Chapter 17
There was something decidedly comforting about being curled up by a warm fire on a snowy night.
Ana had spent most of her nights in the parlor doing just that ever since Peter left.
Their autumn tradition of dining on the balcony had quickly transformed into taking their nightly tea in the parlor, with the large windows providing a nearly unobstructed view of their frost-topped land.
But as Peter was not there to provide Ana with conversation or entertainment, she pulled the large mahogany chair up to the fireplace, along with a few extra pillows, and nestled in for the evening.
Ana dragged her gaze from the depths of the fire to return her concentration to the matter at hand .
. . quite literally. She was making her best attempt at a baby bonnet, and it was going miserably.
It would not be embroidered—Ana had never had the patience for such activities, but she once had some talent at sewing and needlework.
But now, straight, clean stitches seemed to evade her, instead being replaced by crooked, uneven lines that she had been continuously pulling out.
Her child would be mortified when she grew old enough to recognize the great sloppiness in her mother’s handiwork.
Clearly she should have practiced more recently instead of letting the more complicated parts of the art slip while she was traveling Espana with Papá.
She squinted her eyes, still smarting from the bright light of the fire, and jabbed the needle through the delicate, floral fabric once again.
Clicking her tongue in concentration, she worked the needle back up through the fabric with trembling fingers.
There! That stitch had been better, but only just. Perhaps she should abandon the thought entirely.
But Mrs. Smith had been so generous to bring over some scraps of fabric for this precise purpose.
She could not let the kind woman’s action go unappreciated, even if her efforts were an exceedingly poor reflection of her gratitude.
Ana held the fabric up to the light to examine her work more closely, then turned to the chair opposite her, eager to poke fun at her failure .
. . only to realize, once again, that she was utterly alone.
She brought the needle down in a frustrated poke, missing her mark entirely.
Ana had always considered herself to be a fairly independent woman.
And while that desire for independence still stoked a constant fire beneath her, she now felt a distinct loneliness without Peter by her side.
The sensation of missing him—needing him—terrified her.
She had settled into a quiet, comfortable existence at his side these past months, and now, upon being separated from him, all sorts of worrisome questions began to arise in her mind.
Was this aching feeling an indication that she was too dependent upon Peter for her own well-being and happiness?
Was she losing herself in depending upon him?
And if so, what would happen when he would inevitably be required to report to distant lands again as part of his duties to the army?
The pain in her chest almost convinced her that she might fall apart at the notion.
But other women in similar circumstances might decide that their lives would be less complicated and better off in a separated state from their husbands. Her mother had demonstrated as much.
Mamá had left them much too soon. Although anytime would have been too soon.
How could a mother ever deem a time as appropriate to abandon her husband and child?
But Ana had been at such a tender age, nearly on the cusp of womanhood.
It was a time when she had needed the influence and wisdom of her mother so desperately.
But Mamá would not continue following Papá and his armada across the country—or world—in the name of peace.
It was too great a sacrifice, although following her own selfish designs for her life required a great sacrifice on her part: her daughter.
Ana shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of the painful memory.
No good would come from dragging such things into her mind when she was intent upon creating an entirely different relationship with her own child.
She had only a few short months left until the time of her confinement would be upon her, and the thought of having her baby in her arms filled her with equal parts terror and longing.
She could not allow her relationship with her baby to become like her own relationship with her mother.
Her relationship with her husband and her relationship with her child should be some of the most treasured interactions of her life.
Ana already understood that it would require a great deal of effort and vigilance to ensure that those relationships didn’t sour, or grow uninteresting, as they perhaps had for Mamá.
But she was not prepared for what would happen when she lost her heart, completely and entirely, to her husband and her baby.
That would be the greatest risk she had ever faced.
For how would she survive if she loved them, in her passionate and wholehearted manner, and then lost them, as she had loved and lost Mamá?
Peter, of course, knew nothing of this, although Ana was certain he had wondered why she so rarely spoke of her mother.
But if they were to be joined in this journey of parenthood together, she would need to help him understand how her own parents had affected her.
So Ana took advantage of the unique circumstance of Peter’s absence and wrote him a series of letters on the matter.
