AN: Here is another piece to this story.

I hope you enjoy. If you do enjoy, please let me know!

111

As soon as the door to the bedroom closed to allow them some privacy, Eglantine was back in Emelius's arms. She could feel how anxious he'd been to hold her as he'd wrapped himself around her tightly. She closed her eyes and smiled to herself, simply savoring his touch for a moment.

"My darling Eglantine," he mused, practically breathing out the words and seeming to drink in the quiet moment of simple affection as much as she was.

Eglantine let him be the one who broke the embrace, and she stood in front of him to await whatever comment might come. When he pulled away, he looked concerned, confused, and perhaps even a touch anguished.

"I didn't understand," he said. "I'm still not certain that I understand, to be honest."

"Understand?" Eglantine asked, feeling confused herself.

From the pocket of his uniform, he pulled out a slightly thick square of folded paper. He began unfolding it, focusing far more on the folds than was necessary—a habit that Eglantine had sometimes noticed about him when he was doing something with his hands to give his mind a moment more to work out some problem.

"The first time I looked this over, I didn't even notice all the details, you see? Looked right over the most important ones in my happiness to have a letter and some reminder of what awaited me here in Pepperinge Eye." He smiled at the drawing, clearly reliving some small fragment of that felt happiness. Eglantine had felt the same way when she'd laid in bed, at night, and ran her fingers over his letters, addressed specifically to her, with all the anticipation that came about what might be contained within the words. "No," Emelius continued, "it wasn't until the second time that I really looked at it that I became…well…entirely befuddled. I noticed it, then, of course…how could I not? But, still, I suppose there were more questions than answers."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," Eglantine admitted, nearly laughing at her own confusion.

He looked at her. He laughed quietly in response.

"Do you not?" He asked. "Paul's letters. His drawings. With his letters, he sometimes included little illustrations…yes…depictions of our family. Those are his favorite to send. They're a little like photographs, but sent through the lens of Paul's eyes. Here—this one—it's the one that most alarmed me. There we all are, standing in a row, holding hands, I believe, though none of us ever have hands. I suppose they cause a bit of trouble for him, and so he just leaves them out. Do you see?"

Eglantine leaned and glanced at the crude child's drawing. She'd seen dozens of them. Paul had a tendency to sketch and doodle, filling in the clean spaces of any piece of paper that came into his hands. His favorite thing to draw was, as Emelius had said, depiction after depiction of their family, everyone happy and smiling—even Charles.

"You, my dear, and me, of course. Charles, and Carrie, and Paul…you see, there's usually even a little space for Cosmic. And then, there's this. The simple label with another smiling face just about the same size as Cosmic, wouldn't you say?"

Eglantine reached her hand out to catch the desk chair for support. Immediately, she felt the pressure of Emelius's hand on her elbow as he offered her support—he was there, again, in front of her, to offer her real, tangible support. Her heart beat quickly in her chest, and her mind offered her the flash of recognition that she'd missed having him there for that. There had been a lot that had happened in the months during which he'd been gone—even if the events were simple, day-to-day events—and she'd missed having him there to lean on, literally and figuratively.

When she looked at him again, his expression had softened a great deal, and she could practically feel emotion radiating out from his eyes.

"At first, I thought that they'd sent another from London—some lonely little thing looking for a home. I thought—Eglantine has opened her heart, and our home, and I shall go home to find that there's another Browne. I rushed to get leave to meet the child. I expressed the urgency of being considered for a closer post as soon as possible. My wife, after all—my practically brand-new wife—was left at home with, now, four children, and I hadn't even met one of them. I expected to come home to find the baby, I suppose, in arms. Perhaps, given the depiction, even toddling around. I see, now, that I was entirely mistaken." He shook his head. "There isn't one."

Eglantine didn't miss that he gave her a head-to-toe going over. Breathing felt difficult. She abandoned holding the chair, and she held his arm, instead, making it physically clear to him that she was leaning on him. He didn't falter. She knew he wouldn't.

"Maybe not quite in the way that Paul depicted, Emelius," she said, noting that there was the slightest audible tremor to her voice.

"Yes…I suppose I'm figuring that out," Emelius said, a hint of nervous laughter escaping him.

"Are you disappointed?" She asked when his eyes met hers.

