Anne lay awake in bed long after Constance's breathing from beyond the curtains had evened. There was a single candle flame still guttering on the table, throwing shadows against the fabric. The room was cool and silent, ripe for sleep, but Anne knew she wouldn't be able to.
She crawled out of bed, pulling her white sleeping gown into order, and walked, barefoot, across to the table to fetch the candle in its brass holder. She let herself out the door and crept down the hall, holding her breath because of the coldness underfoot. Her toes were tingling by the time she stopped at what had been Athos' and Aramis' door. Switching the candle to her left hand, Anne tapped with her knuckles. The heavy wooden door seemed to absorb the sound completely. She hesitated, holding her hand aloft. Perhaps she should go back; this was madness—or at least utter foolishness.
Her belly fluttered, and strangely it gave her the courage to knock again, harder this time.
She heard him on the other side, unbolting, and sliding it open. Aramis was bare-chested, wearing only undergarments. She felt shy and ghostly standing on the doorstep. "Anne," he said after a few heartbeats. In wonder.
And then he pulled her in, taking the guttering candle carefully from her hand, setting it to the side, closing the door. "You're shivering. Come—"
He hesitated, not certain what she was wanting, probably not certain what to offer. She understood. She appreciated his reticence in that moment, because she was not entirely certain, either.
"I want to be with you," she said, trusting he would take that statement just as it was, not meant euphemistically.
He stared at her for a moment more and then took her hands and led her to the window seat, bringing her into a nest of blankets still warm from his body. He shuffled her around so he was sitting behind her, and brought her against his chest. She allowed it, bringing her knees up as much as her growing stomach would permit, and let herself relax against him. Under the blankets he rubbed warmth back into her fingers. She felt an unwittingly dreamy smile spread across her face in the darkness; it had been long since she had felt anything as exquisite as the warmth of his bare chest burning through the fabric of her night-dress, seeping into her bones. She made a small sound of contentment. He sighed and she heard his head thump against the wall. "Is this all right?" she said, suddenly anxious again.
"Of course," he said, and she felt his lips on her hair. Anne turned her head to the side, and back, asking for a kiss. He gave one, deliciously chaste. She thought about telling him how much she loved him, but even here, in their cocoon of darkness and warmth and solitude, the time did not seem quite right.
She settled back against him, angling her ear against his chest so that she could listen to his heartbeat. The baby was stirring in her belly, and outside, the wind was picking up, making the shutters gently rattle, but she was finally warm, and growing drowsy.
Aramis returned Anne to her room in the early hours of a grey and drizzly morning, not so much to hide anything from Constance as to keep the servants from knowing. They were both aware that it might be their last interlude alone together for some time, and it was hard to separate, to untangle their bodies and become two people again. He left her reluctantly and went back to bed to catch up on sleep.
When he later got up, washed, dressed and prepared to face the day, the weather had turned even less pleasant into fully pouring rain. There would be no wandering in the gardens in such weather, so he spent the afternoon with Anne and Constance in the study, trying to keep them entertained with stories and anecdotes (limiting himself to the light or more humorous ones.) This whiled away a few hours, but by the time evening was approaching, he was ready to investigate the newly replenished sideboard with its bottles of alcohol. Both ladies declined to partake, Anne for obvious reasons, Constance because she possibly feared he was going to drink too much as Athos had the previous night. Once he had seen them safely back to their room and the bolt drawn from the inside, he returned to the study. The crackling fire banished some of the noise of the driving rain.
He lost track of time, and of the amount he'd drunk, though he was still at the point of considering himself sober, when one of the outside guardsmen came and tapped on the door. Aramis hadn't been sure what to expect from the house staff henceforth, (though he couldn't imagine it would have been to anyone's benefit for Athos to have informed them that he had fallen from official favor) but he couldn't detect any difference in the fellow's respectful manner. Bowing, he explained that the new Paris guard had arrived to relieve him, and had asked to be shown in to his company, if that was acceptable? Aramis said that it was.
