noticed. "Cora?" His hand was gently extracted from her own. "Do you need the washroom? Shall I fetch the basin?"

"No, no." She wagged her head again, her hair brushing against the pillow beneath her.

"You're —" she could feel her husband lean over her again, peering down at her. "But you look quite unwell."

And then, she broke. She sobbed. Her face burned with embarrassment. She didn't have to see the alarm on Robert's face; she could positively feel it.

"Co—"

"—I hope it's a girl!" was all she could manage out, and she shuddered in air, stemming her tears, not understanding why she couldn't rein in this feeling. "I want it to be a girl."

"What?"

Her whole body shook as she sniffled and took back control over herself.

But Robert asked again, his voice stained in tones of panic. "Shall I go? You do seem very ill. I will call for a Perkins, or Mama?"

"No, no." She covered her face with her hands, breathed evenly for a few moments more, and then said it. "It's just that … When he's born, you'll be free to find a lover."

Silence. So much silence. And stillness. And Cora slowly let her hands move from her face and her eyes to her husband to see him, to see the way his face was hard, his brows knitted tightly.

His voice was low. "What are you saying?"

She blinked up at him. "Well." She sniffled again. "Shrimpie and Lady Eileen and Sir Richard and Julia, whoever they are, and that woman at luncheon said Leonard—"

"—And you think I would?"

Cora furrowed her brow. "Susan said that once you have an heir that—"

"That I'll break my marriage vows?" Robert scoffed, pulled the covers more over him, and then tossed his head back toward Cora. "Susan's main objective, Cora, is to stir. It always has been. She only told you this because she saw that we are happy as we are, and she cannot bear it! She wants everyone to be as miserable as she is."

"Happy?"

"—Besides, I never pay attention to any of that vulgar gossip, and neither should you."

"Robert," her heart was thumping, she let herself rise upon her elbows, closer to him, looking at him. "Are you happy? Really?"

He looked at her, quickly, almost incredulously, "Of course I am." And then, when Cora was quiet at that, he took her hand.

"I'm in perfect health, my estate is in good order, and my lovely wife is carrying my child. What more could I possibly ask for?"

Cora felt tears pricking at her eyes again, and with her mouth trembling up into a weepy grin, she laid back upon the mattress, rolling slightly toward Robert, her heart growing larger and larger behind her ribs.

"Cora?" His voice was quiet, a whisper on her head, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. "Did you say Shrimpie and Lady Eileen? Good heavens."

And for the first time all day, Cora's nausea was completely gone as she laughed, heartily, with her husband.

* Apparently, according to a few quick Google searches, this misnomer has been around since the 1850s, which tickles me endlessly. (And btw if you look up 'misnomer' on Google, 'morning sickness' is literally the dictionary example. Hilarious.)