Dear readers-we are down to the final three chapters of this saga (unless I get long-winded...if I do, please forgive me.) I am honestly overwhelmed at this thought, and as this story begins to wind down I once again my thank you from the bottom of my heart for making this journey so incredibly special.
And please don't forget the upcoming sequel. :) You have no idea how excited I am about it.
I cannot thank Cls2011 and miscreantrose enough for all of their support during the writing of this chapter. To R. Grace, thanks again for your keen eye and encouragement. .
Of course, I own nothing.
And with that, I shall leave you to it!
Ch 30
To say that George had been spoiled over the next several days would have been a gross understatement.
His every whim had been indulged, his mood-swings overlooked. After five days of incessant attention, the child began to protest being put down alone in his crib, having become accustomed to begin held and rocked until he fell into slumber. The end results of such antics were that George had become impossible, his nanny rather put out and his mother exhausted.
Mary had decided. It was time that her son be put back on his schedule.
Thus it was that she now stood outside the nursery door, listening to him scream almost as loudly as he had at the hospital while having his stitches sewn. Her nerves were at the severing point, hormones and lack of sleep brewing a rather toxic concoction that resulted in nearly everyone at Downton granting her a rather wide berth.
Everyone except her mother.
"Go and lie down for a bit. I can take this watch."
Mary sighed in frustration, giving her mother a glare meant to intimidate.
"Only if you promise not to give in to him. He knows he can persuade you to take his part in this, Mama. You've proved to be a most invaluable ally in his display of mutiny."
Cora looked at her daughter from under hooded lids.
"He is my only grandson, Mary. And those stitches cannot be comfortable."
Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling in exasperation.
"And this is why we are having such trouble with him. He knows that if he cries loudly enough, that you will come running to his rescue."
Her mother's expression did not waver.
"But his little face, Mary. He still looks so pitiful."
Her heart squeezed in defiance of her wishes at this truthful assertion.
"I know. But you must admit that he does look better than he did two days ago."
Her mother raised her chin in a slight challenge.
"That's hardly a decent point of comparison."
She pushed down the urge to snap.
"Dr. Clarkson told us that his injuries would likely look worse before they looked better," Mary retorted, the need to be away from her mother burrowing under her skin. "He is recovering well in every way possible, except for the fact that he is regressing when it comes to his sleep habits."
"I understand," Cora replied, daring a step in her daughter's direction, wincing as a rather high-pitched wail soared through the walls. "But he is still not up to par, Mary. And some extra attention from those who love him can do nothing but hasten his recovery."
Stretched nerves finally gave way.
"Would you please just listen to me? I am his mother, for God's sake."
The demand flew from her, charging the air between them before regret could settle in. Her chest rose and fell with an uneven rhythm, and she rubbed her forehead as a dull pulse began.
"And I am your mother," Lady Grantham calmly stated, laying a hand atop her eldest's shoulder. "You need to rest."
Mary's shoulders slumped in defeat. She held no argument for such an observation.
"I suppose."
The point was pressed further.
"You have barely eaten the past few days, you look wretched, and your son is making demands that are simply too much for you right now," Cora soothed, lulling senses already worn down. "You must take better care of yourself, Mary. For your baby's sake."
Her eyes snapped to attention.
Her baby? Was her mother referring to George or to the child carried in secret within her womb? She would offer nothing at this juncture, her news already known by more people than she had intended before Charles's return.
"You're right. It wouldn't do for me to become ill."
She watched Cora's expression closely, awaiting a sign as to the true meaning of her phrase.
"No. It would not."
Her mother raised a brow pointedly, looking into her in a manner that made Mary shift uncomfortably.
"You are carrying more than you should have to bear alone, and there is no shame in asking for help when you need it."
She swallowed purposefully, reminded of the stare-down in her bedroom with this same woman the morning after she had Charles had made love.
The very act that had given her this child.
"Yes. I know."
Cora inhaled audibly.
"And when exactly is Charles supposed to return?"
Another hint tossed, another implication glared shamelessly in her direction.
"In eight or nine days, so Lady Catherine tells me."
Lady Grantham nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer.
"I am glad to hear it. The sooner the better, wouldn't you agree?"
How thick the air outside the nursery had become.
"Yes. I am anxious for his return."
They stood eye to eye, brows steady, backs straight.
"As you should be. I do hope his presence will uncomplicated matters for you."
Her legs held fast by sheer determination.
