AN: Here's another piece to this one.
I published Chapter 4 today, too, so please read that one before you read this one, if you missed it!
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know!
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"You're doing splendidly, Paul," Eglantine encouraged. "Keep going."
"He only reads them so well because he's read the same one a hundred times," Charles commented.
"Charles…" Eglantine said. It was enough to warn him off a little, and he turned back to his own homework. He would have been done hours ago, just like Carrie, except he dawdled and complained enough to take the entire evening and to try every one of Eglantine's somewhat frazzled nerves. Eglantine turned back to Paul, who was doing his reading practice by sitting in her lap at the table and reading from Emelius's letters.
"I can read all of them," Paul said, a little disgruntled. His bottom lip rolled out a little. He was getting tired, and he was getting hungry. Ill-humor, Eglantine knew, was sure to run rampant in the household if supper and bedtime didn't come soon. Carrie, having finished her homework very early, was preparing their supper for them, insisting that she enjoyed the chore and was happy to do it. "Even the newest ones."
"I know you can," Eglantine soothed. "Don't pay your brother any mind. Now—come on. Let's get back to this one."
"When do you think we'll have another?" Paul asked. "A new one? It's been a long time."
"It's been a while," Eglantine agreed. "But—I'm sure that your father is very busy. He'll write to us as soon as he has a chance."
"Assuming he ain't been done in by something and we ain't heard yet," Charles grumbled, his head on his hand.
Eglantine closed her eyes.
She was a mother of three—and, eventually, there would be four. The three she had rarely talked about their circumstances and what had made them orphans. Eglantine hadn't asked for details, but she had some suspicions surrounding the occasional thing that was said. In addition, she got the feeling that the people who ran the orphanage in London hadn't always been too careful about what they said around young and impressionable ears.
Her first instinct was to scold Charles heartily for what he'd said, but she recognized that, though it wasn't well-presented, his fear was real.
Her children were tired and hungry at this hour, and they were simply afraid. They had hopes and dreams for a certain kind of life, and they were genuinely afraid that the life they wanted wouldn't be granted to them.
Eglantine shared some of their fears, but it was her job, as their mother, to reassure them, even when she feared that her reassurance wasn't well-founded.
"That's not so, is it, Mum? We would know if something happened, wouldn't we?" Carrie asked.
"What's happened?" Paul asked.
Eglantine hugged him.
"Nothing's happened," she said. "We would know if something had. They would contact me. I would be given notice."
"Yeah—and the second thing we'll hear is that we're going to that farm, after all," Charles said, "because they don't figure a widow has any business trying to take care of four children."
"Are they really sending us all to a farm?" Paul asked. Eglantine hugged him a little tighter against her.
"No, Paul. Nobody's going anywhere. Though, Charles, you are at risk of going to bed without supper," Eglantine warned.
"I'm just telling the truth. That's all," Charles countered.
"Stop it, Charlie," Carrie scolded.
"There are no widows here," Eglantine said. "And there are no children being sent to farms. Your father is very busy, I'm sure, and his letters will arrive soon. And—just to further soothe your concerns, even if that weren't the case, there would be no going to farms of any sort. The paperwork hasn't been returned to us, yet, but it has been sent in. They do not simply take children away from their mothers, widowed or not, and nobody will be taking anyone from this house. I wouldn't allow it. That's the last I'll hear of it, do you understand, Charles?"
He stared at her, frowned at her, and then slumped slightly.
"I'm sorry, Mum," he offered.
Eglantine could tell it was sincere, and she could tell that most of his surliness was really born out of simply being concerned and not wanting to express that in a way that he thought was not befitting of the "man of the house," as he very much considered himself to be.
"Everything is fine," Eglantine said. "Finish your work, Charles. Carrie, do you need a hand with supper? I think Paul's practiced enough for one night."
The village teacher had expressed that Paul showed no interest in reading as the weeks wore on. She assigned Eglantine the task of working with him as his homework. Eglantine had asserted, and she believed it to be true, that he simply wasn't interested in reading what was being offered to him. He would read and reread Emelius's letters without complaint, sounding out everything he couldn't read with ease. Eglantine kept the stack of well-read letters where he could choose from among them, those addressed to "The Family of Mr. Emelius Browne" always on offer, while those addressed specifically to "Mrs. Eglantine Browne" were kept tucked away in Eglantine's bedroom.
