.Part Nine.

Sylvie

Winter is drawing on again in patterns of frost drawn against the windowpanes and ever-encroaching nights. It's been a year since the end of the war, and Kitty can hardly believe it as she stands over the stove, a blanket wrapped over her nightdress and the kettle bubbling away cheerfully to itself.

Suddenly, nausea rises in her throat and she curses, makes a dash for the bathroom. This illness has been with her for the past few days, and whilst she's still managing to drag herself to work, it's draining to have to rush to the nearest sink every few hours to throw up. It's horrible, and there's a roaring in her ears – she can feel Thomas holding back her hair and murmuring quiet nothings as she's sick again and again.

When it's all finished, she straightens up, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Thomas wraps an arm around her waist and helps her back into the kitchen, into a chair at the table, bringing her a glass of water. "I don't think you should go into work today," he says worriedly, resting his hand against her forehead as though she's got a fever. "It'll get better sooner if you stay here and rest."

"I would argue, but I feel too wretched," Kitty coughs, putting her head down on the table.

"If I go now, I can get down to Covent Garden to tell them that you're ill before my shift starts," He bends to kiss the top of her tangled hair. "Stay in bed, get some rest. Rosalie or Flora might call."

"Alright," she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Have a good day at work."

"Thank you, darling. Keep drinking fluids, try something plain…"

"Tom, I know how to take care of sick bugs. Sylvie had them all the time."

"I know, I know. I worry."

She flaps her hands at him gently. "Go on. You'll be late."

He kisses her cheek, and then crosses to the door. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Tom. Go."

At about three o'clock, a knock comes at the door and Kitty heaves herself up from the bed to go and answer it. She's spent the entire day drifting lazily in and out of sleep, but it hasn't seemed to help the nausea that roils in her stomach like waves rolling and plunging in the thrall of a violent storm.

"Hello, Kitty," Rosalie says as Kitty pulls the door ajar.

"Rosalie," Kitty yawns. "Come in, come in. I'm sorry, I'm not dressed."

"It's fine, you're ill."

"How do you know that?"

"Elizabeth," Rosalie says sagely.

"Ah," Kitty sinks down onto one of the rocking chairs. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'll make it. Would you like anything?"

"Just a glass of water, thank you."

As Rosalie goes into the kitchen and begins to potter around, Kitty lets her head drop against the side of the armchair. She hates being ill – feeling worthless, horrid, tired, not being able to go about her day-to-day life.

Rosalie appears a few minutes later with steam curling off the surface of her tea and a glass of water which she gives to Kitty. She settles herself, ladylike despite the pregnant rise of her stomach, on the divan. "How long have you been sick?" she asks.

"A few days. It came on very suddenly, and I don't know why," Kitty says petulantly. Her eyes feel sticky with sleep.

Rosalie thinks for a second, and something dawns on her face. She leans forward.. "Could it be that you're expecting the patter of little feet in the near future?" she suggests tentatively. "I just remember having morning sickness a few months ago, though…"

Rosalie's words punch into Kitty's head like a bullet and she draws herself upright. "I'm such a fool," she says, irritated. "I felt like this when I was pregnant with Sylvie, I know I did because the only person I got sympathy from was my lady's maid."

"When did…you know…it last come?" Rosalie's cheeks seem to be on fire with embarrassment.

"I can't remember. Quite a time ago, I think – oh, I am so stupid sometimes." Kitty can't help but start to smile as it dawns on her. Pregnant. Pregnant. She's going to have a baby, going to have Tom's baby. She feels lightheaded, the world spinning around her in a joyful dance.

"I suppose a congratulations is in order," Rosalie says. "I'm so pleased for you."

"Thank you," Kitty says, reaching out to embrace her friend. "Thank you."

When Thomas gets home that evening, she is dressed and dinner is cooking away on the stove, a stew bubbling happily to itself and bread from the bakery sitting on the table. As he comes into the kitchen, she crosses to him and wraps her arms tightly around his neck, kissing him like she's drowning and he's the air that brushes the surface of the water with a lover's caress.

When she finally steps away, her fingers twined through his, he's smiling. "You're evidently feeling better."

"I feel wonderful," she announces, her news heavy with anticipation on her lips.

"That's good. Did you rest today?"

"Yes, I did. Did you have a good day at work?"

"Yes." He pulls her into his arms again, and she rests her head against his shoulder, revelling in the warmth that sings through her veins at his very touch. "Very good, thank you. Had an interesting talk with Dr Hayes on a new venture into a different form of anaesthesia."

"I'm glad," she says, the words bursting from her mouth. "I've got news for you."