"As do I, Mama. I miss him."
It was then she noticed the silence, a smile tugging on the rims of her eyes as she looked over her shoulder.
"He's gone to sleep," Mary breathed, her staggering relief George's resurgence of nap-time independence physical in nature.
"So it would seem," her mother offered with a smile, sliding back slightly. "And I still recommend that you do the same."
The will to fight suddenly left her.
"Alright. But you must promise not to disturb him."
Something sparked in Lady Grantham's countenance.
"Come now, Mary. Don't you think that I know when it's best to leave a delicate situation alone?"
Her heart paused momentarily.
"I would hope that you do, Mama. Especially when an interested party cannot yet speak for himself."
Cora then squeezed her hand, implanting a depth of understanding in the space of silence.
"He will find his voice very soon, I take it."
Mary's eyes stared back unblinking.
"Of that, I have no doubt."
Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel STOP Puppies and kites STOP Chats by the fire and dips in the lake STOP Will be home sooner than planned STOP Miss you so much it hurts STOP All my love, Charles
Miss you so much it hurts…
Her heart both swelled and cinched at his declaration. How much more hurt would she inflict upon his arrival? He would finally learn of their baby, and she would be relieved of this weighted preoccupation she had bound firmly to herself before he had left the country. But once it was done, his reaction was out of her hands.
She must choose her words carefully. And he would be here tomorrow.
Lady Catherine had informed her that he was supposed to dock in London sometime in the early afternoon. He then planned to catch the first train he could find to York and proceed as quickly as possible to Downton.
To her. He was planning on travelling straight back to her. Bypassing his home, his work, even the leisure of a few hours rest to stand at her side and make up for lost time.
What a fool she had been.
If only she could be certain about his reaction to the fact that they were no longer alone in this slated venture on which they had just embarked.
She grimaced at the discomfort in her lower back, a steady pain that had been building since she pulled herself from the bedclothes this morning reasserting its dominance. Perhaps she should stretch out again once she returned from her errands in the village. This extended walk upon which she had insisted may not have been the best of ideas, after all.
Another nap would most certainly raise suspicions, but that hardly mattered as their news would be all but common-place at Downton within a handful of days. Her mother had mentioned nothing more concerning her suspicions, but Mary had caught her watching closely upon several occasions, most particularly at the dining table.
At least curry was not a part of Mrs. Patmore's repertoire.
She tried to envision Charles's face when she told him, conjuring images in her mind that ranged from elation to disgust. Not disgust over the fact that they had created a child, of course. The man was clearly meant to be a father, and she reasoned that he would adapt rather well to the knowledge that there would be more than the pair of them in a relatively short amount of time.
Of course, theirs had never been a relationship consisting of only two. George had always been a part of this equation, and she smiled as she envisioned her son sitting happily on the lap of man he barely knew on another train ride from London. He felt safe in the arms of this stranger, the man who hummed him to sleep when he was battling an ear infection, had crafted a kite with him on the grounds of her home, and had read to him in the nursery, forging a bond that bordered on that of a father and son.
How much had transpired since that fated trip to London months ago. Three lives had been altered beyond recognition, moving from a singular existence crossing paths with a duo to a family of four with lightning speed. She rubbed her temples, feeling a bit unsteady at the overwhelming nature of this thought. Three months ago she was certain she would never love again.
But now….
She somehow thought Matthew would approve, even laugh over the relative absurdity with which events had unfolded. Goodness knows he would never begrudge his own child a father who would both love and raise him well. For that, she was immensely thankful.
Her gaze drifted in the direction of the cemetery as her palm cupped the secret of her child, balancing a life swiftly taken with one just received.
It was then that the first pain struck her, stopping her dead in her tracks.
Something was not right. A chill took hold of her spine.
The baby.
A cold sweat broke out across her forehead, her upper lip, a nausea that frightened her draining her of any color she possessed. She needed to lie down. Immediately.
"Mary, dear. Is something wrong?"
She had never been so relieved to hear her mother-in-law's voice, all discomfort at being in her company washing away as the need to protect took hold.
"I'm afraid I'm not well," she managed, a dull cramping working its way up her thighs. "Might I go to your home and lie down at for a bit?"
Isobel studied her but a moment, taking the younger woman's arm with a strong grip as she offered her a smile of assurance.
"Of course. Let's get you there immediately."
They moved with as much haste as she could muster, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as panic took hold. This could not be happening…not now. Not to her child.