"My dear—I am many things at the moment. Disappointed is not among them."

"Angry?" She asked.

He laughed nervously.

"Angry…my goodness, no. Surprised. Shocked. A bit of—how did this happen?"

Eglantine simply looked at him. That was really all that was required. She didn't need to say to him that he knew how this had happened, of course, he did. He had been there, quite obviously, and he'd contributed to the situation at hand. He laughed, again.

"I don't really mean that, my dear," he offered. "It's just the sort of thing one says when one is completely and utterly…surprised. It is to be expected, I suppose, really…if you think about it."

"We never talked about children," Eglantine said. "I suppose I never imagined…"

"Then you must be more surprised than I am," Emelius said. Sensing, perhaps, that she would stay firmly on her feet, he moved his hands to hold the upper parts of her arms and squeezed. This offered more comfort than the actual physical support he'd been offering when he'd suspected that her knees might betray her. He drew her into his arms a bit more, and she came willingly and happily—feeling an ache to be closer, still. "I knew that if I was to make love to my wife, then children were always a possibility. Perhaps I didn't think it would be so soon, but that's just how it was supposed to be, isn't it?" Eglantine simply smiled at him. She didn't have to speak, and he clearly wasn't quite done. He was thinking his way through this—through all of his feelings—and she wanted to give him a little time. She had, after all, had a great deal more time than he had to digest everything. "How can you say, Eglantine, that we never talked about children?" He laughed quietly and ironically. "It's one of the things that we've talked most about since we began even discussing marriage."

Emelius leaned forward and, as though he couldn't stop himself, he kissed Eglantine's face softly, peppering her skin with a few quick kisses. She shivered at the simple pleasure of the kisses that felt so genuine.

"The children, yes," she said. "But we never discussed the possibility of more children."

He pulled away, suddenly, like he'd been burned or stung. He still held to her arms, but he distanced himself enough to see her face clearly, instead of being close enough to share the warmth of their bodies through their layers of clothing. His eyes were wide.

"Is that why you never told me?" He asked. "When I saw Paul's drawing, I wondered why there had never been any mention in your letters—in the children's letters. Now that I see that…well…that circumstances are different than I even imagined, I admit that I was wondering why it was that you hadn't mentioned to me that I'm to be a father again. Is it because you thought I wouldn't be happy, Eglantine?"

Eglantine smiled softly at him, but her stomach churned.

"I didn't tell you because I thought you'd come back," she said. "I thought—you needed to do what you were doing. You told me, before you left, when I would have asked you to stay and not go at all, that you needed to go. You needed to feel honorable. Worthy. Emelius—you're already all those things to me, and to the children, but I needed you to feel that. I needed you to get what you needed from what you were doing. If I told you about the baby, I knew you'd come back to Pepperinge Eye, and I was right." She drew in a breath and let it out in a sigh. "I have to admit, though, that I've allowed myself to think about the possibility that you might not be pleased at the prospect of four children."

"When they have a mother like you, what do I have to complain about?" Emelius asked. It felt like a knee-jerk response. He'd meant it sincerely. "Eglantine, never worry about that. When we have a dozen between us, perhaps then we'll worry. For now?"

She laughed. The very idea of a dozen children might have stopped her heart if she thought he were sincere, but she could tell that he was teasing. He meant only to lighten the mood and to lift her spirits a little. She understood what he was really saying—he wasn't angry, and whatever happened, simply happened. They would handle it together.

"I don't think we'll ever have a dozen," she said.

"Half a dozen, then," he said with a smile and a playful shrug. His fingers worked the muscles of her arms. "We're nearly there anyway, right? What's a couple more, that's what I always say."

She laughed. She didn't point out to him that he'd never said any such thing. It didn't matter. And it felt so good to laugh with him. She felt knots inside her untangling themselves—knots she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying around.

"A baby," Emelius mused, before she could say anything. "That's something new to get used to. I've really done very little in the way of being a father. I've mostly been gone. It's mostly been on you to keep things going."

"You've done a wonderful job, Emelius," she assured him. "And you'll only do better as time goes on. It really is a learning experience; unlike anything I've ever done before."

