AN: Here we are, another piece to this one.
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know.
111
"Please don't be too cross with Charlie, Mum," Carrie said, brow slightly furrowed, as she hovered around Eglantine.
Eglantine had decided to prepare supper herself, for this evening, but it was already beginning to feel as though she should have just let Carrie do it, since the girl wanted to do it, because she wasn't off enjoying herself the way that Eglantine had imagined she might, if she were left with no chores to tend to for the time being.
Paul was off playing or reading quietly. Charles was somewhere in the village with Emelius. Emelius had gone down there to see the children leaving school, and he'd sent Carrie and Paul home while inviting Charles to pass some time with him and to talk about his overall attitude.
"I'm not cross with anyone, Carrie," Eglantine assured her daughter as sweetly as she could.
"It's just—he can say some awful things, but he don't really mean them," Carrie said.
Eglantine laughed to herself.
"I'm sure that Charles is only truly half aware of some of what he says," Eglantine said. "Don't worry about it anymore, Carrie. I'm not cross, and neither is Emelius. Everything is perfectly fine."
Carrie's face lit up a little at the mention of Emelius. She hovered close enough to Eglantine that Eglantine could feel the warmth of her body, and she didn't dare step without looking toward her feet, otherwise she might actually walk all over the tops of Carrie's feet.
"Oh—you do look better now that he's back, Mum," Carrie offered.
Eglantine laughed quietly.
"Thank you, Carrie," she said. "I wasn't aware that I was entirely unpresentable in his absence, but…"
"That isn't what I mean," Carrie said quickly. "I'm sorry if what I said was offensive. I only meant—there's a bit of color back in your cheeks. And he did say you ate lunch today, and that you didn't get sick."
Eglantine didn't try to hide her amusement.
"You asked him for a report on my lunch?" Eglantine asked.
"Only just a little," Carrie offered. "Just when he was waiting outside the school for Charlie. He said that lunch was a great improvement over breakfast. And now, you're making supper, and you don't look ill."
"Well—you children may not like supper," Eglantine offered. "I'm not frying anything. That's the main reason, I think, that I'm not ill. It's the smell, I believe."
"We'll make do," Carrie assured her with a smile.
"Just make sure you tell your brothers that," Eglantine said with a laugh.
"Charlie will be pleased to see you looking so well," Carrie said.
"I wasn't aware you children were so concerned about my health," Eglantine said.
"Only just a little," Carrie said. "Only what's natural, I suppose."
"It's hardly natural for children to worry so much," Eglantine said. "Why don't you leave the worrying to your father and I, and you just enjoy being children? It passes so quickly, you know."
"It's only…" Carrie started, but she stopped with her words trailing off. There was an uncertainty hanging around them. Eglantine felt uncomfortable just from the sound of them.
"It's only what, Dear?" She pressed.
Carrie sighed and looked like she was about to say something she wasn't sure she should say.
"Promise you won't be cross we didn't say anything?" Carrie asked.
"Carrie—I'm hardly ever cross with any of you. Not really. Now—please tell me what's on your mind so that we can handle things and clear the air."
"It's just that our Mum," Carrie said. "Our…"
"Real mum," Eglantine offered, when Carrie stopped. "It's OK. I'm perfectly aware that you had a mother, Carrie, and I wouldn't want you to forget her. I assumed that you don't talk about her because you were young when she died."
"Yes, ma'am," Carrie offered, nodding.
"You can talk about your family—all of it—whenever you want," Eglantine assured her.
"It's just…she died when Paul was born," Carrie said. Eglantine suddenly felt nearly numb. The shock ran over her like cold water. She did her best to try to hide it, but she doubted that she was actually successful.
"I didn't know," she said.
"You wouldn't, Miss…Mum…" Carrie said. "Paul doesn't know, and me and Charlie don't talk about it. We figured it was best if he didn't know. He might start to worry and think it was his fault, and we didn't want that. Paul doesn't remember her, you see? Our father died not long before she did. It was an accident. Our aunt said it was a broken heart that took Mum. She said she could see it coming. Mum hardly ate, and she was sad all the time. Our aunt said she was thin and weak, and having Paul was too much for her."
Eglantine didn't expect to feel so overwhelmed by the experiences of the children. She caught the bench with her hand and hoped that Carrie hadn't noticed. Of course, she also recognized that as a foolish hope, since her sweet Carrie noticed everything. She saw the girl's eyes dart toward her hand before looking back at her with no uncertain concern.