Not to his child.
Crawley House provided as much relief as anything could, a prayer forming under her breath that this sudden onslaught of discomfort would subside once she got off of her feet. Isobel quickly got her settled in the guest room, staring down at her in marked concern.
"You're crying, Mary. Are you in that much pain?"
The tenderness in her voice only made the tears form more rapidly, and Mary was uncertain if she would be able to formulate the necessary words.
"I'm pregnant, Isobel," she began, the fractured tone of her voice mirroring the state of her soul. "I'm afraid for my baby."
Mrs. Crawley's eyes widened only slightly, the nurse in her emerging immediately as she took and squeezed Mary's hand.
"I'll phone for Dr. Clarkson. In the meantime, rest is indeed the wisest thing for you—for both of you."
Their eyes met and held for a moment, so much was given and received in silence.
"Thank you," Mary managed, wiping her cheeks, attempting to breathe deeply. It was nearly impossible when she felt so much slipping away.
She had just come to love this child, to accept and recognize him or her as a part of her own internal fabric. Life seemed again intent upon punishing her, upon punishing Charles, and her gaze fixed to the ceiling in a wordless plea for help, her hands summoning her baby to hold on.
Her heart calling for Charles to be here with her.
The room felt hollow after Isobel made her exit, a finality settling over Mary that ached in her bones. She feared nothing could stop what had begun in her womb, a process so cruel she could not allow herself to dwell upon it. She knew this was not uncommon, understood that many women endured and survived such a loss.
But she and Charles had lost enough between them. Could they not be allowed this one miracle, this one thing of beauty formed from lives rebuilt out of the ruins?
How she needed him now, even though the knowledge of what was likely taking place would rip him open. She simply did not have the heart to be a storm-braver yet again. She did not want to endure this alone.
Lids attempted to open, but weight continually pulled them back down, the effort to fully awaken just too much to attempt. A heaviness to which she was unaccustomed swam through her veins, her mind bleary, her sense of hearing dampened. She slid back into unconsciousness, welcoming the bliss of sleep, reveling in the peace of blackness.
The second time she returned to awareness, she was cognizant of a presence in her room. Or was this her room? The walls were an unfamiliar hue, the décor nothing that spoke of home. Her vision was still unclear, hazy in nature, and her head was pounding frantically.
"Water," she managed, the raspy edges of her throat making speech nearly impossible.
Hands she somehow knew lifted her gently, supporting her back, offering a sip cool to her lips. She blinked repeatedly, finally placing the person whose scent hovered around her as a blanket.
"Mama?" she questioned, feeling oddly disoriented, the understanding that she was not at Downton confusing her, pushing her mind to make sense of something just beyond her grasp.
Cora sat on the edge of the bed, setting down the glass as she stroked her daughter's cheek.
"Yes, my darling," she voiced, the ache in her heart nothing akin to what her eldest would feel when full realization struck.
"Why am I so tired?"
Cora wet her lips, determinedly keeping her voice steady as she answered a justified inquiry.
"Dr. Clarkson gave you something to help you sleep several hours ago. Its effects seem to be just now wearing off."
She continued trying to push herself to the surface, knowing she was close, leery of what she might discover once she got there.
"A sleeping draught?" she processed, her brows illustrating her difficulty. Perception was taunting her, her mind recalling that she had been administered a sleeping draught after Matthew had died. "But why would he…"
It was then she realized just where she was—and why.
Her hands flew to her stomach, her eyes widening in a silent inquiry, dreading what her mother would tell her, but needing to know.
"I'm sorry, Mary. So very sorry."
The tears pooling in her mother's eyes pulled roughly at her own, her chin trembling as she tried to accept what she had prayed would not happen.
"Oh, God," she spoke, her voice trembling as badly as her hands. "Oh, God, Mama."
Her hand flew to her mouth, her body shaking as loss took its toll. Arms held her close, pulling this child now grown close to the womb and heart that bore her.
"I know, my precious girl," Cora whispered, rocking her back and forth. "I do know."
They remained wrapped up in each other, seared by the unwanted bond of losing one unborn, comforted in a manner offered only by those who truly knew. This was a grief too often expressed in silence, misunderstood by those whose souls it never marked, dismissed by those failing to perceive bonds formed between mothers and babes cradled within.
But it was wretched. And it was real.
"Does Papa know?"
Her throat was still pasty, her limbs overly weak.