"Mm-hmm," he murmurs into her hair.

"I'm pregnant."

"What?" His voice is so shocked that Kitty begins to laugh, the sound echoing like the peal of church bells.

"That's why I've been ill, Tom. It's morning sickness. Rosalie helped me figure it out."

"You're…you're pregnant."

"Yes, I know."

"You're pregnant. We're going to have a baby." He shakes his head disbelievingly. "Kitty, this is incredible news!"

Her smile stretches as wide as Europe, cracking her face into pieces. "Are you pleased?"

"Pleased doesn't even begin to describe it! We're going to have a baby!" His eyes shine like a summer's day, stunned and delighted, and then he picks her up and spins her around, holding her close and kissing her until she swears she's going to float away like a fluffy cloud in one of the illuminated storybooks she used to own as a child.

There is a hiss from the stove, and Kitty disentangles herself to go and stir the stew. She hears Thomas pull out one of chairs and sink into it, hears his amazed murmur. "A baby. I'm going to be a father."

How is it that time flies by so quickly? In the blink of an eye, winter has turned back over into spring, and life is spurting from the ground that, only a few weeks ago, was frozen solid by the winter's rage. Kitty is ambling in Regent's Park after her shift ends, eating up the time by enjoying the weak, chilly spring sunshine that washes everything in sallow light. She's meeting Thomas here for a walk before they go back to the flat – whilst other women crave different foods during their pregnancy (and she admits, she's had that too), her body seems to want the wind tangling through her hair and the sun on her face.

Suddenly, a voice pipes up behind her. "Excuse me, Missus, can you help me?"

Kitty turns to see a girl of about eleven standing behind her in a dress that, whilst fine, shows off a good two inches of the girl's wrists. Her dark hair defies its braids, and her dark eyes are fixed on Kitty's face.

Recognition hits Kitty like an explosion, and she holds back a choking cry. Six years and a war have separated them, but she would know her daughter anywhere.

"Sylvie," she whispers, her voice inexplicably hoarse. "Sylvie."

"How do you know my name?" the girl demands.

Kitty slowly lowers herself to her knees in front of her daughter. "Sylvie, don't you recognise me?"

Sylvie shakes her head, but doubt is clouding over in her eyes and pain is tugging at Kitty's heartstrings so hard that tears spring to her eyes. How can she prove to her daughter that she's here, how can she get her to understand? It hits her suddenly, and the words spill out of Kitty's mouth so fast that she barely understands what she says.

"Do you still want a dragon for Christmas?"

"Mummy?"

There are tears in Sylvie's eyes too, and the dam breaks. She flings herself forward into Kitty's waiting arms, and finally they're together again, finally she's embracing her daughter, holding her like she should have been able to for the past six years, and please-don't-let-this-all-be-a-dream.

"Mummy, where have you been?" Sylvie is sobbing uncontrollably into the shoulder of Kitty's dress, and Kitty is rocking her back and forth, inhaling the smell of soap and honey that pours off Sylvie's hair, not caring that they're making a spectacle for the hungry eyes of avid passers-by.

"Your father made me go away, oh my darling, I'm so sorry." Kitty's words are jumbled and she can't seem to make them come out coherently. Her daughter, her beautiful, precious daughter is here in her arms, and God, how long has she waited for this day! "I wouldn't have left you for the world, but he wouldn't let me see you, oh my darling."

"Promise that you'll never go away again?" Sylvie asks, sounding so young that pain rakes its claws across Kitty's heart.

"I promise," she soothes, kissing her daughter's forehead again. "I promise."

They go the bench where Kitty was to meet Thomas, and Sylvie curls up into her side with Kitty's arms tight around her.

"Father told me you were dead," Sylvie says after a long while. "But there was no grave to visit, unlike when Grandmother died, and I heard the maids talking about how you were in France. Why were you in France?"

"I was a nurse, during the war," Kitty tells her, brushing a stray curl out of Sylvie's eyes. "I looked after the soldiers, and made them well again."

"But why did you have to go?"

"You know when I last took you to the seaside, and we stayed with my friend, James?"

"Yes," Sylvie rests her head against Kitty's shoulder.

Kitty takes a deep breath, wondering if Sylvie's old enough to hear this, wondering whether it would be right to burden her with an adult's problems. But her daughter is looking at her with midnight-coloured eyes, a mirror of her own, and Kitty knows that she of all people deserves an explanation. "I was running away from your Father. He wasn't very nice to me, and I had to get away, but James sent us back and your Father divorced me, and said I was never allowed to see you again."

"Did you miss me?"

"Sylvie, you were in my thoughts every single day. I love you more than my own life, and I want more than anything to be your mother in deed as well as in word."

