Arguing wasn't something that they did often. Not truly. Oh, they bickered like it was a sport, and teased one another daily, but arguing was rare. At least once Beckett was dead and their ordeal was done, for most of what they'd argued about before that - even prior to their marriage - pertained to the mess they'd been drawn into, Theodora's knowledge of that mess, and her subsequent actions thanks to that knowledge. With it gone, they were often in agreement about almost everything else, and when they were not it was seldom serious enough to necessitate an honest-to-God quarrel.
It was, perhaps, for that reason that James suspected neither of them truly realised they were even in a proper disagreement before it was too late. A casual remark turned into a serious one, a serious one turned into an illustration of some unwelcome facts, and then it all just…devolved.
In hindsight, he should have known better. He should have carefully changed the topic before it even got this far. They were but a third of the way through Theodora's pregnancy - long enough for the situation to no longer feel quite so tenuous as they might've been tempted to fear it in the beginning, but also long enough for them to be disabused of any notion that the road ahead would be an easy one. There were…episodes. Morning sickness seemed too casual a term for it - too common a term, for there was nothing cursory about it. Acute morning sickness, the phrase the local midwife used, was better but still didn't fit the bill. Theodora herself referred to them as her 'taking a bad turn', which still sounded laughably understated to his ears.
Her face would turn stark white, and she would curl up - on their bed, on the sofa, on the floor, wherever she was able - with her eyes shut, breathing deeply as she fended off a sudden wave of nausea. Sometimes, very rarely, it would abate. It would take a long while, but she'd slowly sit up, crack a smile, and rise.
More often, though, it would progress. When she rose it would be to rush to what had become her designated sick-pail, doubled over before it as she shivered and great bullets of sweat slid down her brow, her neck, her chest, sticking her hair to her face. It would pass, eventually, and she would be fine thereafter. Until it happened again. They'd done what they could to minimise the incidents - the bar cart now lived beneath a sheet in the kitchens, hidden from sight and smell both - and, unlike the first few times, they could now at least handle them without barrelling into blind fear that their child was at stake, but it was hardly pleasant.
It left Theodora feeling weak, tired, hormonal (her words) and fearful of any potential triggers for another episode on top of the ordinary fatigue her condition already induced, and the way her nerves were on-edge over the prospect of giving birth in a time far less medically advanced than her own - and it left James almost as tired, and sick with worry that he tried to hide so that it did not encourage her own. When added to the stresses of their business, running their household, and all that went into preparing the house for the nursery, and preparing themselves to be parents for the first time, it was a difficult time as well as an exciting one, depending on the day.
Today was not the day for this conversation. They were both bone-weary, and it showed in their tempers. On some level they knew that, for it wasn't a discussion they'd purposely gotten onto, just one they hadn't had the foresight to avoid. As James later reflected, they didn't realise they were straying into perilous territory with the wrong mind-state until it was too late. Sitting on the sofa, she'd been leafing fretfully through reports from Maryport as she grumbled.
"I swear, all of the men I managed to win over despite my being a woman went right back to being ignorant pricks the second word of my being pregnant spread. It's like it reminded them - ah, yes, she's a woman, she's got no brain - and now I'm back to…well, if not square one, then at least square two or three."
"Which men? What did they do?"
"Ugh, just the usual suspects," she'd said as she finally cast aside the letters "They struggle to believe a woman might actually know what she's talking about - I have to do twice the work that you do to convince them I'm right. It's a farce."
"They're unused to women being educated in more than how to play the pianoforte and speak French. Shall I have a word with them?"
"Absolutely not. I won this battle the first time, and I'll win it again. It's not like there's been any sacking offences, anyway. I tell you what, though, if this one is a girl she's getting the exact education as any brothers she might have."
"Well, not quite, but we'll do what we can."
"Not quite? What do you mean not quite?"
"Eton, Harrow, whichever one our sons attend, they do not accept girls. It can never be entirely equal through that fact alone…but I suppose if you insist, we may seek out some forward-thinking tutors in the stead of governesses, if there are any to be found. Although it may raise some eyebrows."
