AN: This little story will be a few chapters long. I've loved this movie forever, and I've always wanted more to the story. A friend of mine convinced me to write something more, so that's what this is.
This is for fun, and it's in no way historically accurate. Please enjoy it for the entertainment value, if you choose to read it.
I own nothing from the movie or Disney.
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please consider letting me know!
111
"Of course," Eglantine said with a sigh, "these things really are to be expected, I suppose."
Nobody was there to hear her except, perhaps, Cosmic Creepers. He'd run into the room as she'd sequestered herself there to try to work on the letter for the second evening in a row. She really ought to post something the coming day, and so she needed to settle on what she would send out.
In the kitchen, Carrie was preparing supper—at her own request—while Charlie and Paul helped her, or, at the very least, kept her amused. The amount of laughter issuing forth from the room suggested to Eglantine that the latter might be most expected.
In front of Eglantine, on her desk, lay an almost blank sheet of paper. It was the second—no, the third—sheet that she'd pulled from her stack, kept there for writing letters with as much frequency as her life allowed. She had already wasted the first two sheets, starting and stopping, and writing letters that she backed out of sending, so that she didn't feel that she dared to write on this sheet until she knew what she was going to write—and she wasn't sure that she would know what she was going to write until she'd had a moment to sit back and simply think about things with less flurry than she'd felt throughout the day.
Eglantine Price had always been independent. At least, she'd been independent since her parents had died and left her the home in which she resided and the money that had, to this point, kept her able to sustain a modest but comfortable lifestyle. When necessary, she'd supplemented her income with a bit of sewing for people in Pepperinge Eye and other surrounding villages.
She had never intended to marry. She'd certainly never intended to have children. She'd expected to live her life quite alone.
But life, it seemed, had other plans for Eglantine.
She was happy, honestly, that life had chosen not to listen to her and, instead, to take its own path, but she was feeling a touch overwhelmed at the speed in which things seemed to be unfolding.
Eglantine had considered herself a spinster of sorts—destined to be unwed and without children. She would, she imagined, pass away with little concern to anyone and with nobody to mourn her or remember her with more than something akin to idle curiosity. Of course, she hadn't felt a great deal of pity for herself over such a fate. She was quite fine with it, really.
And then the bombings in London had dropped three orphans into her lap—figuratively and very nearly literally.
Eglantine had, at first, made a big deal of not meaning to keep the three orphans around any longer than necessary, but circumstances had made it so that she'd come to fall in love with the children. Now, she could hardly imagine herself without Charles, Carrie, and Paul. The laughter she heard, even now, from the other part of the house warmed her, and Eglantine ached to think how truly sad she felt when she imagined what it would be like if, somehow, the officials had seen fit to transfer the three orphans to another home, as they'd temporarily considered doing, to try to free Eglantine from the burden of taking care of them and to send the children to a life filled with fresh farm air.
Eglantine hated the idea of depriving the children of anything they might need—like fresh air and land to roam—but she believed that she could somehow provide for their needs in Pepperinge Eye.
The adoption wasn't complete, and it may take some time for the official paperwork, but she had made clear her intentions to keep the three children as her own.
Of course, her husband agreed that was the best course of action for all of them.
Mrs. Eglantine Browne had married Mr. Emelius Browne after a very short courtship and without much pomp and circumstance. They had been married in the local church, as most of the town thought proper, in a small service attended by their three children and few others. The service had been simple and, though the adopted mother of three, Eglantine had worn a simple white dress that she'd sewn herself. Despite the presence of her children, she'd been well within her right to wear white, having never allowed Mr. Browne anything more than a few kisses and warm, but entirely chaste, embraces prior to their marriage.
They had barely christened their marriage bed when Emelius voluntarily enlisted. Eglantine had asked him several times if he was sure that he wouldn't change his mind, and the children had asked him the same, but he'd told Eglantine, in private, that he felt this was something he must do—at least for a while, since he could ask for leave when he wanted, thanks to his voluntary status.
Emelius told Eglantine that he felt as though he'd spent almost his entire life being a coward and a cheat—downright dishonorable. He wanted to feel like an honorable man. He wanted to feel worthy to be a husband to Eglantine and a father to their newly-acquired brood.
And Eglantine had let him go because she didn't think it was fair of her to do otherwise. She wasn't going to stand in his way of doing what he felt he must do in order to think more highly of himself and to sleep better at night.
Besides that, Eglantine was no old woman, by any stretch of the imagination, but the bloom was well enough gone off the proverbial rose that she was much too old to throw herself into her pillows and weep to him that it was unfair that, so soon after becoming a bride, she would be left alone, again, with the children.
She had, instead, promised him that she would keep the home fires burning, so to speak, and that she and the children would write him as often as possible to keep his spirits up and to regale him with tales from home.
She had sent him off with a kiss, and a smile, and not a single sign that her heart was breaking to see him go.
She had written him daily since he'd left. That was to say, she had written him every day until the day before.
"Oh—Emelius," she said, clicking her tongue and wringing her hands as she sat at her desk. She shook her head and frowned at the nearly blank piece of paper.
She had tried to write this letter for two days, and still it wasn't written—at least not in a version that she felt confident sending. She was no closer to finishing it than she had been the day before.