They lapse into silence for a few seconds, then Sylvie speaks again. "Father got married to Miss Leyland. She's like a horse and I don't like her."

"Is she nice to you?"

"No. She doesn't like to see me. I have to stay in my room with my governess, but I don't like her either, so I ran away. Mummy, can I stay with you?"

"I want you to so much, but we're going to have to talk to your father about it." The prospect of facing Elliott again sends shivers crawling up Kitty's spine, but for the girl cradled in her arms, she knows she'll do anything.

"Did you get married again?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I did."

"What's your husband like?" Sylvie has brightened up. "Is he nice?"

"Yes, he is," Kitty says, smoothing another kiss onto Sylvie's hair. The baby in her stomach kicks, and then a shadow falls across them and Thomas is there, confusion etched in every line of his expression.

"Tom," she says, reaching out a hand to him. "Tom, this…this is Sylvie."

Surprise dashes fleet-footed across his face, and then he smiles, kneeling down so that he's on a level with Sylvie. She ducks behind Kitty's shoulder, suddenly shy. "Sylvie, this is my husband, Tom."

"Your mother is always talking about you, and it's wonderful to finally meet you."

Sylvie re-emerges, looks from Kitty to Thomas and back again. "It's nice to meet you too," she says politely, then the child that she used to be appears from behind the manners and she wriggles. "Can I come home with you?"

"Yes," Kitty tells her, without a second thought. "Yes, of course you can."

They are just going out of the park when there is a shout from along the pavement, and a woman dressed in the black of a governess storms up to them. "Sylvia Catherine Vincent, where in God's name have you been?"

Sylvie's bottom lip trembles and she clutches onto Kitty's hand tightly.

"I've been looking for you for hours you little minx! And you've been disturbing these people – I'm very sorry for her, Sir, Madam, one would think she's been raised by wildcats! Come along."

"Mummy," Sylvie whispers. The governess looks likely to fly at Sylvie and shake her. "Don't make me go."

"What nonsense is this?"

"I'm Catherine Gillan, Sylvie's mother," Kitty stares down the governess.

"But," the governess protests. "Miss Vincent's mother died five years ago."

"She didn't die," Thomas says, anger boiling in every word. "What kind of madness…"

"Thomas, I'll tell you later," Kitty lays her free hand on his arm.

"Nevertheless, Miss Vincent has got to come home. Her stepmother and father are waiting for her."

"Sylvie, darling," Kitty kneels before her. "I promise I'll come to the house tomorrow and pick you up after work, yes? But you have to go with your governess now."

A little reassured, Sylvie nods, and Kitty quickly kisses her forehead. "I love you, remember that."

"I love you too, Mummy."

As Sylvie is dragged off none-too-gently by the governess, Kitty blinks back tears and Thomas puts a comforting arm about her shoulders. "We'll get her back," he vows. "I promise, Kitty, we'll get her back."

"I'm not letting you go there alone," he says heatedly. "What kind of husband would I be to let my pregnant wife go and face a man who abused her for six years all on her own?"

"Tom, I have to do it!"

"I know you have to do it, I'm not debating that. God, Kitty, I wish you wouldn't be so stubborn."

Kitty turns, rests a hand on her belly. The baby kicks again, as if it's reminding her that it's there. "I just…I'm just scared that you'll hit him. That he'll call the police, and you'll go to prison, and Tom, I'm not losing you, not after all we've been through…"

"Kitty." He wraps his arms around her. "Kitty, I won't. No matter how much I want to, I won't."

The next day, he picks her up from work where she's been sitting and sewing sequins onto dresses for Les Sylphides, trying desperately not to think of her daughter, and they get the Piccadilly Line to Hyde Park Corner.

Thomas' face is stony, set, but he can't help be awed at the white marble façades of the houses that line the streets that Kitty unerringly leads him down, windows staring with accusing eyes, wrought iron balconies jutting out like defiant chins. She stops, suddenly, outside a house on the end of a street named Wilton Crescent. She's shaking, and he puts an arm around her waist.

"This…this is it," she says, slowly, and he can hear the utter, outright terror laced through the forced calm of her tone.

"Shall we get it over and done with, then?"

"Yes." Kitty gives him a watery smile, and they take the steps that rise reprovingly above them, as though they are telling them off for daring to climb so high.

He raps the knocker, and it is drawn open by a sombre faced, stick thin butler in a perfectly polished livery. Something flickers across his face for an instant, but he conceals it almost immediately. "We're here to see Mr Vincent, Coleman," Kitty says.

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Dr and Mrs Gillan."

