A/N: About ages. I put Charlie's birth year as 1824, Elsie's as 1832, and Isobel's as 1821. So they're 28, 20, and 31 here.
September 1852, near Sonoma
His breath is hot on her neck. She holds his head in her hands, trying to get him to move and kiss her on the lips again, but he resists her.
His tongue continues its slow agony across her rounded breasts, down to the softness of her belly.
"Charlie, please," she moans, which makes him smile against her skin. To hear his wife's voice when they are together like this has become one of his greatest pleasures. Her accent only grows stronger with her desire.
Which heightens his.
He presses another kiss to her belly, his hands caressing her legs. An even louder moan escapes from her. Looking up, he sees her arms flung over her head, her fingers tangled in her hair.
The sight makes him harden immediately. He swallows, holding back his own need.
Only for a moment.
He raises up, kneeling, one knee between her legs. Elsie opens them, opening herself to him, and it takes his breath away.
She is not as insecure as she was on their wedding night, but he would hardly call her bold. But he knows she loves him, loves him as he loves her, and wants him to be happy. She is trying to be less timid in their lovemaking, and he knows the effort it takes.
It has made him more considerate. To think of her pleasure first, more often.
He tries.
"May I…"
"Please," she breathes out as the tips of his fingers brush the soft curls of her mound. His touch is light, perhaps too much so, but he soon speeds his movements with hers.
Her hips thrust forward and she lets out a small cry when he inserts a finger inside her.
His hands are the only parts of him touching her, and as good as it feels, she wants more. She wants him, she needs-
Her eyes open when he removes his finger before sliding the tip of him inside. "Elsie," he whispers, moving forward, the warmth of his body on top of her. She hooks her arms under his broad shoulders, drawing him down closer.
"I love you," he rumbles above her, their rhythm slow.
Nothing, nothing feels as good as him inside her. His size once frightened her, and she wondered how he would ever fit.
But he does.
Her Charlie, her man, who she sees is trying so hard to think of her. She bites her lip. When they are like this, there are so many things she wants to say aloud, things that she would never say in front of anyone else. She has said things in the throes of passion, but not now, not while she still has her wits about her. She is afraid of what he will think but it feels so good with him moving in and out of her that she can't help it.
"I want you," she whispers into his chest, holding him close. He lets out a breath and instantly thrusts again, harder. "I want you," she repeats, her fingers digging into his back. If anything, his frenetic movement feels even better. She feels the friction of him inside her, the feeling of the cresting wave. "I-want you-Charlie," she half stutters, losing the ability and the will to speak. "I-yes, oh-more, ah ah-"
Her voice breaks into staccato as she shatters beneath him.
God, the feel of her. The walls of her sex tight and hot and wet around him. He loses control completely, and slams into her. His heart explodes when he hears her keening. Letting out a roar, he comes, thrusting into her hard again, then again, feeling himself pouring into her.
Shaking, he thrusts twice more, slowly, joining them fully.
She holds him for a while inside her while they kiss. He is relieved to hear her laugh.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he asks softly. "I-I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't, a ghraidh," she traces a finger down his cheek to his dimpled chin. He smiles and leans his forehead on hers.
"You can tell me you want me anytime you like. In any language you choose."
"I shall," she says through the exquisite blush on her face. Her eyes twinkle. "Now that I know you like it."
Before either of them can go to sleep, they get up, dress themselves once more, and finish eating their lunch.
He goes back to the vineyards then joins her in their large garden, helping to harvest the last of the corn. They will have to wait two years to know if the vines will produce grapes. In the meantime, they will harvest a variety of crops to sell.
November 1852, near Sonoma
"You don't have to go into town today," Charles says, leaning on the wagon. "I can go on Thursday like I said."
Elsie sighs and pulls her gloves on. "I know I don't have to go today," she mutters, biting back a stronger retort. "But you have work to do here, and I am perfectly capable of going on my own."
"I know," he replies defensively. "But you were so tired last night, and you're white as a sheet this morning-"
"Charlie," she snaps, rounding on him. "I'm fine, stop fussing so!"
She bites her tongue, regretting her tone at the hurt look on his face. Closing her eyes, she lets out a breath. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry about me."
"But I do," he says, reaching out and touching her cheek. There is a bit more color there, but she is still pale, he thinks. Shadows under her eyes. "You're all the family I've got."
