Chapter 6 #2
How strange it was to have to eat to keep down the sickness when eating was the very thing that seemed to cause her sickness to worsen. Ana rubbed a hand down her temple.
“Yes, I will do that, gracias. Will you eat too?”
“I already took my breakfast, thank you. I simply wasn’t sure how hungry you would be and didn’t want your food to be scarce.” He scratched at his head, a wobbling smile on his lips.
After devouring more of the bread and preserves than she had been anticipating, Ana finally settled back into her chair and sighed. The desperation of her nausea was already beginning to diminish, and it was a most welcome relief.
* * *
Peter watched with no small amount of pride as Ana—his wife—ate a larger amount of food than she had managed in many weeks.
She then settled back into bed with a sigh of relief and contentment.
Her spiraling hair was somehow contained in a braid that looped over her shoulder.
He found the arrangement to be most becoming, particularly when the depth of her black hair contrasted with the deep scarlet of the wrapper she wore.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
“Por qué?”
He tilted his head at her breakfast tray. “You’ve managed to eat a great deal of food this morning.”
“Ha! It is like I am a little child. You are so proud that I eat all my food!” she laughed, the sound bouncing musically about the room.
Peter could not help but chuckle along until she suddenly doubled over, clutching at her stomach and covering her mouth with a hand. He sprang into action, scooping up a clean chamber pot from beneath her bed.
“It proves difícil to hide my . . .” her hands went to her midsection.
“I know. I understand it is somewhat of a delicate business . . . Perhaps I can ask Cook if she knows of any remedies.”
“I would love to have some . . . remedies.” She sounded out the new word slowly, rolling the r in a telltale sign of her accent. “But it would tell of my condition, no?”
Peter’s eyes darted to her hands, and his neck heated.
“Of course. I understand it is somewhat of a delicate matter. Particularly when your ‘temporary illness’ will not subside. But I can assure you that you have no need to be worried about any of the staff. And as for the timing of it all, I feel confident they will believe that we have . . . that you are . . . that the child is mine,” his voice finally finished, his cheeks reddening further. “And properly so.”
“Entiendo.”
“Right, good.”
Peter’s gaze brushed back to her midsection, trying to imagine the tiny miracle of life growing there.
He was still coming to terms with the fact that he was a husband and also a soon-to-be father.
He had never anticipated becoming a father, not when he was given such a horrible example by his own father.
The reality of his impending fatherhood still felt entirely fictitious, just as it had felt when the words had come racing out of his mouth, claiming responsibility for Ana and the child.
When Ana had revealed to him her condition, they had just recently landed on the border of England, with soldiers, travelers, and immigrants swelling around the coast. Peter had felt relieved to have his feet on English soil again, but Ana had looked more distressed as the day went on.
Then she had revealed to him the reality of her situation.
They had argued fiercely that night as they scoured their minds for solutions.
“You do not deserve the fate of the other women in San Sebastián,” he had protested, a very real panic searing his mind.
“But I am no better than they. I going to fight for mí, and mi bebé, how these women do.”
“That is not what I meant to imply.” How could he make her understand?
“I only wished to say that . . . well, you know the complicated nature of being an unwed mother. It could put you in a position of grave danger, particularly given the . . . history of the events we have just survived. If we can make an arrangement for the babe . . .”
“I will not leave mi bebé without a mother. I cannot.”
“She would have a mother, just not . . .”
“Not her mother. It would be a gran error.”
Her gaze was fiery, her jaw set, and her nose scrunched in disgust at the suggestion.
But beneath her firm facade, Peter did not miss how her lip trembled.
Some other women would consider it a welcome solution to give up their child to a wet nurse or to a family in want of a baby so that they could return to society and their life before. Clearly it was not so for Ana María.
He blew out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “Very well. Then what do you suggest we do?”
“I come to London. You say there are good physicians there, no?”
“Yes, true, but you cannot simply come . . .”
“?Y por qué no?”