"Have you an appointment?"

"No, but it is a matter of importance."

"He's in his study. Follow me."

Kitty takes Thomas' hand tightly, winds her fingers through his as though she's trying to take some of his strength as they step into the entrance hall. Carpets on the floor, paintings hanging from the walls with their disinterested eyes skimming over the two of them, a polished wooden sideboard.

He leads them to a door that stands slightly ajar, knocking quietly. "Yes, what is it?" a voice calls from inside, a very controlled voice that makes anger coil in the base of his stomach like a serpent waking from a century's hibernation. Beside him, Kitty has gone white.

"A Dr and Mrs Gillan to see you, sir."

"Send them in."

The butler opens the door, and they step inside. A man sits, perfectly, unnaturally upright in a chair behind a desk laden with papers. His cruel, colourless eyes rake across the two of them, and an almost reptilian smile spreads across his face. He rises, and Kitty begins to crush Thomas' hand. He can feel her trembling.

"Catherine, what a pleasant surprise," he drawls.

"Elliott," she says, shortly.

"Who is this?"

"This is my husband."

"Your husband? So you married her, then? My condolences – she's far more trouble than she's worth." This last is addressed to Thomas, and he takes a deep breath, trying to keep the fury that burns on his tongue at bay.

"We've come for Sylvie," Kitty says.

"Ah, yes, my runaway daughter. What makes you think that I'd be willing to relent, exactly?"

"She's not happy here. You have a new wife, you have other children. You don't need her."

"You cannot offer her a decent home, connections, money."

"She'll be loved. She'll be taken care of. She won't be locked in a room with her governess, wearing clothes that are too small for her."

"You are an adulteress, Catherine. You gave up your rights to the child the day you ran away to that man."

Kitty is shaking harder than ever now, and Thomas wraps an arm around her shoulders. "You are an abusive git," he growls. "Don't think I don't know what you did to Kitty during your marriage to her."

"How terrifying, the protective husband." Elliott Vincent chuckles coldly.

"Tom," Kitty murmurs.

He ignores her. "It would be so easy to go to the press with reports of it. You'd call it your word over hers, but I've heard scandals can erupt ever so easily."

Elliott Vincent raises an eyebrow, but behind the façade, the cogs are turning. "Are you threatening me?"

"Call it what you will. I see it as vengeance for the way you treated my wife."

"What do you want? Money?"

"We want custody of Sylvie."

"No."

"The Daily Express offices are only a short walk from where I work. Do you really want to have your reputation ruined?"

"Take the girl," Elliott Vincent steps back, freezing, furious defeat burning out of his eyes. "Take her, and never darken my door again."

"Gladly," Thomas retorts. "Come on, Kitty."

He follows them out, barks a quick order at the butler and retreats, the door slamming shut behind him. Kitty looks at him, amazement shining out of her eyes and warming his heart. "Did you truly just do that?"

"Yes," he says, ducking his head to steal a quick kiss. "I did."

"You're the most wonderful person I know." She puts a hand against his cheek. The baby kicks again. "And I think our little one agrees."

It feels so good to lay to rest her ghosts in the very tomb in which they first came, and she raises up on her tiptoes and kisses him, not caring that this is the house in which she first learnt what fear was, not caring that it is not proper to kiss one's husband in someone else's house.

The butler clears his throat behind them, and then a whirlwind of blue hair ribbons and dark curls launches itself into Kitty's arms. "Come on, darling," she says. "We're going home."

April, May and June dissolve into each other, and Kitty knows that this is what heaven is like. She is blessed, to have her daughter back, to have her husband, to have the baby growing in her stomach, stronger and bigger every day. Sylvie delights in sitting down with her hands pressed to Kitty's belly, waiting for the baby to kick, or coming up with lists of names that she unsubtly leaves lying around on the table.

At first, she didn't quite know how to act around Thomas, seeing as her own father had never showed much interest in her except to tell her off, but now, she is thawing the way the sea-ice cracks and splits at the poles – slowly, then all at once. She holds his hand as well as Kitty's when they go for walks, and insists that he read to her every night from the books that she brought with her from the old life.

In April, Rosalie gave birth to her baby – a little girl whom they've named Ida – and whilst Kitty is still able to work, Sylvie spends the daylight hours at Rosalie's house, helping her to look after the baby who is already showing signs of inheriting Rosalie's gloriously red hair.

July dawns in stifling heat and Flora – not at work, for once – is sitting at the kitchen table with Sylvie, teaching her about politics and women's suffrage, and Kitty is lying on the divan, fanning herself with a piece of paper. They have a cot, and Sylvie has been making a mobile to hang over it, and clothes have been pouring in from all their various friends. Now all they're waiting for is the arrival of the baby.

