CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Something was different.
She noticed it first on their second-to-last morning in the Lake District. She woke feeling strange…not ill, exactly, but off. Her body felt heavy and unfamiliar, as though she had borrowed it from someone else and hadn't yet learned how it worked.
She dismissed it as tiredness. They had walked far the day before, perhaps too far. Her body was simply protesting the exertion.
But the next morning, it happened again. And this time, there was something else: a wave of nausea that rolled through her without warning, sending her stumbling from the bed to the washstand.
Sebastian was beside her immediately, his hand on her back. "Harriet? What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She straightened, wiping her mouth, trying to breathe through the lingering queasiness. "Something I ate, perhaps. The fish at dinner didn't taste right."
"Should I send for a physician?"
"No, no. It's passing already. I'm fine."
She was not fine. The nausea lingered at the edges of her consciousness all day, surging whenever she smelled something strong or ate something rich. She forced herself to eat, forced herself to smile, and forced herself to pretend that nothing was wrong.
Because it probably was nothing. She had felt ill before. She had been late before. It had never meant anything.
But the morning they were meant to leave, it happened again…the nausea, the rushing to the basin, the horrible retching that left her pale and shaking. And as she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the world to stop spinning, she did the mathematics.
Her courses were late. Not dramatically, only a week, perhaps a bit more…but noticeably. She had been so focused on not thinking about such things that she had almost missed it.
Late courses. Morning nausea. A strange fatigue that had settled into her bones.
She knew what these signs could mean. She had looked for them desperately, month after month, for two years. And month after month, they had meant nothing.
They probably meant nothing now.
But a small voice in her head…a voice she had spent months trying to silence, whispered something else entirely.
***
Something was wrong with Harriet.
He noticed it on the journey home, the way she picked at her food, the way she turned pale at certain smells, the way she seemed distracted and distant even when she smiled. She insisted she was fine, that it was merely travel fatigue, that she would be perfectly recovered once they were home.
Sebastian didn't believe her.
"You would tell me," he said, as the carriage rolled through the familiar countryside near Thornwood, "if something was wrong?"
"Of course I would."
"You're certain?"
"Sebastian." She took his hand, her grip firm. "I'm fine. I promise."
But there was something in her eyes, something guarded, something she was hiding that made his chest tight with worry. He had spent two years learning to read her, to understand the subtle shifts in her expression that signaled joy or fear or sorrow. He knew when she was lying.
She was lying now.
He didn't push. Whatever she was hiding, she would tell him when she was ready. That was how their matrimony worked, trust and patience and the faith that they would always, eventually, find their way back to each other.
But the not-knowing gnawed at him. Had the peace of the Lake District been an illusion? Was she dreading the return to society? Had he done something wrong, said something that hurt her without meaning to?
He ran through every conversation, every moment, looking for clues. He found nothing.
All he could do was wait.
***
Thornwood Park welcomed them home like an old friend.
The servants greeted them warmly, the familiar rooms embraced them, and for a moment…just a moment…Harriet felt the peace of the Lake District follow her through the door.
Then the nausea surged again, and she barely made it to her chamber pot in time.
When she emerged, pale and shaking, Sebastian was there.
"Harriet." His voice was worried. "This has been happening every morning. Don't tell me it's nothing."
"It might be nothing."
"But it might not be."
She looked at him…really looked at him and saw the fear in his eyes. Not fear of illness. Fear of hope.
He had figured it out. Of course he had. He knew her too well to miss the signs.
"I don't know for certain," she said quietly. "I won't know for weeks yet. It could be nothing. It's probably nothing. I've felt this way before, and it's never meant…"
"Or it could be everything."
She nodded, tears threatening. "Or it could be everything."
He crossed to her in two strides, pulling her into his arms. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want to get your hopes up. I didn't want to see that look on your face and then have to watch it crumble again." She pressed her face against his chest. "I've watched you hope before. It hurt almost as much as hoping myself."
"I would rather hope with you than have you carry this alone."
"I know. I know that now." She pulled back to look at him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
"Don't be sorry." He cradled her face in his hands. "Just don't hide from me. Whatever this is, we face it together. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Then tell me. Tell me what you're feeling."
Harriet took a shaky breath. "I'm terrified. I'm hopeful. I'm angry at myself for hoping, because hope hurts so much when it doesn't come true." Her voice broke.
"And I'm trying so hard to believe what we said in the Lake District that we would stop trying, stop waiting, just live, but now there are signs, and I can't pretend I don't see them."
"You don't have to pretend."
"But what if it's nothing? What if we hope and hope and it's nothing again?"
"Then we'll grieve. And we'll move forward." Sebastian pressed his forehead to hers. "Together. The way we always have."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. Nothing about this has ever been simple. But we've survived it before, and we'll survive it again." He kissed her gently. "Whatever happens, Harriet. I love you. That's the only thing I know for certain."
She clung to him, tears streaming down her face, hope and fear tangled so tightly in her chest that she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"I love you too," she whispered. "More than I can say."
They stood there, holding each other, as the afternoon light faded around them.
And somewhere in the distance, a nightingale began to sing.