"Eton? Harrow?"
The tone had been cagey enough for him to match it. A bad turn from the previous night, during which he had watched vigilantly, worriedly, half-fearing that this one would be worse than the others rather than more of the same, and that he would have to rush out into the night to fetch a healer or a midwife just to be safe, and to the fatigue-induced burning behind his eyes, which had hardly helped matters.
"The finest schools in England, Theodora. They shall need them if they're to match their peers in the opportunities available to them. In the standard of their education."
"Boarding schools. Those are boarding schools."
"What of it?"
"Are you really suggesting there's no better school that isn't hundreds of miles away?"
"None that have the same reputation."
"I'm not having children to ship them off to the other end of the country and let someone else raise them, that's ridiculous."
"What's ridiculous is hobbling their future out of a desire to treat them as invalids who need their mother three feet within reach at any given time."
"Invalids? Because I'd want my children to live in the same county as me? Look, I know the concept of childhood hasn't been invented yet, but that doesn't mean they won't be children, and I'm not going to do what everybody else here does and expect a five year old to act like a fifty year old, and ship them off so they can be caned into thinking anybody raised north of the Thames is a savage. That's hardly unreasonable or hysterical of me - do you not think three hundred years of…of progression and improvement would provide me with some insight on this matter?"
And that was what led them to the present moment…and James' thoughtlessness, as he clenched his jaw in frustration and then retaliated.
"Yes, because I've heard all I need of the glowing progression that your time boasts of - truly an example to us all. Perhaps, my love, I may be so bold as to point out that if you wished to raise your children by the standards of your home, then you should have bloody well remained there."
James regretted the words the moment he spoke them - his tiredness and his foul mood fading in favour of horror as he realised what he'd just said. In fact, regret was too light a word - he had half a mind to sail to Ireland, seek out Achtland's stones for himself, and beg her to return him to a time in which he had not said them. Mostly, he wished Theodora would retort with something equally sharp and short-tempered. An exclamation of I wish I bloody had, so then they might both feel guilty, and both be left wishing they'd handled this conversation with a bit more grace. He was not so lucky.
His remark was greeted with silence instead, which he spent returning her wide-eyed stare of disbelief, realising just how thoughtless the words had been, just how many implications they might have beyond what he truly meant to say…and then feeling horror encase his chest when tears rose to her eyes.
"No," he said quickly - because it seemed the fastest, most immediate way of insisting he did not mean them - the acidity gone entirely from his voice "No, Theodora, I did not mean that…not in that way - never that."
"It's fine," she said quickly, rising to her feet "I know what you meant."
He knew that years worth of love and devotion and fighting for one another, for the chance to be with one another, could hardly be undone with one thoughtless jab. He also knew that the tears in her eyes were more to do with the effects of the babe in her belly than anything else. Just the other day, she'd welled up in response to the specific way one of the dogs rested his head atop her lap and looked up entreatingly at her, hoping to be fussed over. But it made him feel no less guilty as she rose to her feet. The bump, as she called it, was not yet so big as to impede her movement, only truly noticeable to those who paused to look for it.
"Theodora."
Rising in turn, he made to pursue her but she held her hands up, palms flat as though in surrender.
"I know, James - I know. You didn't mean it like that. But this is going nowhere. We're both tired, we're snapping at each other, we're getting wound up, best to just leave it for now, yeah? Regroup later."
Who could have foreseen that he would reach a day where he longed for a wife who was a bit less reasonable?
"Very well," he conceded - hoping that she would sit back down and he might lavish her with kisses and compliments until the tears vanished and they might laugh at themselves for getting so needlessly heated.
"Right, I'm going to see to the chickens."
Perhaps not.
"Leave them, Hope can see to that."
It was highly likely that she already had - their maid was a flurry of activity, never seeming to stop for more than a minute at a time, and finding much joy in that fact.
"I want to," she shook her head quickly.
And then she was gone, and James was left mouthing strings of very colourful expletives to himself.