Because it was entirely unacceptable and improper for him to arrive at home with an unmarried woman, particularly one who would begin to show signs of pregnancy in the coming months.
And then there was the issue of their countries being tangled in war.
How would his friends and neighbors view her heritage after news of the battle reached them?
What would his family think of her? He shook his head.
This was all much more complicated than he had imagined it would be.
“I’m sorry, it simply wouldn’t do . . .”
But how could he rescue Ana María from San Sebastián and then turn her out to survive on her own in even worse circumstances? Doing so when he had every reason and every resource to be able to rescue her would be a sin. He would be no better a man than his father had been.
Peter rotated toward Ana María until he faced her completely.
“Look at me.” Reaching out a finger, he lifted her chin, raising her gaze from where it had been trained on the floor.
Apprehension coursed through him, tightening the muscles in his shoulders and neck.
He would protect her in the only way he knew how. It had to be done.
“I know that you likely have no desire to be involved with an Englishman ever again after what they did,” he said, unable to meet her eyes.
“But I hope that you would harbor some measure of trust in me for coming with me this far. And now I only see one way to continue to protect you and your child. If you would accept, I would make you my wife.”
As the words left him, all breath likewise abandoned him. What sort of future was he submitting himself to?
“Ay que romántico!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes and tossing her head. “Why marry?” Her theatrics did not hide the worry that laced tension through her features.
He should have known she would fight it. Peter’s rational mind started whirring, creating detailed plans as to why this was the solution with the greatest chance of success and safety.
“Because I cannot bring you to London, to my home in your . . . current delicate state without some kind of arrangement between us. It would not seem proper.”
“But the people, they know that mi bebé is not yours, verdad?”
“That’s just it. If we did marry, we would act as if the child were mine. To protect you. And the child.”
Ana María had gone quiet for a moment, something that was most irregular for her. Then she whispered, “Sí, this will work. I will marry you.”
He had always imagined that a proposal of marriage would incur some kind of emotion in the gentleman proposing, even if he hadn’t ever imagined being married himself.
But instead of being swept away by a whirlwind of affection, he felt empty and uneasy.
Instead of grasping her hand, embracing her, or even kissing her, he merely bowed his head in resignation.
Things had certainly gotten complicated very quickly.
He had felt so frightened then, and he hadn’t even been the one to be carrying a child or suffering from the sickness that child brought.
A long yawn sounded from his side. His eyes again focused on Ana—his wife—relaxed against the pillows, her eyelids low in exhaustion and relief.
Now he had to do all he could to ensure that she was safe and protected.
“How are you settling into things here?” Peter asked.
“Muy bien. It is so beautiful here. I so much love the gardens and the church. I miss Espana. I miss mi familia. But I feel safe here.” Ana’s delicate hands went to her abdomen, her brow relaxing, its creases slowly disappearing. “Mi bebé will be safe here. I hope she no will feel lonely.”
A memory splashed through Peter’s mind. His own mother had married and settled into a comfortable life but had been abandoned in every other way possible.
She had been left with the boys to rely on her own devices while her husband was off entertaining himself with every carnal pleasure he could conceive.
Raising one child alone was difficult enough, but raising two rowdy boys?
It had been nearly impossible for her in those early days.
Even her large staff was loyal to her husband, leaving her emotionally isolated.
Peter remembered well how she would sit next to his bed and silently cry for hours after she had supposed him asleep.
The image of his mother, her beautiful face sucked thin by worry and fatigue, her cheeks doused with tears, gave Peter pause.
But she had always felt a special, heaven-sent peace here, hadn’t she?
Indeed, there was a special spirit in Abbeygate for the mothers of his family, one that would bless Ana María as well.
The path ahead of them was not an easy one.
He still had no certainty of his standing with the army and could not guarantee that Ana’s identity and life here would remain secret forever.
But he would protect her—and her child—with his life.
If he had not been able to protect his own mother, he owed it to her and himself to protect his wife.