Paul enjoyed children's books full of fantasy and fun. He also enjoyed his father's letters. He would read both voraciously, often entertaining Eglantine while she sewed.
He did not enjoy many of the stories in the readers that were provided for the children, and he would only grudgingly read them to satisfy his teacher, often leading her to believe his reading skills were subpar when, really, it was his desire to read what was on offer that was low.
Eglantine's children, she recognized, had a great deal of concerns that were different than those of many of the village children.
When there was a knock at the door—a touch of something determined and maybe a bit frantic behind the sound—Eglantine's heart felt like it nearly stopped in her chest. She jumped without meaning to, giving away the fact that, in light of the conversation they'd been having, the sound was especially frightening, and she accidentally squeezed Paul.
"Oww! I can't breathe!" He protested.
"Oh—I'm sorry, Paul," Eglantine said quickly. "It just surprised me, that's all…"
"I'll get it," Charles said, getting up from the table and rushing toward the door.
"I'll answer the door, Charlie," Eglantine said, pushing her chair back to allow Paul to slip down from her lap. Charles didn't wait for her and, instead, rushed ahead to unbolt the door and rip it open—seeming to see it as his place, perhaps, to protect her from whatever or whomever may be beyond the door.
Eglantine saw Charles start and then step back, surprise on his face, before she ever registered who was at the door.
"My dear boy," Emelius said, touching Charles's shoulder before he stepped inside and put down the heavy sack he was carrying. Eglantine felt like she must be imagining things. She reached a hand out, touching the wall nearest her to steady herself and remind herself that this wasn't a dream—of which she'd had very many that were really quite elaborate—and that Emelius was really there. The children rushed toward him, not overtaken in the same way she was, and he greeted each of them with a hug before breaking through the lot of them.
"Eglantine," Emelius said as their eyes locked.
Eglantine had imagined him coming back a thousand times. She'd been dreaming of his return since he'd left, even though she would have been embarrassed to admit that she was so overcome with something like schoolgirl infatuation for her new husband.
She loved him dearly, and all-encompassing love for a man was something that was entirely new to Eglantine. She had never felt this way before, and it sometimes made her feel foolish.
Still, she hadn't imagined that it would truly take her breath away to see him there, again, or that it would make her knees feel less stable than usual.
Hearing him say her name—with the reverence that he put behind it, and the tinge of longing that spoke to her longing—made her throat ache and her eyes prickle.
"Emelius…" she said.
His arms were around her before she was even aware that she'd managed more than a step or two on her knees that, at the moment, felt as wobbly as calf's legs.
Perhaps, she thought as she rested her head against him and closed her eyes, feeling absolutely warm and safe in his embrace, he'd met her quickly because he'd noticed the slightly toddling steps that she'd taken to close the distance between them.
Emelius hugged her tightly and Eglantine hugged him back. She didn't want to let go of him, even though she knew she must. No matter what, there was supper to be had, cleaning to be done, and the children needed to be put to bed for the coming day. There was life to be lived, even if all she wanted, for just a while, was to stay tightly wrapped in his embrace.
She felt him pull away from her enough to kiss her face repeatedly, but she kept her eyes closed for the moment.
"My beloved Eglantine…" he mused between kisses, a bit out of breath, probably from carrying the heavy sack all the way from the station.
Eglantine smiled to hear him outside of her mind, since she often talked to him, despite the distance, in her imagination. She drew in a breath and let it out, savoring the feeling of his arms a second more before she pulled away enough to smile at him, her vision only slightly blurred by the tears she couldn't fully control.
"Are you really here?" She asked, laughing quietly at her own ridiculousness.
"I'm here," he assured her. His eyes searched her face, like he was looking for something, and then he smiled at her.
"We were so worried," she admitted. "It's been weeks since there was a letter."
"I do apologize," Emelius said, still holding to her arms like he was afraid she might run away from him, something she had no intention of doing at all. "I have sent letters—dozens of them. You never know when they'll be sent out. I've kept every one you've written me. Every one that the children have written me."
Eglantine laughed.
"Then your bag must be nothing but letters," she said.
"Very nearly so," Emelius said with a laugh. "And, yet, I wouldn't have traded one of them during these months that I've been away from you all."
The mention of the passage of time struck Eglantine. It washed over her. It reminded her of the little one between them—the little one that, without a doubt, he would notice very soon if, somehow, he hadn't noticed it yet.