How could she put in a letter, though, all that she was feeling? All she'd managed to write, so far, on the freshest piece of paper, was "My dearest Emelius".
That part, at least, was easy to write. It was the part that followed with which she was struggling. In the wastebasket, balled up, was the most complete draft that she'd rejected the day before—the draft that had held her initial thoughts, before she'd found them too much to actually send.
My dearest Emelius,
I have just come from the village with news to share with you. I haven't written of my afflictions, so as not to worry you, but I have been feeling unwell since nearly the moment you left. I was certain, in the beginning, that it was nothing more than something like heartsickness. Having never felt that way, I didn't know the symptoms, but it seemed reasonable. I do truly miss you, Emelius, more with each day—perhaps with each hour.
Still, for the sake of the children, and for you, I have ignored the symptoms of my sadness. I have put my attention into my work. I've done a great deal of work for the ladies of the village, and I have even taken in a few items from a woman in the next town who pays quite well and requires an obscene amount of tailoring for the somewhat slim times in which we are all currently finding ourselves. I have devoted myself to the children and their studies. Their teacher says that they are doing well, and they are all bright. I think that Charlie may be quite the businessman someday.
Finding, however, that for all my outward performance of being well, I simply didn't feel myself, I decided to seek the advice of the doctor. I saw him in town, and I received news that, at first, shocked me to the point that I had no choice but to sit for some time in his office, lest my knees give out entirely on the walk back to the house. The shock of the news has not gone away entirely, but I do believe that I am starting to grow more comfortable with it. The news, really, shouldn't be shocking at all. These are things that happen quite regularly, especially those who are married, and I ought not to be surprised that they would happen to me. It is, I suppose, only that I had never imagined myself in such a way that makes the news shocking at all.
Emelius, it seems that I am to be a mother—again, I suppose. Though, this time, it seems that I shall come about being a mother in a very different way than things happened with Charles, Carrie, and Paul. You, too, shall be a father again.
Assuming that all goes well and comes to pass as it should, the doctor predicts that our family should grow by one in approximately seven months. One might say that the little one that I'm expecting was a wedding present, of sorts, exchanged between the two of us.
I hope that you are pleased, Emelius by this news. I would much rather have delivered it in person, but circumstance being what they are, this letter will have to suffice. I do hope that you don't feel the need to ask leave and hurry home. I assure you that, knowing the cause of my ongoing afflictions, I feel much better. I am even beginning to feel something like a warm spark of happiness when I think of what the future holds for us and our family.
I hope to hear from you soon, and I hope this news is as happy for you as it is for me. I will post the children's letters with this one, as soon as they've finished them.
All my love,
Your beloved Eglantine.
The letter had been rejected and thrown away because, though Eglantine had meant every word written there, she'd recognized that there was one great problem with the letter she'd written.
Eglantine didn't know how Emelius would feel about the news she was still digesting—news she hadn't spoken aloud, yet, even to Cosmic Creepers—and she was nervous to think how he might respond. The idea of marrying her and becoming an instant father to three children had, after all, given him a moment of pause before he'd settled into it. His knee-jerk reaction had been to run away. Of course, she couldn't fault him too much, so had hers, but she couldn't run from this.
Eglantine doubted that Emelius would run from this, either, given time to digest it. She did, however, believe that he would beg leave to come home and serve in the home guard or to be stationed closer to Pepperinge Eye.
At the moment, he felt he was out doing his duty. More than that, he felt he was doing something that he needed to do in order to feel confident and honorable. He was doing something he needed for himself. Eglantine hated the idea of him leaving that because he felt it was somehow his duty to come home just because of this news, yet she doubted he would listen to her if she told him not to come and, instead, to stay and continue doing what he needed to do for himself.
Eglantine was feeling positively unwell. She told herself it was the smell of fried food—something her children loved and adored cooking, but something that turned her stomach something awful these days—and that it was only normal that, in light of the news she'd received only the day before, she suffered certain bouts of feeling ill.
There was a tapping at the door, and Eglantine started, her heart feeling like it stopped short in her chest.
"Yes?" She asked, realizing her voice had a croaking quality to it. She cleared her throat.
"Supper's ready, Mum. Time to wash and come to the table."
Eglantine smiled at the sound of Paul's voice. She smiled, too, at the title for her that he was still trying out—everything was really rather new for all of them, after all.
"Thank you, Paul," Eglantine responded. "I'll be down very shortly."
"I helped make supper," Paul announced through the door. "And I set the table. Charlie helped, but I did the most of it."
Eglantine smiled.
"I'm sure you did a wonderful job. I'm just finishing up now. I'll be down by the time you've finished washing up."
Eglantine didn't know if that was exactly true, but she also doubted that the children would scold her for keeping supper a moment or two longer than necessary. They were as happy to be with her as she was to be with them. Together, they were all learning a lot about acceptance and forgiveness.
"We're learning a lot about not being selfish," Eglantine mused quietly, looking at the almost blank piece of paper on her desk. "Emelius—forgive me, but I believe it's better for you to find what you need for yourself. We'll keep the fires burning."
She stood up and blew out the lamp.
"Come along, Cosmic," she said to the cat. "For now, it's time to hone my acting skills and pretend that bubble and squeak doesn't turn my stomach. After supper, I'll find something to put in a letter to Emelius."