"No. Not yet. Only Isobel, Dr. Clarkson and me."
Mary nodded, still pushing through a filmy veil enshrouding her mind.
"Please don't tell him," she asked, her eyes moving from her hands to those of her mother. "Not until.."
Her own words choked her, breaking into fragments before they even reached her tongue.
"Until Charles knows," Cora finished for her, deliberately steadying her tone. "Of course, my darling. That is only right."
She could only nod in response, any remaining shreds of speech consumed by a wave of fresh tears. Tears that stained the dress of a mother feeling fresh stirrings on an old wound. Tears ushering in the first baby steps of healing on a journey neither woman would have ever chosen to take.
"How did you get through it?"
The whispered question burned a trail through her chest, a hollowness settling where his child had been but hours before.
"The same way you get through any form of grief," her mother replied, tenderly laying a hand atop her own. "Day by day."
Day by day, hour by hour…the existence she had lived for the better part of a year. An existence she had been shedding layer by layer in exchange for a chance at happiness.
Happiness with a man she would now pain beyond recognition.
The thoughts of being cursed filtered back into her consciousness.
"But having George will help," Cora added, leaning in close to ensure she was clearly heard. "More than you know. There is nothing like the comfort of a living child when you have lost another."
How empty she suddenly felt, both her children now out of arm's reach, one home in the shelter of his nursery, the other confined to the world of vague images and shattered hopes.
"I do have George," she managed, shaking her head. "But Charles…he has already lost one child. And now…"
And now…
"You'll have other children, Mary," Cora insisted, the firm tone in her voice capturing her daughter's attention. "Dr. Clarkson insisted that there was no reason why you couldn't."
"I…" she tried, unable to conceive of such a thought at the moment, her mind caught in a whirlpool she hadn't the strength to fight.
"I know—it's too early to think about now," her mother hastily agreed, smiling gently. "But soon that knowledge will help and soothe both you and Charles. I promise."
Mary sighed heavily as her mind sought some clarity to a situation she wished could be erased.
"You're assuming he will still want to marry me," she murmured, raising her eyes directly to Cora's.
"That man loves you, Mary," Lady Grantham insisted, her brow brokering no disagreement. "I don't agree with all of the decisions the two of you have made, but I have no doubt he will stand by you through this, as you will by him."
Her eyes suddenly rounded.
"He'll be here tomorrow. Oh, God, Mama. I don't know if I can…"
The words tumbled from her, landing in an unfinished heap in her lap.
"No, Mary," Cora corrected, tightening her grip in support. "You slept longer than you realized. Charles will be here later this afternoon."
Her entire body shook, Cora quickly handing her a glass of wine Isobel had poured before she left.
"Drink this," Lady Grantham commanded, easing the alcohol down her throat. "You should also try to get some rest before he arrives. Dr. Clarkson said that it was vital to your recovery."
Recovery.
If only a few hours of sleep bore the power to make this better. If only she would not have to break the heart of the very man she had been preparing to inform that he was to be a father.
If only she could summon back her child.
If only.
Finally.
The train was approaching his ultimate destination, and his legs pushed him hastily from his seat as he readied himself to disembark. Days of travelling stiffened muscles he noticed more than he cared to admit, and he stretched soundly as the first stirrings of a smile crossed his face.
Mary. He was almost to Mary.
But not yet close enough.
There was still the matter of the train actually coming to a stop, arranging for his bags to be returned to Rufforth Hall and making certain that Ajit had left his car waiting for him at the station. He would journey straight to Downton from this point, the state of his hair and clothes be damned. His own ridiculous pride had forced a wedge between them that had been uncrossable for weeks, the curse of distance a hurdle created by his own hand. No—there would be no return trip home until he had at least attempted to make things right with her.
He refused to be separated from Mary one moment longer than necessary.
He stood restlessly, knowing it would be wiser to sit but unable to keep his body still any longer. Nearly two months away from her had taken its toll, and he prayed that his telegrams had at least conveyed a small measure of his feelings and remorse.
God, how he missed her.
A small hope tugged at him quietly, one he had harbored against his better judgment, yet he looked out the window all the same as the train finally stilled completely. No—he didn't see her, but he might not from this angle.
He chided himself for such fancies, reminding himself that she was first and foremost a mother and that he had never contacted her directly with his projected arrival times. He had wanted to surprise her, actually.
