As Annabelle dressed hurriedly the next morning, shame flooded her. This night was a mistake. A wonderful mistake while it was happening, but a mistake all the same. How could she have done this? Her husband had just left for a land that possibly held his death, and here she was, dressing herself after lying with another man. She was disgraceful.

Jack approached her from behind, in nothing but trousers and boots, and took the strings of her corset gently from her. He tied them together easily, and handed her the purple gown that lay on the floor of the room. She hastily threw it on and grabbed her boots, eager to leave.

"Hey now," Jack turned her around, taking her shaking pale hands in his. "What's the hurry, Anna?"

"This was wrong Jack," Annabelle avoided his eyes. "Jacob just went off to war, and the first thing I do is go to bed with another man. A pirate no less." she could feel her cheeks growing red at the thought.

Jack responded by kissing her lightly, causing her heart to jump.

"I care about yeh very much, Annabelle Crowe," he whispered, cupping her face in his calloused hands.

That cemented the shame inside her chest. I care about you. Not, I love you. She had thought that he truly meant what he'd said, but now she thought otherwise. He couldn't say those three words to her, three simple words. Three words that would've meant so much coming from him. She'd slept with a man in hopes that he'd love her back, but instead got a stomach full of bubbling guilt and confusion in the morning.

She quickly bid the pirate goodbye, and sped down the stairs of the inn, which was fairly empty this early in the morning. As she stepped outside, she could just make out the sun gently rising over the hills to the east. She turned her back to it and went to look for her carriage. She found it tied up, the driver nowhere in sight. She stood next to the horses, waiting impatiently for him to arrive. He soon did, tucking his shirt into his trousers as he went. It seemed that she was not the only one who had an eventful night last night. He looked up and saw her, his face turning red under his graying moustache.

"G'mornin' ma'am," he mumbled, helping her into the carriage and then settling himself on the driver's bench in front. He cracked his whip quickly and the horses set off at a fast trot toward home.

The next few weeks were difficult, and Annabelle found herself distracted most days with thoughts of Jack. She longed for his touch again, as disgraceful and shameful as it was to think that way. She often dreamed of him as well. In every dream they were in the Mediterranean sea cove that had led to the night of her defloration. And each dream ended the same way, with heartbreaking disappointment.

Another disconcerting issue was her physical state. She found herself nauseous and faint more and more often, and was beginning to find herself craving strange foods, especially taramosalata, a spread which she had tasted within the home of Stefanos, the Greek man who'd betrayed Jack to the Royal Navy. Even still, she refused to address the possible reason for it.

One early morning, after having vomited into her chamber pot multiple times, Mary came rushing through the door.

"Mary? What are you doing here?" Annabelle asked, panting in exhaustion.

"Michael McCaphrey's eatin' mushy foods now, my services aren't needed there. And your boy told me you've been feelin' sick. Let me look at you."

She lifted Annabelle's face in her hand, examining her closely. She felt her forehead, and felt her neck just under her jaw line.

"You don't have a fever, ma'am," she muttered, pulling the woman up from her knees to sit on the bed. "I think you should go see Doctor Mclaughlan."

Annabelle shook her head vehemently. "No, honestly I'm fine it's probably just a little-oh God!"

Another spasm overtook her and and she dropped to her knees again, dry heaving into the chamber pot. Mary looked at her with sympathetic green eyes as she helped Annabelle into her bed again.

"I'll go empty this, and then we're goin' straight to Mclaughlan's." her voice held a stern finality, and Annabelle in her weakened state could hardly argue.

Mary held Annabelle in her arms, easing her through the carriage ride. The nausea was terrible, and she barely made it without getting sick. They rushed into the doctor's office, eager to get the examination over with.

Doctor Mclaughlan strode out, his graying copper hair combed back from his face. His wrinkled face was benevolent and curious.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Montel?" he asked graciously, taking her clammy pale hands into his own large ones.

"She's not been feelin' well, Doctor," Mary said quickly. "I suggested she come here."

Mclaughlan nodded seriously, leading Annabelle to his examination room, and had her lay on his medical table. At request, Mary was bidden to sit with the sick woman, holding her hand for comfort.

When the examination was over, Doctor Mclaughlan looked grim. He wiped his hands off and looked at Annabelle with what she thought was disdain.
"As I understand it, your husband's gone off to war?" he asked, his hands clasped together in front of him.

Annabelle nodded, unable to speak without feeling as though she'd be sick.

"I know this is quite a personal question, forgive me, but…when did you and he last lay together?"

"The-the night before he left," Annabelle choked out, slightly confused at the question.

The doctor's face relaxed immensely, and he patted one of her left hand, which held the golden ring she'd received on her wedding day.

"Well, I should congratulate you, ma'am. You're pregnant!" a smile stretched across his aging Irish face.

Annabelle was shocked. Pregnant? Again? She was saved from any response, for having seen her face, Mary had rised to grab a pot from a counter, into which Annabelle vomited furiously.