The little one in question had required some changes to Eglantine's wardrobe to accommodate the changes it had made to her body. She could feel it, now, though very faintly and only sometimes. The sensations had surprised her when first she'd noticed them, and she'd worried, first, that something was wrong, and then that she was imagining the feelings entirely. Now, she was secure in the fact that she could feel some gentle movements inside of her that could only belong to the little one—even if the movements weren't strong enough for anyone else to notice, no matter how close to her they were.
And she had no idea how to tell him—not that he would likely require her to say too much if he were to take her in, entirely, with his eyes.
She felt her face grow warm, and she almost felt ashamed—ashamed of expecting, as ridiculous and irrational as she knew the sentiment was, and ashamed of not having told him yet.
The children closed in around them, anxious to have Emelius's attention.
"I wrote you every night, Daddy," Paul offered.
The title seemed to surprise Emelius for a moment, but he'd said it was fine with him in a letter, and Eglantine imagined it was just the need to settle into actually hearing it that he was experiencing.
"Indeed, you did," he said. "And I enjoyed every one of your stories, Paul. And Charles—you've been keeping things going here, watching out for your mother and your brother and sister." He winked quickly in Eglantine's direction as he picked Paul up and hugged him. "Carrie—what a wonderful help you've been. Quite the cook, I hear. I'll have some competition in the kitchen."
"Supper's almost ready for the table tonight," Carrie said. "There's enough for all of us."
"Of course, there is," Emelius said. "And I'm looking forward to it. Do you think it will be possible to hold supper for just a while?"
"Because you'd like to wash up?" Carrie asked.
"Among other things," Emelius commented, clearly half-distracted and struggling to divide his attention among the children and everything else.
"Why don't you children give your father some room?" Eglantine asked, having backed several steps away to do that herself. "Carrie—could you finish supper? Paul—put your things away and wash up. Charles—have you finished your homework?"
"It's done enough for when I tell Miss Wharton our dad come home," Charles said, his excitement evident, even though he was clearly trying to hold it back and appear much more nonchalant than he really was.
"Charlie—do be a good lad and finish your homework," Emelius said. "Your mother tells me that you've got quite the head for business. You don't want to squander that. I may need your help, you know, in settling something here in Pepperinge Eye."
"You mean for when you come home to stay for good?" Charles asked.
"Yes, well, that may be sooner than you think," Emelius said.
"Does that mean you won't leave anymore?" Carrie asked.
"I'm not sure exactly what it means at the moment," Emelius said. "There's much to discuss—much that plays into things…that sort of thing. You understand."
Whether or not they understood at all, they pretended they did. Emelius got a series of smiles and head nods all around. He surveyed the children and then looked back at Eglantine. She sensed that he was unsettled—nervous or overwhelmed. She felt the same, and she wondered how it was that the children seemed to remain entirely unaware.
"There ain't nothing new around here you've noticed?" Charles asked, smirking a little.
Eglantine's heart felt like it might either stop entirely or burst out of her chest, and it was having a hard time deciding which to do. She wondered if she went pale, because Carrie suddenly stepped next to her and took her hand as though to support her.
"Shut up, Charlie!" Carrie scolded. "Go and do your homework!"
"Yes—go and do your homework," Emelius said. He put Paul down. "Do you think you children could…could handle things, yourselves, for just a few moments? I would cherish the opportunity to speak to your mother alone, in private."
"Bet we know what this is about," Charles offered.
"Charlie!" Carrie hissed.
"Alright, children," Eglantine said, hoping her voice didn't sound as shaky as she felt like it might. "Please…just give us a moment, and then we'll all have supper together."
"Of course, we will," Emelius said.
Almost reluctantly, the children headed back toward the kitchen and the table.
Emelius clearly took Eglantine in this time, his eyes stopping at hers on their way back up from her feet. She felt her face grow quite warm and her throat tightened. She wondered if she would be able to hold back the tears that were threatening her. Emelius's expression hadn't been hard at all, but somehow it softened a touch more. He gave her a hint of a smile.
"My darling Eglantine," he mused. He stepped toward her and reached a hand out, delicately touching the small of her back. She felt the pressure of his fingertips there, as he gently pushed her forward. "Come—let's go upstairs, where we'll have a bit of privacy."
Eglantine simply nodded her head and started toward the stairs, purposefully walking slowly enough that she didn't outrun the touch of his fingertips on her lower back.