He had steeled himself not to expect d'Artagnan, but had not given much speculation as to who else might come, and for a moment, when Porthos' tall form appeared in the doorway, dripping wet and dark of expression, he felt several different emotions at once. Pleasure at seeing his friend. Or, someone who had been his friend weeks ago—though whether he still was, or had been ordered not to be, was inconclusive. A touch of guilt, for though there was no obvious condemnation in the other musketeer's initial manner, he felt censure anyway. They had served together. And he was being replaced by him because, in the eyes of their governing body, he had failed to do his duty. There was shame in that.
He put down the glass of wine he had been finishing. "Porthos," he said, with some apprehension.
Porthos took off his hat and shook it to the side, sending droplets of rain spattering across the floor. "Ridiculous country weather."
"It has been fair until today," Aramis found himself replying. "You must have brought the ill weather with you."
Porthos grunted. He strode further into the room, coming to stand in front of Aramis, putting his hat on the sideboard. His face remained rather grim. That did not mean anything, but Aramis watched him carefully nevertheless, waiting for a cue. One never knew when Porthos was going to deliver a punch or a hug; the man tended towards the extremes.
He braced himself for either possibility.
Porthos pulled him in for a hug. Aramis rather thought, after a few seconds of being dripped on, that he might have preferred the alternative. But there was comfort in the arm of his brother around his neck that said, more than any words, that he understood. At least a little. And what he didn't understand, he would accept.
Porthos held him out at arms' length, gazed at him for a moment and then said suspiciously, "What have you been drinking?"
"A little of everything. The day has been long."
Rumbling a laugh, Porthos gestured around the room. "Says he, sitting by a warm fire on stuffed cushions! What about my day?"
"True. I suppose yours was worse. Athos mentioned you might cross paths; did you leave the city yesterday?"
"At dawn. Would have reached here sooner, but for the cursed rain."
"How is—everything? The others? D'Artagnan?" Aramis poured him a shot of brandy, which Porthos took and tossed back with gusto, then another, before replying, "All's well. Or as well as it can be. D'Artagnan did well enough from what I could see. He made efforts to have you allowed to remain here."
"So Athos told us. It was in my mind to stay, regardless."
"You can't do entirely as you please, you know."
"Athos made that clear also."
"That's not what I meant." Porthos rolled his eyes. "I meant we can only protect you so far."
"I'm not the one in need of protection. Once—once she has the child, they will be all I care about. If I'm imprisoned—if I hang for that matter—"
"No one's going to let you hang," Porthos said, exasperation filtering through his tone. "We will keep them safe. And wherever its father ends up, the child will not be short of uncles."
Aramis put his elbow on the sideboard and rested his head in his hand. "Thank you," he muttered. The alcohol was probably partly to blame, but he felt overwhelmed by emotion.
"Fool," Porthos said, but with rough affection. "Pour me another brandy."
He complied, noticing that his hand wasn't completely steady. In the meantime, Porthos divested himself of his damp jacket, pulled a chair close to the fire and tossed it over to dry. He stood close to the fireplace, suppressing a yawn.
Aramis passed him the drink. "Tell me," he said, "and tell me the truth—" He hesitated, and Porthos put in, "Because I'm in the habit of lying to you?"
"No." He sighed. "What you think about being here."
"Here?" Porthos looked around the room, and made his lips form a not-bad assessment. "I can recall worse assignments."
"Be serious."
"I am being serious."
Aramis started to pour himself another glass of wine but Porthos swept it out of his hand and took it himself. "You need to slow down and wait for me to catch up with you."
"Granted." He tipped his head back up to stare at the elaborately carved ceiling and strove for patience. "I want to know your thoughts on this particular assignment."
"As I said, there have been worse. The rest of it?" He shrugged. "Doesn't matter much. I'm not going to say you did right, if that's what you're looking to hear. Also not going to condemn you. Figure it's a bit late for that."
"It is never too late for condemnation," Aramis said gloomily.
"That's only this—" Porthos scanned the bottles on the sideboard and pointed his finger at one, "—cognac talking."
"Perhaps."
"Also, seems to me this is the easy part. The waiting. It's what comes after that's going to test you."
"Was that supposed to be encouraging?"
Porthos considered. "No. But you said you wanted the truth."
"Yes," Aramis agreed. "I did. Only I seem to forget how unvarnished your brand always is."
