17 | The First Pregnancy

In the months leading up to his wife's confinement, John naturally expected many things to change. The first, and most obvious, was her body. He allowed himself to observe her with an new unrestrained curiosity. He was an observant man by nature, and he delighted in mentally listing each new shift he found. He watched her dress and undress, sleep and bathe, sit and walk, every movement entrancing. His mother scolded him once, when she caught him at it, but he did not care. Margaret's waist and breasts changed first, thickening and rounding. Her hair, too, thickened, and her skin grew tight with the slowly expanding curve of her stomach.

Doctor Donaldson was officially called to the house at the end of January. He was an efficient man and his exam took very little time. Once complete, the grizzled man congratulated John with a grim smile and a firm handshake. Fanny and Mr Hale were told, and by the end of the week word spread about Milton like a flame in a cotton mill. God willing, the nursery in the Thornton home would have its first occupant come July.

He'd expected that her moods and manners would also change. While Fanny basked in the flood of attention and well wishes, Margaret became even more reserved, as if embarrassed. She grew more thoughtful, almost shy, preferring solitude or select company. Their Sunday walks continued at her firm insistence, and he tried to come home earlier in the evening, because it seemed to please her. Early in their marriage he suspected his presence made her nervous, but now he saw her visibly ease. He did not know what to make of it.

It was striking too, to witness his wife's increased tenderness, towards his sister, his mother, and especially towards the younger hands. It became her habit to bring ginger biscuits to the mill whenever she could. He tolerated it at first, merely because it comforted her, much like her continued visits to Princeton. But soon he found himself looking forward to her visits to the mill yard, rising from his office chair at the first excited shouts announcing her arrival. He would watch as the dirty little mob of children surrounded her like devoted pups, eager for a smile or a pat or a kiss. It wasn't hard for him to imagine four or five of their own gypsy-coloured bairns doing the same.

If she lives...

The stark thought first stabbed him like a knife to the chest shortly after the news had spread about Milton. An acquaintance from a neighboring town had stopped him on the street to congratulate him. Good for you, Thornton. She'll make a fine mother if she lives. You'll be hopin' for a son now, won't you? John could not answer him. He shook the man's hand, nodded, and went on his way. If she lives...He tried to shake it off, but the weight of the man's words followed him, hung on him, until they haunted every moment.

"You're woolgathering." He raised his head from the scrunched column of numbers. Margaret stood by his desk. It was Sunday and the study fire had been lit to a good size. Even in March, winter was slow to relinquish its hold on Milton. "John," she brushed the tips of her fingers over the wrinkles on his forehead. The tension there eased, as it always did, under her touch. "What is it?"

"Nothin'," he let out a hard breath. "It's been a long day."

"You say that every day, sir."

"What would you 'ave me say, then, madam?" He demanded. He tossed his pen aside with a sharp clatter, spattering ink on the open ledger.

"Tell me the truth." She frowned and folded her hands on top of her rounding stomach. She always clasped her hands when she wanted to control herself. Especially her temper. When had he learned such a thing? "Husband, please. Tell me."

He stared at her. If she lives... Women and babes died in childbirth as often as they lived. She knew it. He knew it. Talking wouldn't make it any less true.

"There's nothin' to tell."

She stepped closer, and took his face in her hands. She returned his probing stare, unblinking, as if she were searching for something. He did not resist. She brushed her thumbs along the corner of his eyes. "I see you watching me." Her voice was soft. "Even when you think I don't." Then she kissed him, slowly, tenderly. "Come."

He followed her from the study in a tired haze. Once upstairs, she moved about their bedchamber in a determined fashion, her eyes never leaving him for long. She lit only a few candles, the orange glow mingling with cold purples of the now-absent sun. Then she turned and approached him with a strange expression he didn't understand. Without hesitation or asking permission, she pulled him to her. He went willingly, bending to claim her lips with his.

If she lives...If she lives...If she lives...

A rough unfamiliar sound tore from his throat. He was suddenly desperate for her, for her warmth, her presence, all around him. Moving and breathing. Alive. His hands wandered over her face, neck, shoulders, and back, exploring, reveling, memorizing. He trembled as she pressed against him. He stumbled back and sat hard on the bed.

"Oh—" she gasped. "Are you hurt?"

"No." He was unable to say more, resting his head against her heaving chest. His hands ghosted over the curve of her belly. It was hard to imagine the babe growing inside. If she lives... She laid her hands on top of his.

"I know you're afraid." Her grip tightened over his. "So am I."

He closed his eyes and pulled her close. Only a fool would not be afraid. His wife and child were about to face the most dangerous ordeal of their life, and he was powerless to protect them. The fear ate at him constantly, from the inside out, like an injured animal chewing its way to freedom.

He felt her shift, her delicate fingers tilting his head up. She carefully removed his cravat, then his waistcoat. These were set aside on the bed. Next she undid the three buttons on his wrinkled shirt. He did not rush her and he did not move. She gathered the material and skimmed it up his body and over his head. His undershirt quickly followed. "Margaret," She laid a hand on his cheek, and he leaned into it. If she lives..."Forgive me."

"No," She frowned at him. "You've done nothing in this marriage that I've not done with you. Willingly."

"You dislike me."

"I do not." She held his face again. "I disliked you before because I did not understand you."

"And now?"

"I'm trying," she smiled, and kissed him. Her voice held him captive, while her hands made quick work of his trousers. "I hope I understand you better than I did six months ago." She loosened her dress at the back and pushed it down her body into a filmy puddle of grey at her feet.

"But?" He held onto her waist as she settled on his lap. Even five months into her pregnancy, every movement still enticed and captivated him.

"But you're not an easy man to understand." Her hands clasped his upper arms. She trembled when he slid into her, but she did not look away. "I imagine it will take me a lifetime."

If she lives...

"Do you ever wonder what you would've done if we hadn't been married like we were?" She lay curled in his arms, more asleep than awake, her back pressed against his chest.

"No."

"Why?"

He rested his hand on her stomach. "Wonderin' doesn't change what 'appended."

"But if you could change it," her voice faded closer to sleep, "what would you want?"

"You." The word sprang from his mouth. Without thought. Without hesitation. The truth, then. "I would want you."

Of the many changes he'd anticipated, John discovered the most unexpected shift of all was in himself. To imagine a life with some other woman in his bed, fussing over his food or fire, studying his books and pamphlets, bearing his children, asking nothing for herself but everything for others, flaring with temper when he lost his, standing firm in her convictions; it was as alien a thought to him as cutting off his own arm. She'd become part of him. He exhaled slowly, the truth settled firmly in his mind. He'd never been in love before, but he imagined it couldn't be much different than how he felt in this moment.