Interlude | A Baby Changes Everything

"Do you know what today is?" It was spoken in a gruff low tone. His Darkshire accent was always thickest when he was tired.

"No," They sat in his bed, propped up by dozens of pillows, staring at the tiny bundle resting in his lap. The sounds of soft feet and hushed voices drifted in from the room next door. It all felt like a far-away dream, as if the whole terrible ordeal had happened to someone else. Not her. She brushed the tip of one finger along the stern baby frown. His son, indeed. There would be little doubt of that. "Should I?"

"One year ago, you stood between me and a mob of angry strikers."

"Oh," she turned to look at him. "Is that today?"

"Aye."

Had it truly been so long since their lives had turned down this path of marriage and duty? How far they had come. His eyes flickered with concern, and doubt, when an errant tear slid down her face.

"Are you," He spoke slowly, hesitantly, "unhappy?"

She laid a hand on his cheek. He leaned into her touch, as he always did. From force of habit? "I'm surprised."

"Are you well?" It was a gentle demand for the complete truth.

"I'm very tired," She laughed softly, and brushed her thumb along the disgraceful amount of whiskers on his face. "And quite sore."

"Aye," It was a hushed reply, as if he expected his mother to come bursting through the door, shocked and horrified. His face was grim, almost pale. "I imagine so. You need your rest." He moved as if to go.

She laid a hand on his arm, "Stay." He glanced at the door joining their chambers. His mother had insisted Margaret be left alone to rest; that dark, and quiet, and solitude were paramount to a full recovery. She knew he would submit to such nonsense out of concern for her. "We won't tell her. I'm very well." She tightened her grip on his arm. "Stay with us." His face softened, the corners of his mouth turning up, ever so slightly. A flutter of contentment stirred in her. He wanted to stay, wanted to be wanted. By her. "Lock the door, husband."

A flash of a smile, "Clever woman."

Their first Sunday as a family, he dared the disapproval of her entire family, and his, by staying home from church with her. She'd asked and he'd agreed without argument. She thought the silence was as holy and healing to their souls as a sermon. He would return to work soon enough and she wanted to revel in this small world where only their little family seemed to exist. He read, she dozed, their baby tucked in the space between them in the bed.

Margaret brushed her fingers over the tiny soft cheek. Not two days old, and she couldn't remember what their life had been like without their son. Marriage had changed them slowly, and would continue to do so, as long as they lived. Yet this tiny baby had changed everything in one terrible beautiful moment. A page turned. She raised her eyes. He was watching them. He was usually a fast reader, but not today.

"He has no name," she murmured.

"Not yet," John closed his book, one finger marking his place. "I suppose you've one in mind."

"Yes," she dropped her eyes, her cheeks suddenly flushed.

"Go on then," He spoke in a new teasing tone he'd taken to using with her, stern, yet amused. There was an odd playfulness about it. "Out with it, wife."

"He's got the most delightful black hair."

He tilted his head to one side, "Aye, that he does."

"Gypsy-coloured, with blue eyes."

"All bairns 'ave blue eyes."

"Perhaps they do, sir," she conceded with a sniff. "But he'll keep his, I'm certain. He's your son."

"So what exotic gypsy name 'ave you found for our bairn, madam?"

"John."

"I'm listenin'."

"No, his name...should be John." He took far too long to answer, his face still as stone. She sat up. "You don't like it."

"I think," he cleared his throat and set his book aside, "it would be confusin'. Especially as 'e gets older."

"I've thought of that. What if we call him Jack?"

He frowned, his fist pressed against his mouth. She waited, fingers fidgeting with the soft knitted lace of the baby's blanket. She was prepared to argue if he objected. She didn't know why, but giving their son his name was important to her. He'd already given her so much, she was determined to give him this. John finally dropped his fist, and asked, "Are you certain?"

"Yes." She watched him carefully. He was uncomfortable, and flattered, and embarrassed. She thought she saw the exact moment when he accepted it. He nodded and picked up their baby. The small blue eyes blinked up into the large stern ones, the colour almost identical.

"Jack it is, then."