"I'm sure it is," he mused, still seeming at least a bit distant. He was clearly still in his mind and still adjusting to everything that had brought him here, and everything that he'd learned since arriving. After a moment, he looked at her, and she felt what he wanted, like a thread was tied between the two of them and being tugged gently from his direction. Eglantine leaned forward and kissed him. She closed her eyes, savoring the hungry kiss. When it broke, she needed air. She recognized and understood the look in Emelius's eyes, even though their short time together hadn't allowed her to see it all too often. He brushed his fingers against her cheek. "I would love to make love to you," he said sincerely.

The invitation was, perhaps, a bit blunt, but it sent shivers through Eglantine all the same.

"I want to," she said, firstly, so that he wouldn't misunderstand her. "But the children need their supper, Emelius. They need to get to bed at a reasonable hour, or they won't do well in school tomorrow."

He smiled softly.

"Yes," he said. "Of course. The children need their supper, and a bit of family time, perhaps, if time allows, and then, off to bed."

Eglantine nodded her agreement.

"And then…" she offered, letting it hang.

Emelius smiled at her.

"And then," he said. He gingerly rested his hand, warm and just a touch heavy, on her belly. For the time being, his hand could practically encompass everything there was there, but Eglantine knew that wouldn't always be so. She covered his hand with her own.

"You have been concerned about my feelings, my dear, but I haven't heard you say much about your own," Emelius said.

Eglantine understood, from the way he left the words hanging and held her eyes with his own, he was asking her what she felt about the baby. She was honest. There was no need to hide any of it now, he was here, and they would figure out their next steps together.

"At first I didn't know what to think," she admitted. "I've been—worried. Nervous. Things are so unpredictable these days. But, then, with you and the children, I'm happier than I've ever been. I'm happy, too, about the baby."

"I do suppose you've spoken to the doctor?" Emelius asked.

Eglantine half-shrugged.

"He's confirmed that I'm expecting," she said.

"Yes, well, I guess you might have known that."

Eglantine laughed at the slight sound of annoyance in Emelius's voice. She detected a touch of protectiveness there, both for her and the little one whose existence had only just become known to him.

"Not at first," she said. "I can feel it, now. It's not strong, yet, but it's there. All of the clothing I've made since I found out can be let out to accommodate the way things will likely change. I'm afraid my figure might never be the same."

Emelius held her eyes. He could unnerve her in ways that nobody could before, and he did it without even trying.

"As the mother of my children, do you really think that's a concern?" He asked.

"You deserve…" she broke off, not sure what she wished to say, exactly. His cheeks colored. He'd confessed to her, in the darkness and alone in their bedroom, that he felt quite unworthy and undeserving of anything good in his life. He'd come to her, as her husband, quite open and vulnerable, and he'd admitted that he feared that he didn't deserve her, but he wanted to deserve her.

At the reminder of what she'd told him then, that she believed that he deserved the world and all the good things in it, Eglantine saw a bit of color rise to his cheeks.

"My love," he offered softly, "I have the world, and no man can deserve more than that."

Eglantine felt her own face grow warm and her throat grew tight. He smiled.

"The mother of my children," he mused. "My wife. Myself—a father of…four. A baby on the way. You see, Eglantine? You're not the only one who never imagined the good fortune that has befallen both of us."

He patted her belly gently and straightened to his full height in front of her.

"When I left, I thought that I couldn't possibly expect more out of life," he admitted. "Now, I've come home to find that you continue to surprise me. Eglantine…I…"

He stopped. He touched her face, but he didn't speak again. She could see, in his eyes, that he was finding it difficult to speak. She nodded her head gently as a way of telling him that he didn't have to continue—she simply understood.

"You are making it very difficult, Emelius, to leave this room," Eglantine admitted. "But our children are holding supper for us, and they were already tired and hungry."

For a moment, they simply stood and stared at each other. Eglantine watched as he composed himself. Finally, in control of himself entirely, he smiled at her and nodded.

"Yes, well…we'll go and tend to the children. Just as long as I've given you plenty of motivation to want to climb the stairs with me, at the end of this evening, and spend a little time as my beloved wife."

She smiled. Her heart beating fast at the suggestion.

"I'm sure I'll find it nearly impossible to think of anything else until then," she assured him. She leaned toward him for a kiss—a last one to take downstairs with her and to carry them both through the evening. He met her, and the kiss he offered her exceeded all of her expectations.