"And then your aunt passed away," Eglantine said.
"Yes, ma'am," Carrie said, nodding. "It was a sickness that took her. We went to the children's home, then."
Eglantine brought her handkerchief out of her pocket. These days, she felt almost always close to tears—though not always tears of sorrow—and she was learning it was best to always have a handkerchief or two close at hand. She used the one she had on hand.
"Oh—I'm so sorry, Carrie. Really, I am."
Carrie gave her a reassuring smile. She hesitantly stepped closer, not that there was ever much space between them when Carrie was around, and finally she wrapped her arms around Eglantine and hugged her tightly enough that Eglantine closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing so as to not have to tell Carrie that she might be sick from being squeezed so tightly around the middle.
"Oh—we have a family now," Carrie said, pulling out of the hug and, thankfully, releasing the pressure it felt like she'd been putting on Eglantine's internal organs. "A mum and a dad…and another brother or sister to come, too."
Eglantine squeezed Carrie's shoulder affectionately.
"I know you might be worried," Eglantine said, "but I want you to try not to worry, OK?"
"We'll all take good care of you," Carrie offered. "And now that Dad is home, he can help make sure you're happy and well."
"Everyone is doing more than they need to do," Eglantine assured the child. "But—I want you to understand that you don't have to take care of me. It isn't your job, Carrie, and I'm not unwell…or unhappy, for that matter. Quite the opposite, I assure you."
"I know, Mum," Carrie offered. "Still…"
The word said it all—she was still going to be exactly who she was. Eglantine understood, now, at least a little better how it was that Carrie had become the caretaker that she was—and why exactly Charles might be having some of the problems that he was with the changes in their circumstances.
111
"My darling Eglantine, may I have a moment with you? When you're not overly occupied, of course."
Passing over the finishing up of supper to Carrie wasn't difficult at all. The girl had watched every step of its preparation, and she had assisted Eglantine when she was no longer able to contain her almost primal need to help. She looked relieved, honestly, when Eglantine passed over the mantle of responsibility and asked if she'd be so kind as to finish things up and to get the table set—preferably with the help of her brothers.
Paul was off playing in his room, but Charles had gone to the same place the moment he'd come through the door. They shouldn't be too hard for Carrie to find and rally to the setting of the table.
Eglantine could already imagine what the conversation was regarding that Emelius hoped to have, and she followed him to their bedroom and closed the door without a word.
"I talked to Carrie," she said, as soon as they were alone.
"Well, then, you may know some of what I discussed with Charles as we toured the village."
"Their mother…"
"It took a bit to get it out of him," Emelius said with a nod.
"Carrie is so pleased that I ate lunch today and, apparently, I look a great deal healthier than I did before you got home," Eglantine said with a quiet laugh.
"You look lovely. You always do. You were, however, a touch pale when I got home."
"I was shocked to have you come home," Eglantine countered. "And then to know that…I had so much to tell you. I wasn't sure how you'd respond."
"Yes…well…" Emelius said. He seemed a little distracted. That was, honestly, not entirely uncommon for him. He often had a great deal going on in his mind.
Still, Eglantine sensed something else—something heavier than just the normal distraction of someone who was always thinking a step or two ahead—and she walked toward him and hugged him, resting her head against his shoulder. He hugged her back, and she closed her eyes, savoring the embrace.
It was so wonderful to have him home, and she found that the more she was allowed to enjoy his touch and his genuine affection, the more she craved it.
"I'm afraid I hadn't fully thought through all the possibilities," Emelius offered, holding Eglantine close to him, as though she'd asked him to explain what was on his mind. "I mean, of course I know the stories and such—you do hear them all the time, don't you? But I hadn't imagined…well…I wouldn't want to. It would hardly seem fair to any of us. But, then, I suppose that life isn't altogether fair. It would seem we have a house full of children that are living proof that life can be cruel."
Eglantine pulled away and offered him the best smile she could.
"Or, Emelius, maybe we have a home full of proof that, though life can be cruel, it can also be wonderful and kind. After all, we've found each other. We have the children. We're safe. We have a little one on the way. I feel like things are pretty wonderful."
"And yet, so precarious," Emelius offered.