It's too hot. "Do you want a glass of water?" Kitty calls, heaving herself to her feet. She feels so ungainly nowadays, fat and ugly, though Thomas assures her that she's still and will always be beautiful to him, and her back and sides ache ferociously. Faint contractions come and go, but she knows that these aren't the real thing – the baby isn't due for another two weeks.

"Yes please, Mummy," Sylvie says, and Kitty goes into the kitchen, takes a glass from the cupboard, leaning over to fill it up. She freezes as another pain grips her, this one stronger than the ones she's accustomed to, and suddenly something like water gushes from between her legs, staining her skirt.

"Flora…"

"Yes?"

"Flora, the baby's coming." Kitty tries to keep her voice calm, but there's a distinct wobble in it. She remembers giving birth to Sylvie all those years ago when she was nineteen years old, terrified and alone save for the midwife and her lady's maid. It was hell.

"It's alright, it's alright," Flora pulls on her nurse persona like one might pull on a coat. "Come on, we'll get you into bed. Sylvie, darling, can you boil some water?"

"Will Mummy be alright?"

"Yes, of course she will. Don't you worry."

He comes home to screams that permeate through the door and cause fear to curdle in his stomach. Sylvie is curled up on the divan, and when he steps into the sitting room she runs to him, and he scoops her up into his arms.

"Mummy's having the baby." Her upturned face is pale, and there are tear-tracks running down her cheeks. "She hasn't stopped screaming for ages, and Flora won't let me in."

At that moment, Flora appears from the bedroom, her auburn hair sticking up wildly this way and that. "What's happening?" he asks. "How is she?"

"She's doing well. The midwife's here and Rosalie, too."

"Can I see her?"

"The birthing room's no place for a man," Flora says, so calm that he wants to shake her. "You're a doctor, you should know that."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Look after Sylvie." With that, she turns and disappears back, finality ringing through the air as the door shuts behind her.

He sits down on the divan, holds Sylvie close. "It's alright," he says, choking his worry down. "It's alright. Your mother is going to be absolutely fine."

Five hours later, after making Sylvie eat something and telling her stories to distract her from the awful sounds coming from the bedroom, the hoarse, gasping screams, the noise stops, abruptly, and there is the wail of a baby, rising and falling. Sylvie, cried out and exhausted, is fast asleep in his arms, and he gently lays her down, standing up and padding to the door.

As he's about to knock, the door swings open and Rosalie is standing there, a smile opening on her face. "Would you like to meet your daughter?" she asks quietly.

A daughter. He feels almost delirious. A daughter, he has a daughter. He pushes past Rosalie, and there is Kitty, propped up against the pillows in their big bed and cradling a bundle of blankets in her arms like it is the most precious thing in the world. She looks up as he approaches. "Hello," she says, her voice rasping against the air as though it's made of sandpaper.

There is a lump in his throat as he sits on the edge of the bed next to her, looks down into the wide-awake, blue as a forget-me-not eyes that blink up at him, snatching his heart as quickly and surely as a fish caught in a net. "She's beautiful," he whispers, reaching down to stroke the back of his finger against her soft little forehead. "She looks just like you, Kitty."

"She has your eyes," Kitty rests her head against his shoulder, and he turns to press his lips against her temple. "Where's Sylvie?"

"Asleep in the sitting room."

"How about you take the baby to see Sylvie?" Rosalie suggests. "Kitty needs to sleep."

He nods, and takes his daughter carefully into his arms, remembering how it felt to hold his siblings like this when they were born, rocking her back and forth. She yawns sleepily, and he marvels at her tiny little starfish hands that wave like seaweed tangled in the ocean currents as he carries her out into the sitting room, lowering himself onto the end of the divan.

"Sylvie?" he says. "Sylvie, wake up."

Her eyelids flutter and she sits up, stretching her arms.

"Sylvie," he says. "Would you like to hold your sister?"

Her eyes widen, and she crawls over to look down into the baby's face, and there, with the rays of sunlight catching on the windowpanes, the warmth of his step-daughter on one side, and the new baby fast asleep in his arms, he knows that he's found the life that somewhere, someone always meant him to have.

A/N Only the epilogue to go, people! This is insane! I can't believe its almost done! If you could get me to 60 reviews this chapter, I promise I'll post the epilogue no later than Thursday morning. How's that for a deal? What do you think of the Kitmas baby, and Kitty and Sylvie's reunion? Or the re-entrance of the slimy twit? I'd love love love to hear from you, so click that little button! N xxx