So why in God's name did he allow himself to wonder if she would be here to meet him?
He knew why.
Stepping onto the platform felt luxurious, and he took in the freest breath he had drawn since they had been condemned in the great hall at Downton. Her proximity made his skin tingle, and he held one bag close, the one bearing gifts for both Mary and George. He couldn't help but wonder how much the boy had grown since he had seen him and prayed the child had not forgotten him completely.
Cat.
The endearment tugged at his heart, a pair of rounded blue eyes that must have inherited from his father making him smile in spite of himself. The image of Mary holding her son when he had been ill struck him hard, increasing his need to gather them both up in his arms and hold them close. He was done playing the fool, finished capitulating to any emotion or sensibility that didn't truly matter. His stride increased in its length, his anxiousness to be back with them escalating with each step he took towards his car.
He was so close.
"Mr. Blake."
A voice he recognized halted his progress, and he turned abruptly to locate its source.
"Mrs. Crawley," he stated, a flash of confusion flexing his brow. "What a nice surprise to see you here."
Isobel stepped forward purposefully, something in her expression making him uncomfortable.
"I wish I could claim this meeting as no more than a happy coincidence," Mrs. Crawley returned, "But I'm afraid that it isn't. I am here in Mary's stead."
Ice instantly gripped his gut, drawing his face into sharp lines of fear.
"Is she alright?"
The question flew from his lips as all color drained from his countenance, external surroundings disappearing as his world narrowed.
"She will be," Isobel assured him quickly. "But she has just suffered a devastating loss. I am afraid she is emotionally fragile at the moment."
"George?" he threw out, his heart racing ahead of him, the panic obvious in his tone.
"No. No, George is perfectly well," she responded quickly, stepping a bit closer. "As are all of the Crawleys."
The helpless misunderstanding in his eyes was painful to behold.
"Then what—what has happened?"
She had to look down for a moment, knowing the blow she was about to deal him and hating the aftermath that would no doubt follow in its wake.
"Mary has suffered a miscarriage, Mr. Blake," Isobel voiced quietly, summoning the courage to look back at him directly. "Until yesterday afternoon, she was carrying your child."
He felt the world descend on his shoulders with a thud.
A gray fog enveloped his brain, a stinging sensation quickly forming into aching throb that overtook his insides.
"Forgive me, I'm not certain I understand," he attempted, thoughts tripping over words as sense tried to emerge out of a hit most unexpected. "Mary was...but I thought.."
His world made no sense at all.
"She's resting now," Isobel continued, placing a hand upon his arm, allowing him time to process. "At my house. Physically she will be fine, and there has been no lasting damage from what has happened. But she wanted this baby very much. And she is taking this loss rather hard."
This loss. How inadequate yet accurate the statement sounded to his ears.
This loss—the loss of a baby. Their baby, a child who had slipped through his fingers at the very moment he learned of his existence. A life already cherished by one parent and whose abduction was felt keenly by both. He shook his head, the only form of denial he could afford himself.
"And you're certain," he tried, pushing back tears more stubborn than his will. "There is no chance that…"
"She needs you," Isobel stated firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, squeezing his arm. "Very badly, Charles."
The meaning of her words cut through with precision, her use of his given name only heightening his senses. Mary had endured this alone.
Because he had left her.
Merciless claws of guilt crushed his ribcage, threatening to rob him of what breath he had remaining. He had to go to her immediately.
"Take me to her. Please."
Isobel nodded slowly, offering a wordless summons for him to follow her.
"Of course."
There was nothing more to say.
He made the journey in a trance, feeling as though he had been ripped from one existence and thrown into another, one that left his skin cold and his lungs gasping for air. Flashbacks of another meeting, another announcement began to circulate in his mind, and he deliberately shut them out, knowing the pain that accompanied them had no place in this present moment. He had to leave his past at Mrs. Crawley's doorstep today in order to be fully present for Mary.
She was all that mattered now.
The car pulled up to Crawley House, and he forced down the bile crawling up his throat. What in God's name could he offer her that wouldn't bring about more pain? He felt the overpowering urge to break something, fisting restless fingers in a discipline born of necessity.
This was not the time to strike out at God. They would have a discussion at a later time.
Somehow his legs carried him into the house, up steps and around a corner, Isobel guiding him as she offered instructions that bounced off of his ears. Mary. His mind held only her, blocking out anything else until he stood before the door that would open to her.