It was infinitely easier to patiently pen the words than say them aloud.
It was also easier to express herself in English through writing, given that she had the time to search for correct translations.
And she had found that his answering letter had echoed many of the feelings she had herself.
* * *
The last letter Peter had sent to Ana had not been an easy one to pen.
He had spent many long minutes staring out the window, a piece of empty parchment in front of him, praying for God to inspire him with the words he felt he needed to say.
His time at Heathridge Hall was stirring up many emotions in him, reminding him of the reality that he would soon have a child to claim as his own.
I admit that fatherhood frightens me. I have spent most of my life endeavoring to escape the shadow of my own father.
He has shaped me in many ways, none of which I want to imitate in shaping my own children.
It is because of him that I do not drink.
It is because of him that I left my mother, even too young as I was, to escape to the army.
It is because of him that I never imagined myself being married or having children.
Even with all the structure and rules of the army, men could still let loose on their carnal nature, submitting themselves to their more violent tendencies.
San Sebastián taught me this more than anything.
Even the best of men can be reduced to savages.
I was frozen in the shock of this for quite some time, I fear.
It was precisely why I ran away from my own family.
I was convinced that the regimen of the army would keep me from becoming the monster that my father was.
But ultimately, I saw that same, horrific translation in so many around me.
This, I confess, is my greatest fear in becoming a father.
I married you because I was convinced that I could better protect you as your husband than I could otherwise.
But how will I protect our child from the cruelty of the world?
How will I protect her from wicked men when I have gone from this world?
It seems I have lost faith in all those around me. All except you, querida Ana.
Peter paused the motion of his quill, tapping the tip on the parchment.
He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, but try as he might, he could not fight off the attack of memories that were swarming his head, scrambling over his defenses.
He had shut them out for so long, but becoming a father, it seemed, was loosening the formidable stones in the wall he had created in his mind. Not now.
Young Peter was crouched in the hallway, outside the door of his mother’s chambers.
Father had just arrived home from another seemingly rambunctious evening.
He’d been able to smell the wine on Father’s breath and clothing as he stumbled by from underneath the small side table where he hid.
He had prayed, begged, that Father would collapse onto his bed and slip into sleep, but instead, he had stormed into Mother’s rooms.
“You fool of a woman!” a deep, harsh voice yelled, the slurred tone all too familiar.
Peter bound his fingers together, making a tight fist. He was the worst kind of villain, his father. If Peter were only bigger and older, he would burst through the door himself.
The hard echo of flesh hitting flesh permeated the corridor, followed by a whimper of pain, and suddenly, Peter could not stop himself anymore.
He jumped from beneath the table, his fingers only a breath away from the doorknob, when small, but strong hands pulled him backward.
Matthew’s lanky arms wrapped around him; his tall frame pressed against Peter’s back.
“Come, Pete,” he whispered, “Mother told us to hide. He’s in one of his furies, and it will only be worse if he finds us.”
“I can’t let him hit her again!” Peter whispered, his voice hoarse and furious, but devastated tears leaked down his cheeks.
“I know.” Matthew’s own voice cracked. “But you and I both know that he’ll treat her even worse if he finds us here. We need to go back to our room and lock the door. We’ll wait until Mother comes to us.”
Wetness splashed onto Peter’s hand, pulling him from the past. He looked down, expecting an offending spot of ink from his wild quill, only to realize that tears had dripped down off his face.
It was not an easy thing to recall the pain Mother had endured.
The pain they all had endured. He had blocked it out for so long.
Peter had only been a small boy of ten years.
And that was when he had vowed that he would run away to the army.
He would become strong and seasoned until he could fight off his father and any man who tried to hurt a precious woman in his life.
But he had been too late to protect Mother.
His father had died over a year ago, and the end of the war with France was nowhere in sight yet.
How distraught that younger version of himself would be if he now knew that any measure of decency, restraint, or ethics was similarly lost among the soldiers he had once called brothers.
How long he would carry the painful memory of their grave mistakes, he did not know.
But he would strive as much as possible to have a closer relationship with God, with Ana, in the hope that their influence would heal him in time.