Half an hour. That was all the time he allowed to pass. In truth, he meant to give it a full hour when he resolved to give her space, but half that was painful enough and he spent most of it staring at the clock while mentally berating himself for just how cruel his words had been. The fact that he'd punctuated them with the endearment my love only made him feel worse, and no amount of remembering all of the things she'd said that had irked him in the run-up to his retort helped him feel any better about it.
The sky was a moody grey when he stepped out of the back door that led from the kitchen and into the kitchen gardens - and even if he could not see the top of Theodora's head, poking above the wooden fence that enclosed the chicken's own little yard, the presence of one of the dogs, lying by the gate with a look that almost bordered concern on his face, would have. As James approached, the dog huffed lightly - as though it knew what had happened, and was taking Theodora's side. Given that he (and his brother, for that matter) followed her like shadows, it wasn't too far outside the realms of belief.
"Theodora?" he called.
The top of her head turned, and then she sniffed and cleared her throat.
"Yeah?"
Her steps to make it sound as though she had not been crying had proven unsuccessful.
"Would you like me to leave?" he asked carefully.
Then he regretted that, too, for he was unsure whether he could honour her wish if she did.
"Whatever you want," she replied quietly.
Relief washed over him, cool and encouraging. It was as close to a request to remain as he would get from her under the present circumstances. Walking to the gate, he slipped through it and shut it quickly behind him before the hound could even consider getting it in his head to follow and begin disturbing the hens. Theodora sat by the coop, on the ground, with a plump brown hen nestled atop her skirts like it was a housecat. James was tempted to breathe a laugh - before he noted the redness around her eyes.
"It's this sort of behaviour that has us keeping them for eggs only, you know," he said.
The counter-intuitivity of owning chickens and yet relying solely upon the local butcher for meat was not lost on him. Nor anybody in their household other than Theodora.
"She likes me," she shrugged a little and then sighed "Or my body heat, and the fact that I feed her."
"She has impressive discernment," he said softly, lowering himself to sit in the grass beside her.
Her responding smile was half-hearted and tight-lipped.
"Theodora," he began.
"James…" she sighed softly, as though hoping to discourage him.
"I am so incredibly sorry," he would not be waylaid "I spoke cruelly - and thoughtlessly, and I should not have."
"I was being stubborn," she shook her head "I'm used to having to play by the rules of the times, whether I like them or not."
"And you do so well."
None would ever mistake her for being a woman who revelled in society and in encompassing what some fools would imagine a dutiful wife to be (and such descriptors often were neatly summarised by the idea of a servant who happened to bear children, too), but she toed the line when required if it would achieve their ends - even when she viewed it as nonsensical.
"If the schooling is part of that, then that's the way it is. You had a point."
"Not in all of it," he said - and had to see the humour in the fact that just an hour ago he would have rejoiced in hearing her admit it "And certainly not in that. I made you weep."
"You didn't," she disagreed quietly.
He gave her an unimpressed look at that, and she sniffed and shook her head.
"Alright, I cried, but you didn't…I know you didn't mean it. I saw on your face how much you regretted it after you said it. But I cry over bloody everything these days. You know that. It's mortifying."
"You need never be embarrassed in my presence," he said "You need not have left."
"I'm not going to be the wife who wins arguments by crying," she replied sourly.
"And I shall never be the husband to bows to such manipulations," he snorted "But that could never be you."
"Is it ever going to stop bothering you?" she asked, voice quiet and uncharacteristically small as she stared down at the plump brown hen in her lap.
"Your tears?" he frowned.
"No," she shook her head.
"What, then?"
Shifting listlessly beside him, she finally sighed and then shook her head again, slumping further against the fence behind them.
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
"Tell me," he insisted "Please."
"The fact that you weren't the first and only man I was ever intimate with," she murmured.
He'd thought the worst of his words had been the insinuation that she should not have come here, knowingly or otherwise, but he saw now that that was hardly even the half of it. It was at that point that James' heart sank from the pit of his stomach, down to his boots. He hadn't realised just how to heart she'd take the piggishness of his statement, and what she'd understood his sentiment to mean.
"Oh, Theodora," he sighed "No."
She flinched at that, and then nodded silently in stony acceptance, sending him rushing to amend his statement.