"She may be resting," Isobel cautioned in a whisper. "Dr. Clarkson did give her a sleeping draught earlier."
He nodded twice, swallowing this information wordlessly.
"Is anyone with her now?" he questioned, unable to fathom that Mrs. Crawley would have left her alone.
"Lady Grantham," Isobel answered, seeing both relief and concern cross his brow. "I phoned her immediately just after Dr. Clarkson arrived."
"Thank you," he breathed. "I'm glad that her mother is with her."
It was time, they both knew, the door clicking softly as Isobel peeked her head in. She stepped back as Cora Crawley emerged, looking directly to Charles with neither censure nor welcome.
"She has just woken up again," Lady Grantham offered, fixing her expression. "This has been very hard on her."
Eyes shut in response to a fresh wave of pain crashing over his chest.
"I can imagine," he replied, returning her gaze as a fragile understanding was forged, one carved out of a mutual love for a woman who had endured enough.
"I'm very sorry, Charles," Cora voiced, touching his arm in an unexpected show of support. "Truly, I am."
He nodded, eyes cast down.
So was he. God, so was he.
A path was cleared for him, and he stepped through the entrance, his heart still not fully prepared for the sight that met his eyes. She was sitting up in bed, her face nearly as white as her nightgown, her eyes swollen in evidence of tears.
He crumbled in the doorway.
Sheer will kept his legs upright as they carried him swiftly to her side. He was completely unaware of the door clicking shut behind him, every facet of his being tuned into her and only her.
The quiver of her chin buckled his legs, and he sat on the side of the bed, looking at her, seeing her, gently touching her face.
"I'm so sorry, Charles."
The statement broke through her chest, unleashing a dam of fresh grief that spilled down her cheeks unhindered. Then she was in his arms, against his chest, his mouth on her temple as his own pain dripped into her hair.
"No, Mary," he whispered, drawing back just enough to look at her fully. "I'm the one who is sorry. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing at all."
A knot untied in her chest, its cords leaving fresh marks as the fell upon tender ground.
So much remained unspoken, so little needing to be said. She fell back into him, and he drew her close, their existence reduced to this room, this moment, this shared brokenness pouring from one to the other in a baptism of tears.
He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket aside, climbing onto the bed with her, cradling her to his side, into his chest, into himself. She held on to him with the desperation of one pulled from the clutches of drowning, breathing him in, accepting all that had happened even as it pierced her lungs.
"It will be alright," he offered, stroking her hair, binding her up in soft cords of reassurance. "I promise. We will get through this, Mary."
Her fingers clutched his shirt as she sniffed against his neck. His vow pushed past layers of hurt and doubt, finding a resting place in a niche freshly carved. And somehow she believed him, even in the midst of this pain. Her form sank into his in response, all barriers lowered, all pretense aside.
They would come through this, would smile yet again, even if such intangibles were beyond them at present. They were survivors and lovers, defiantly drawing life from each other in the midst of death and shadow.
"I'm tired," she finally offered, his embrace sealing her in even tighter as lids became heavy.
"Then rest," he instructed, kissing her forehead, stroking her arm in a silent benediction. "I'm not going anywhere."
He felt her breathing steady, her limbs slacken against him little by little. He drew the covers around her shoulders, warming her skin as he hoped the sun would warm their hearts in time. It was only then he allowed himself to think of his daughter, of his wife, mouthing a prayer of thanks that Mary lay alive and breathing in his arms. His heart was fractured, but it beat stubbornly on, prodded by this woman who stepped into his life and for some reason allowed him to love her.
He shed more tears in silence, losing count as consciousness began to slide from his grasp. Then the room blurred around him, his head dropping forward to his chest as all fight left his body. And cocooned in an embrace that refused to be broken, they slept.
To say this chapter was difficult to write would be a gross understatement. The pain of a miscarriage is not easy to portray, and I pray this attempt was well-conveyed and respectfully worded for those who have suffered such a loss. I knew this was coming, tried to prepare myself for it, but I still would get up and pace after writing a few paragraphs. (I even teared up once-I never do that with my own writing...) I do assure you that things get better in the next chapter, and I'm attempting to have that ready for you by next week rather than in two. (Consider it my way of convincing you not to send any arsenic-laced cookies my way over this one. I would also prefer no sharp objects be hurled in my direction, if you don't mind. :)
I always value your feedback as you know. :) It feeds the soul of any writer. And do have a lovely weekend.