Blinking, Elsie drops her eyes, feeling tears coming. She does not mean to be waspish with him, to unleash the fury of her tongue. But lately everything he does sets her off. When he complained that dinner was burned several days ago, her words could have peeled the whitewash from the walls.
Then he says something like that, and she melts.
She gives him a hug and does not let go until he does.
He hitches the horses to the wagon, then helps her onto the seat. Handing her the reins, he gives her a small grin. "While you're there, could you find out who won the election? Senator Pierce, or General Scott?"
"I certainly will," she returns his smile. "You want to know if your vote mattered, or if it was in vain. Not that I think much of either man," she shakes her head. "If women were allowed the vote, perhaps there would be a more sensible candidate."
"If women were allowed the vote, all the troubles of the land would soon be settled," he lifts his hat, scratching behind his ear. "And then what would we have to fight about?"
She can't help but laugh. "Flatterer." Clicking her tongue, she spurs the horses forward, and drives down the lane.
There will always be something to fight over, she thinks. Sun spills through the cloud-covered sky, lighting patches of the road. More's the pity.
Nerves overtake her as the horses clip along. True, Charlie could have gone to Sonoma on Thursday instead of her. He could have picked up their mail, seen the blacksmith about getting a new bit and horseshoes.
But he has no reason to see the midwife, and she does.
At least she thinks she does.
She has not bled since September. The smell of frying eggs has suddenly become her worst enemy, and her breasts and back ache against the constraints of her corset. And she has taken to falling asleep while she sews, feeling utterly exhausted. From the little she has heard from family and the older women at church, she wonders if she carries a child.
She doesn't know for sure.
If Mam were close by, she would ask her. Beryl has become a good friend. But the redhead is not married, and Elsie knows she would not know the answer she seeks, even if she had the courage to ask.
She nearly wrote to Richard, but the right words would not come to her. And the thought of her brother knowing what she and Charlie-
He's a doctor, she argues with herself, smiling and nodding at a man driving a passing wagon. He's seen much of the world, he hasn't been brought up in a sack! He knows you're married!
Yes, but he's also your brother. And he's in San Francisco. Not here.
There is only one reasonable course of action she can take.
No one answers the door at the small house. She stands for a moment on the porch, half of her wanting to leave.
Steeling herself, she walks around the side and sees a woman in black hanging washing on a line. Trousers, and several shirts.
Smaller clothes, she thinks. For a boy, not a man.
Mrs. Crawley? She asks, fighting the urge to bite her lip.
The woman turns, holding the empty basket in one hand, her other hand on her hip. Several dark strands of hair escape from the bun holding them together.
Yes?
Her voice, Elsie thinks, is rather cold. Unwelcome. Are-are you the midwife? She asks.
Yes, I am. And who are you?
Her heart thumping beneath her ribs, Elsie swallows. Mrs. Carson, Mrs. Charles Carson, she says, wondering at the woman's demeanor. She does not look like an unfriendly person. And yet she seems standoffish.
What can I do for you, Mrs. Carson? Mrs. Crawley begins walking back toward the front of the house. Elsie follows, gathering her courage in her hands.
It's a-delicate matter, she says low, tasting the little she was able to eat earlier in the morning in her mouth. She puts a hand on the porch rail.
Mrs. Crawley turns, looking her up and down.
I see. Won't you come in?
Her voice is, thankfully, a little less chilly. She looks to be Charlie's age, maybe a few years older. An Englishwoman by her accent.
The midwife goes in the kitchen while Elsie sits in the parlor. She is glad to sit. She feels a little light-headed and her belly will simply not settle. When Mrs. Crawley emerges with a tray, setting it on her small table, she cannot even muster a polite smile.
Much less a compliment about the room. If she opens her mouth, she is sure her breakfast will come out.
You're positively ashen, the midwife says, the skin around her dark eyes crinkling. She reaches over and unties the knot keeping Elsie's hat on her head. Removing it, she hangs it up, then offers Elsie a cup of tea.
Try to drink some. I assume it's the last thing you want, but trust me, you need it.
Hesitating, Elsie lifts the cup to her lips. She opens them only enough for a tiny amount of the hot liquid to go through. She swallows it very cautiously.