"I didn't mean no, just that…it can never stop bothering me, because it never began bothering me."
A sharp, rueful look followed his words, displaying the exact extent of her belief in that assertion.
"It was a shock," he amended "And something to…to wrap my mind around. But by the time a mere hour had gone by - no, less than that - it was a non-issue in my mind. It never coloured my opinion of you, certainly not once I knew that the moral standards of your home differ greatly. And although I was only trying to make you blush with what I said on the matter afterwards, I confess I was relieved in the end that…"
He hesitated, and then continued on, his voice lowered "...that our first night together was a pleasurable experience for both of us, and not something you spent in fear, nor in pain. I'm glad for it. I was glad for it then, and I'm still glad for it now."
"All right," she said softly.
"You must believe me," he entreated "That was not what I meant when I said what I did. It's not something that even dwells within my mind."
"What did you mean, then? When you said that?"
"I meant to be an arse - and I succeeded rather well, I think."
"I wasn't listening to you," she shrugged slightly.
"The response to which should never be cruelty."
"You could never be cruel."
"I was today."
"Nah."
"Nah is not an argument," he said, and then added before she had a chance to formulate one "Nor is it for you to make me feel better at the moment while I'm trying to apologise."
"Well I don't want to make you feel worse."
"Will you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive."
Sighing his dissatisfaction, James shifted and then decided a change of tact was in order.
"You were being rather stubborn," he sighed lightly "Even by your standards, which is truly saying something."
He kept his eyes fixed on her face as he teased her - ready to backtrack swiftly the moment he thought she mistook him for being anything less than entirely teasing. But, thank God, instead the corners of her lips tugged upwards, she sniffled, and then she sighed and finally told him what he wanted to hear.
"And you were an arse there at the end. Happy?"
"Only if you forgive me."
"Of course I do, James."
All in all, their spat had lasted less than an hour in total, but he still regretted that it had happened at all.
"I'm sorry, too," she murmured "I could feel myself being unreasonable, but I couldn't stop it. It's not like I'm not used to having to adhere to the way things are here. I just…panicked. I was scared."
"Why? They would be quite safe, I assure you - if not, I wouldn't suggest it."
"I know. I know. But I can barely dare to believe this is real," she sighed quietly, smoothing a hand over her bump (a move which made the hen in her lap jealous, judging by the way it eyed her sidelong thereafter) "I spent a lot of time wondering that if we couldn't, and if that wouldn't be the price we'd have to pay for giving fate the middle finger. Neither of us are meant to be here, so it would make a sick kind of sense if we weren't…if I wasn't capable. But I am, and we are, and we're just out of the danger zone of the first trimester, and I'm showing, and it's real, and I'm actually daring to believe that we're going to have a baby…"
James sighed heavily.
"And then I started speaking of boarding schools and you felt like it was all being taken away."
She breathed a tired laugh, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve "Presumably there'd be a brief pause between the birth and that."
"Oh, long enough for a quick introduction, at least," he replied drily "Maybe even a cup of tea. Just while we settle on the matter of a name."
"I'm not sure we can give newborns tea."
"A detail we should puzzle out before the time comes. Coffee, then? Brandy? A cigar, surely?"
Theodora snickered, muttering something beneath her breath that sounded suspiciously like daft bastard, and he accepted the moniker gladly - if only from her, and solely because it made her smile. Then she bowed her head, fingertips ghosting over the hen's wings.
"If boarding school is what it'll take for any sons we have - should we have any - to get the opportunities they might want, then boarding school is what it'll be," she said quietly.
"And should we have daughters, we'll set about finding tutors for them that will give them the most rounded education possible," James said "If no tutors fit the bill, we'll do it our damn selves."
"You'd best hope for sons, then," Theodora teased "I've always been terrible at maths. And my geography is a bit, uh, outdated. Or is it in-dated, if it's the reverse?"
"We'll find our way. We always do," he said "Although I might prefer it if we don't make a tradition of settling our disputes in the chicken pen."
The smile that rose to her face then was the most genuine yet.