"They've always been that way," Eglantine said. "Nothing has ever been guaranteed."
"I suppose you're right," Emelius said, affectionately stroking her face. "Still, I would like some guarantees."
Eglantine nodded her head understandingly. She would like guarantees from the world, as well, but there weren't any on offer. Emelius knew that as well as she did, and she recognized that he was simply venting his frustration with things.
"How is Charlie?" Eglantine asked. "What did he say to you?"
"He was the oldest. The man of the house when his father passed," Emelius said. "Without realizing it, I put the same pressure on him by telling him to be the man of the house while I was away."
Eglantine smiled at him.
"He would have taken that role without you saying anything," she said.
"You're probably right," Emelius said. "He felt responsible for his mother. His little sister. His sibling to be. And he was only a child, himself. Paul's age…give or take a few months."
Eglantine's chest ached to think of them, all three of the children, so small and so fragile—and so utterly alone. She found a fresh handkerchief for herself, and Emelius didn't try to stop her when she went for one in her drawer.
"He felt responsible," Emelius said. "Blamed himself. He didn't do enough to help his mother. That sort of thing."
"There was nothing he could do," Eglantine said. "She died in childbirth. He had no control over that."
"I told him as much," Emelius said. "I think he understands that, at least on the surface…but he's internalized it a bit, you understand. At any rate, I did ask him to stop being difficult simply on principle. I told him that's not going to fix anything. He agreed but, of course, part of it is simply that age. He's a twelve-year-old boy."
"We'll try to keep that in mind," Eglantine assured him.
Emelius smiled at her and winked his eye.
"I also told him that we would all double our efforts to care for you, my dear, so you had better be prepared for the attention."
"You're going to spoil me," Eglantine said.
"That's the primary goal, I think," Emelius said. "From what I understand, that's my prerogative as your husband."
"Now you're not being serious," Eglantine responded, but she didn't swallow back her amusement.
"I assure you that I'm always serious when it comes to matters of spoiling my wife," Emelius said. "Shall we join the children?"
"I'd like that," Eglantine said with a nod.
"In regard to other issues," Emelius said, opening the bedroom door and gesturing so that Eglantine could exit before him, "we did pop into the store to see Mrs. Hobday and to see if there was any mail."
"Was there?"
"No mail," Emelius said, following Eglantine back toward the part of the house where she could hear Carrie and Charles talking animatedly, both of them seeming to be taking turns entertaining Paul with some story. "However, Mrs. Hobday did mention that she has her hands full, you know, what with the general lack of people who are both able and predisposed to work in the village, and the number of roles that she and her husband attempt to fill to simply keep things going."
"What are you getting at, Emelius?"
"How do you feel, my dear, about yours truly settling into an occupation?" Emelius asked. "I would begin working for the Hobdays at the General Store and, then, as I am able to make the payments without putting any strain on the household purse, I will take over the business entirely—with Charlie's help, of course. It would free the Hobdays up for their other endeavors and, eventually, for the blissful ease of retirement."
"What about the military?" Eglantine asked.
"I fully intend to remain in Pepperinge Eye unless there is a great need for me elsewhere," Emelius said. "You've said it yourself that Charlie has a head for business. This could be a way to get him started, and it'll be something he can inherit, if he has any mind to stay in the village once he's finished school."
Eglantine smiled at him. He made something of a loop with his finger, and his hand came to rest on her shoulder—a way of telling her to watch where she was going on the stairs, and to physically remind her that he was looking out for her in every way possible.
"Why not buy the business outright?" Eglantine asked. "I do have some money…"
"You'll understand, of course, that I would prefer to earn the money myself," Emelius said, dismissing her offer. She decided not to argue. It didn't matter, anyway. "I am only asking what you think, my dear, before I give the Hobdays my final answer on the matter."
"My husband the shopkeeper," Eglantine mused. "I like it."
"Do you?"
"Very much," Eglantine said. "I also like the idea of you staying in Pepperinge Eye."
Emelius, his hand weighing on her shoulder with each step she took, squeezed her shoulder. She enjoyed the comfort that she could take from it.
"It is my hope never to be separated from you—or the children—again," he assured her. "Let's tell Charlie the good news over dinner. I think he's looking forward to being part of a father-son enterprise."
Eglantine didn't say anything, other than to hum her agreement, but she was looking forward to seeing that, as well.