It stays down. She sips again, a little more.
Let me get you some dry bread. Mrs. Crawley goes back into the kitchen before returning. She sits quietly while Elsie eats some of the bread slowly, and drinks more of what is in her cup.
There, do you feel a little better? There's more color in your face. Lifting her own cup to her lips, the midwife drinks some of the hot tea.
Thank you, yes. Elsie holds her cup on her lap. Her belly still feels uneasy, but less so than before. I…I'm afraid you are not seeing me at my best, she says, running her finger along the saucer.
Neither are you. Mrs. Crawley gives her a stiff smile. You've caught me having a bad day, you see. This morning before he left for school, Matthew-my son, she says at Elsie's unspoken question. He tore a hole in his jacket, and I-I shouted at him. And all I could think after was if Reginald were here, I could better keep my temper-
She suddenly turns her head aside, her hand to her mouth, and the room is very quiet.
I am very sorry for your loss, Elsie says. She wonders if she should have said anything, but it seems right to say something.
The thought of losing Charlie is too hideous to contemplate.
Thank you, Mrs. Crawley whispers in a shaky voice. She looks down, clears her throat, and takes another drink of her tea. Now, she says with more clarity, perhaps we should talk about you. I have heard of you. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. I'm sure our paths have crossed before.
That's all right. We rarely come to town, Elsie says. Mr. Carson and I.
A knowing gleam appears in Mrs. Crawley's eyes. My congratulations. I heard of your recent marriage.
The way she says it, it makes Elsie's face flush crimson. A real smile appears on the other woman's face.
My dear Mrs. Carson, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be with your husband often. She looks off into the room, the smile still on her face. Her brown eyes are soft. Remembering.
When I got engaged...I was so in love with Reginald, I felt sick. I was sick with love! Literally, she laughs a little. It seems so odd to think about it now, it really does, she says.
She has a beautiful smile. I must write and tell Richard.
It was the same for me, Elsie admits, remembering her own engagement. As if I'd gone mad, or been hypnotized, or something. For days, weeks, all I could think about was him.
Not much has changed there, girl.
Well. Mrs. Crawley sets down her cup on the little table next to them. Aren't we the lucky ones?
Elsie has never really thought about it before, but she does feel lucky.
It is easier than she thought it would be to get to the point. The conversation turns from love-sickness to the real thing.
You have many of the signs, the midwife tells her. You are young, and you and your husband love each other very much. I am certain you are expecting a child, she says with authority. It is early days of course-
Whatever Elsie thought she would feel at the woman's words, she is not prepared to smile, then immediately to burst into tears.
It feels simply overwhelming. She cannot begin to describe the welter of emotions tumbling about inside her. Mrs. Crawley puts a gentle hand on hers.
I do hope, she says quietly, that this is good news? That Mr. Carson will take it well?
It is several minutes before Elsie feels able to speak. She gratefully takes the offered handkerchief and dabs at her eyes.
I believe so, she says, her voice somewhat hoarse. We…have talked about children of course, but I…
I did not think they would become a reality so soon.
At the moment she does not feel like a good wife, much less a capable mother.
Mother.
Mam, I need you.
I'm not ready for this.
Mrs. Crawley seems to know what she is thinking. God knew what He was doing, she says. We carry a child for nine months, to give them time to grow, and for us to prepare.
Elsie blinks, her eyes red. I don't know that I will ever be prepared. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat.
You never will be, not really, Mrs. Crawley smiles. Matthew will be nine years old next spring and I pray for wisdom every day. Some days I have it, and some days…she shakes her head. Some days feel like when he was an infant in my arms. I would look at him and feel terrified that he was mine.
They talk for a little while until Elsie calms down. She thanks the midwife for the tea and her kind words. Walking out to the porch together, she feels as though she needs to apologize for being too familiar. After all, the woman is little more than a stranger to her.
And yet it feels as though she has known Mrs. Crawley for years.
Thank you for listening to me, the older woman says softly as Elsie replaces her hat. I…don't often speak of Reginald. It's too hard. He's only been gone since March.
You miss him, Elsie says, her gloves in her hands.
Yes. Sadness and love are equally mingled in her eyes. And yet I know he would not want me to walk in the shadow of death forever. He would want me to live. For my own sake, as well as for Matthew's.
