Chapter 53
Mary
Dumfries
May 1, 1912

She had contemplated for weeks about what to do. It seemed the news of the baby was pushed aside amidst the discovery and grief upon Jock's death. It wasn't until Mary had been sitting in Jock's memorial service did she finally acknowledge it was time to do what she was dreading the most: tell Andrew Hume about her pregnancy.

Her mother had tried to convince her that she didn't have to tell the Humes. They had tried to make Mary an outcast when they began handfasting and never recognized her engagement to Jock. But deep down she knew Andrew was struggling with the same question as her: What was the point of this senseless, wasteful death? Perhaps if Andrew knew that Jock, his favorite child, was leaving him with a grandson, it would mend the fracture between the Humes and Costins to bring them together in their sorrow.

Mary found herself on the steps outside the Hume's house. Her hand shook as she knocked on the door.

It was Mrs. Hume that answered the door, her eyes narrowing upon seeing Mary. "I thought I told you–"

"This is important," Mary said, doing her best to not lose her nerve now that she was here. "It's about Jock."

Reluctantly, she was allowed in. She was led to the sitting room where Andrew was standing by the fireplace. She was shocked when he turned to face her. He looked years older than when she had last seen him at Jock's memorial service. Wrinkles lined his forehead and mouth and his hair, which was once the same shade as Jock's, was now streaked with gray. There was unbearable tension in the room, so much so that Mary continued to turn her small purse over and over in her hands.

"I came to tell you I am expecting his child," Mary said, careful to keep her face expressionless. "I thought you ought to know."

Sorrow, which was so clear in his hardened face, immediately vanished, replaced by loathing. Andrew came towards her, hatred so clear in his eyes that she feared he would strike her. But instead, he lowered his face to hers and hissed, "Get out of here you little slut, peddling lies about your bastard child. I doubt you know who the father is but it certainly isn't my son."

Mrs. Hume took Mary's arm, leading her towards the front door. Mary was surprised to see sympathy in the woman's eyes, slowly taken aback from her husband's reaction. "I'm sorry," she said softly as she ushered her out the door. "You must understand…"

Mary didn't look back as she walked back to Buccleuch Street. Her mother asked her how it went, but Mary merely shrugged. "Exactly as I expected it to."

She sat in her room later that morning, fighting another bout of nausea and exhaustion. No matter what Andrew Hume said, no matter what anyone said, she knew her child was not a bastard. This baby had been conceived in love, its father a hero of the Titanic. If Andrew Hume hadn't been her enemy before, he certainly was now. And little did he know what a grave mistake that was.