"I will take that to be a compliment."
Eight weeks later—Summer
A midwife had been summoned from the nearest village when Anne's labor started in the early hours of a summer morning. Constance was no way confident enough to be her sole assistant, and restricted herself instead to giving commands to the serving maids for linens, water, and other needs. The midwife was a calm woman in her middle years who commented that Anne was doing very well for her first time and that she did not, in these early stages at least, anticipate any problems. It was just the three of them in the bedchamber, with a maid posted outside should anything be required from elsewhere in the house.
Constance had instructed Porthos not to let Aramis anywhere near, requesting that he be kept off that floor entirely, to avoid him becoming distracted or troubled by any sounds of the laboring mother. Anne had once faintly asked after him but Constance (hoping she was doing the right thing) told her firmly to concentrate only on bringing the child into this world, and that she might see Aramis after. She had the occasional twinge of guilt about this decision as the labor progressed, seeing how Anne struggled with the pain, knowing that it might have been easier at points to have a strong additional presence to support her, but childbirth was ultimately the province of women and a man had no place in it. So she took extra care, bathing Anne's forehead with damp linen, holding her hands and encouraging her through the longest moments of effort, following the midwife's cues.
The child was born at the end of the day. "A girl," the midwife said, catching and turning the small silent form, which for a few heartbeats made no sound and Constance held her breath while Anne gasped in anticipation, but then the midwife swept fluid from its mouth and after a few more moments the infant began to cry. "The child is healthy."
"You did bravely," Constance whispered, watching as the midwife dried and folded the new arrival in linens, giving the bundle to Anne to hold, cautioning that there was still work to do and she would have to relinquish her in a few moments. She felt tears building in her own eyes to match the ones streaking Anne's face. "Well done."
Anne bowed her head over the child, limp with exhaustion, but all too soon the final moment of labor was upon her and Constance had to take the baby, bringing it to the window where she could look upon its tiny face in the last light of the fading sunset. A princess, whatever the rest of the world might consider it, she thought, touching the pink cheek with a fingertip, feeling a rush of protectiveness towards the small being. Whatever else, this child would be loved, and that was more than many had.
Still later, once the remnants of birthing were cleared away, and the babe was sleeping in its basket, and she had helped Anne to change into fresh clothing, though her face was still drawn with lines of suffering—"Constance," she murmured. "Will you bid Aramis come?"
Constance drew the midwife aside, to ask if Anne was strong enough for company, if it was advisable—the woman smiled and reassured her that there had been no complications, nor did she expect any. A short visit would be fine, and then mother and babe should rest for the night.
Constance hurried downstairs to find the men in the sitting room, which had been their haunt since she had banished them earlier in the day. Porthos had dozed off on the sofa, hat over face. Aramis was leaning forward in a chair by the dying fire, elbows on knees. He started up when she came through the door, his face desolate as if he fully expected bad news. She smiled and reassured, "All is well."
Porthos stirred and grunted. "Do you need me?"
"No," Constance said, "only the father. Uncles have to wait." She beamed at them both, at Porthos' slow grin before he replaced the hat on his face and Aramis' contrasting look of near-terror at being so named. She gestured at him. "Come, if you're coming!"
He followed her out and up the stairs, down the passageway. "Constance, is she—are they—truly—"
"Patience," she counselled. "See for yourself. But you must not stay long. Anne is exhausted, and you look no better. Go." She left him outside the door, and when he hesitated, running hands through his hair rather wildly, she pushed the door open. And then he took a couple of tentative steps in, and Anne sat forward on the bed, the curtains drawn, her face alight. Constance had to turn away; the moment was not hers to witness. The midwife came through as Aramis was coming in, closing the door on the new family of three, and giving Constance an understanding glance, murmured that she would be in the servants' quarters if needed.
And Constance walked back down the passageway, feeling overwrought, but not unpleasantly, and yet there was a lingering sadness in her soul. She would not think about it, not try to determine what was missing. It should be enough—it was enough—that Aramis and Anne were able to have these moments. But she was still aware of a keen sense of loneliness.