I understand, Elsie whispers.
The memory of Da and David is still sharp, cutting her heart at the most unplanned moments.
Do come and see me again, Mrs. Carson, the midwife says after a short pause. If you have any questions, or just wish to chat.
Thank you, Elsie says. Although I like to be called Mrs. Carson, it seems better suited for Sundays.
She cannot really explain what she means. It seems too formal for this woman – who, she reminds herself, will likely be present when her child is born.
Our child. Mine and Charlie's.
Her belly flutters, this time with anticipation.
If not Mrs. Carson and Mrs. Crawley, what should we call each other? The midwife asks.
My name is Elsie. You can call me that, if you wish.
Mrs. Crawley smiles and shakes her hand. It suits you, Elsie. Please call me Isobel.
The flames leap in the fireplace when Charles shifts the logs. It is not terribly cold at night, but the heat of the summer has gone, as well as the lingering warmth of autumn.
He does not want Elsie to get cold.
She sits in their bed, absent-mindedly twirling the end of her braid in her fingers.
"You've been very quiet today," he remarks, climbing in next to her. "Since you got back from town."
"Have I been?" she asks. "I didn't mean to be."
Plumping the pillows, he reaches for her to draw her into his arms. She scoots over with her back to his chest, facing the flames. He slides his arm around her waist. He can feel the heat of her body through her shift.
"Is everything all right?" he says softly into her ear. A red spiral curl dangles behind it, and he cannot resist moving it aside to brush the vacated spot on her neck with his lips.
"You have made me happy, Charlie," she says, her voice sounding thick. He continues exploring her neck, planting feather-light kisses. "I know I've been-sharp with you lately, but I do mean it."
"I know," he murmurs. "I feel the same, love." He moves up to her cheek. It has surprised him, the temper she's displayed, but he never thought their marriage would be smooth sailing always.
No marriage is.
And right now, with her in his arms, he feels totally, blissfully, happy.
"You said this morning I was all the family you had," she says.
"Mmmm," he hums, his nose against her jawline.
"Well, it seems that's not quite true."
He is so busy tasting her it takes several seconds for her words to sink in. He stops, raises his head, leaning on his elbow. She turns to look up at him, the glimmer of the firelight in her eyes. "I went to see the midwife today. Mrs. Crawley. She told me…"
"Elsie," he looks at her in complete awe. "Are you…are we…truly?" he whispers.
When she nods, a small smile on her face, tears fill his eyes. "My God." He leans over and kisses her sweetly, lingering on her lips. "My fair wife, my love, tha gaol agam ort."
The sound of him speaking her tongue brings tears to her own eyes even as it makes her laugh. "I love you too," she touches his face, feels the hair on his bushy eyebrows.
He pulls her free hand to his lips and kisses it once, twice. "You're going to be a mother."
There is a sparkle in her eyes he has never seen before. "Aye, and you a da."
The thought makes his heart leap, then sink. "I hope I'm a good one." He pictures walking through the vineyard, a little girl at his heels, two auburn braids down her back. Or milking the cow in the barn while a small boy sits nearby, playing with a cat. The boy looks up, smiling, with dark blue eyes…
Elsie pulls his chin to face her again. "I'm happy," she whispers. "And frightened, and excited and worried. All at once. We…we'll learn together."
He relaxes and wraps his arm lightly around her waist, his big hand spanning her belly.
"That we will."
She sighs, already on the edge of sleep. "Good night, Charlie," she murmurs.
"Good night," he gives her another kiss, on her hairline.
He lays against the pillow. His heart is full. Listening to the low snaps and cracks of the fire, he watches the light flicker on the ceiling.
A father. I'm going to be a father. I wonder what he will be like. Or she. Hmmm. Either way, I will be happy. Our child, mine and Elsie's.
The baby will be born an American. I wonder what Mother would have thought of-
"Elsie?" he asks, suddenly thinking of a question.
"Hmmm?" she mumbles on the edge of sleep.
"Who won the election?"
There is a long silence, and he thinks she's dropped off to sleep.
"I didn't think to ask."
His laughter shakes the bed.
A/N: For the record, Franklin Pierce (Democrat) won the 1852 presidential election. It was a boring election apparently, marked by the candidates and their associates impugning the character of the other.
So clearly nothing has changed.