D'Artagnan was in the middle of leading the cadets through a new exercise when Athos rode in through the garrison gates. He wanted to call a halt and step back to greet his captain, but discipline won out and he finished the drill while Athos dismounted and tended to the horse in the background by the stables. Finally he was able to dismiss the men and join the older man, tempted to informality but settling for bringing his boots together sharply and executing a quick bow. Athos gave him his typical quarter-smile. "Relieved of acting captain duty effective this moment."
"Yes, Captain." He put hands behind his back and couldn't repress a grin now.
"You don't appear devastated."
"I am not."
"I'll have your report later, and the minister will provide one as well, but tell me now, have there been any difficulties worth an immediate mention?" Athos passed the horse off to a stable-boy and took off his gloves, starting in the direction of the stairs.
D'Artagnan followed. "No, sir."
"Nothing in almost a fortnight?"
"I did exchange words with Marcheaux and the red dogs—"
"The red dogs," Athos repeated, shooting him a sideways look.
"Er—guards."
"No, it's an apt nickname."
D'Artagnan straightened, relieved. "I don't think he's kindly disposed to me at the moment, but other than that..."
"Dogs will always bark," Athos said as they entered the office. "Have you kept up with the records?"
"Yes, sir."
Athos tossed his gloves on the desk and flipped through the last few pages of the hide-bound ledger. "Mm. Porthos was a help?"
"Indeed. I doubt I'd have managed without him. He left—" d'Artagnan tried momentarily to calculate how many hours it had been since Porthos had departing following orders to the Bailleaux estate.
Athos nodded. "We didn't meet on the way, he likely took a different route. I kept mainly to the roads this time."
"And Aramis? The women?" It was hard asking the question in an impersonal manner, as part of the mutual sharing of information, but he thought he managed the right amount of insouciance.
"They are all well," Athos said. "And they appreciated, I believe, your endeavor to maintain their current state of affairs."
He nodded, mildly self-conscious even though there was no obvious censure in Athos' comment. He had not gone into detail in the letter about the amount of arguing he'd had to do with Tréville, and decided it wasn't necessary to bring it up now unless Athos pressed for further incidentals. Better to let that sit, and hope that the passage of time by itself would prove helpful when opening the issue of Aramis' discipline again. Porthos had helped to make him see that he would need to take a stance unambiguously in Aramis' favor, though privately he still remained torn.
Now, he was attempting to quash the urge to inquire specifically after Constance. Athos glanced up at him. "Anything else?"
"No, captain. That is, not in any official capacity."
Athos waited.
D'Artagnan waited, too, for the right words.
"Do you need a drink?" Athos prompted.
"No." He would find his own courage, the liquid form be damned—what kind of a role model was he for the cadets if he couldn't even say what he was thinking without the assistance of spirits? "I want to know how Constance is. How she seemed. You said they were well, that is good, but not enough." He probably sounded a fool, but he didn't care.
"All right," Athos said. "Take a breath."
He obeyed.
"I spoke with her, more than once."
"In—in what capacity?"
"In the capacity of a friend," Athos said, gazing at the ceiling as though searching for divine assistance, "I dare say."
D'Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest and then uncrossed them, trying not to seem so impatient.
"We spoke mostly of the present concerns with Aramis and the queen, as you would expect. We did have another conversation, although I'll confess there was alcohol involved in that one and my memory of the words exchanged might not be quite so clear."
"You were drinking together?" d'Artagnan clarified.
Athos sighed. "In a respectable fashion, I assure you. Madame is a lovely woman, but if it needs to be said—and it should not need to be said, but you look concerned—I do not have eyes for her, nor she for me. The essence of our discussion left me believing that she is missing something—someone—which I assume is—" he shrugged, "—You."
"Do you think she wants to come back?" He began the question with his gaze downward focused, but looked up at the last.
"I am no expert in reading the heart of a woman, but, when the time calls for it, I would say, reservedly, yes. But I can offer no more than that."
"That is...reasonable. Thank you. I will not trouble you further, then." He started to back away.
"It is no trouble," Athos reassured. "D'Artagnan. It is good to see you again."
"It is good to see you also, Captain," he said, and meant the words. Leaving the office, his step was lighter.
