6. Dulcie
DULCIE
There is a chair outside the nursery that I have never seen before.
It is upholstered in pale green, with a matching footstool still wrapped in plastic. A delivery man stands beside it holding a clipboard. Cressida is in the nursery doorway, explaining where she wants it.
“By the window. No, the other side. The light’s better there.”
I stop at the top of the stairs.
My school bag slips down my arm. I catch it against my hip and look past him into the room Magnus and I were supposed to finish together.
A large white crib stands against the far wall.
The one I ordered is downstairs, still boxed.
I paid for it from my wages after looking at measurements and reviews and asking my father whether he thought we could put it together ourselves.
I had imagined a small evening of it: Magnus on the floor with the instructions, me handing him the wrong screw, both of us laughing because we were going to be somebody’s parents.
I have not managed to interest him in the box.
This crib is already assembled.
“What’s going on?”
Cressida turns. “Oh, good. You can tell them where you want the other chair.”
“What other chair?”
“For your room.”
“My room?”
Dorothea appears from the guest room at the end of the hall. The room where I have been sleeping.
“We’ve had the bed moved slightly. There’ll be more room for you to get in and out afterward.”
“After what?”
“The birth, Dulcie.”
I look from her to Cressida. The delivery man examines his clipboard. I want him to hear all of this, and I want him gone so badly that I cannot make myself look at his face.
“Who said I was recovering in there?”
“It makes sense,” Dorothea says. “You’re already using it.”
“Because Magnus and I had an argument.”
She gives me a small, disapproving look. “We don’t need to hear the details.”
The man clears his throat. Cressida points into the nursery again.
“By the window, please.”
“Wait.”
He stops.
I put my bag on the floor. Even removing its weight feels like relief. I hate that I have to organize my body before I can object to what they are doing with my life.
“This isn’t the crib I chose.”
Cressida looks at it. “This one fits the room.”
“So does mine.”
“Dorothea wanted something a little more substantial.”
“Mine is safe.”
“Nobody said it wasn’t.”
She says it so quickly that the delivery man gives a polite little nod, as though reassuring me too. I wish I had not sounded defensive. I wish I did not need to defend something I had chosen for my own baby.
“Where’s Magnus?”
“Downstairs,” Dorothea says. “He’s just finishing a call.”
Of course he is here. Of course they would not be moving furniture in his house without telling him.
I step into the nursery. On the dresser is a sheet of paper with blocks of time, room names, a few notes written beside them. Cressida reaches for it as I pick it up.
“We’re still working that out.”
I hold on to it.
The main nursery. The guest room. Staff available overnight. Feedings coordinated with my rest. Visitors kept to agreed hours.
“Who is coordinating this?”
“I can help Magnus with the household side,” Cressida says. “You won’t want to be bothered.”
“I want to know where my child is.”
“Here. In his nursery.”
“And I’m down the hall.”
“You need sleep.”
“My mother is coming to stay.”
Dorothea looks at Cressida, then back at me. “There’s no need for Eunice to put herself out.”
“Eunice is my mother. She isn’t putting herself out. We’ve talked about it.”
“It’s generous of her, but trained help is more useful in a house of this size.”
“She’s coming to help me.”
“She can visit,” Dorothea says. “Naturally.”
I hear the favor in the final word.
My mother, who worked extra shifts when I needed things she couldn’t afford, who can tell from the sound of my hello whether I have eaten, is being offered visiting hours. Cressida is standing in the middle of the nursery with a plan for how people will bring me my baby.
“What happens if I wake up and want him?”
Cressida looks faintly puzzled. “You ask.”
I stare at her.
“You ask whoever’s on duty,” she adds, as if the missing detail was the problem.
“And if I want him with me?”
“Then we’ll see how you’re doing.”
“We?”
She glances at Dorothea. “You don’t need to make it sound sinister.”
The chair squeaks as the delivery man shifts his grip. He has been holding it while we talk. I look at the pale green seat and imagine Cressida in it, comfortable, explaining to someone that I need another hour of rest before they bring my son down the hall.
I want to sit in that chair myself. I want to be tired in it, untidy in it, learning what makes my baby settle. I want the ordinary mistakes that belong to being his mother. I haven’t even met him, and I’m already being told someone else will decide when I’ve had enough.
I put the paper down before they can see it shake.
For a moment I can picture it too clearly. Waking sore and confused in the guest room. Listening for a sound from the nursery. Finding an empty crib because someone has decided he needs something, and I am supposed to be grateful they did not wake me.
My hand spreads over my belly.
“Move it wherever you need to finish safely,” I tell the delivery man. “But don’t move anything else.”
Then I go downstairs.
Magnus is in the study. He looks up when I open the door and lifts one finger, asking me to wait.
I stay standing until he ends the call.
“Why is Cressida arranging my recovery?”
He sets the phone down. “She’s helping Mother.”
“Why is your mother arranging it?”
“Because it needs arranging.”
“I have made arrangements. My mother is staying. The baby will be with me.”
“You’ll have help.”
“I didn’t ask you to buy a replacement for my mother.”
His expression sharpens. “Be careful.”
“With what?”
“With how you speak about what people are doing for you.”
I hear footsteps behind me. Dorothea stops in the doorway. She has followed slowly enough to appear patient.
“Dulcie seems to think we’re excluding her,” she says.
“You are discussing where I sleep and who has my baby as though I’m not here.”
“A Ludlow heir will be raised in a Ludlow house,” Dorothea says. “It’s hardly a controversial expectation.”
I turn to Magnus.
“Tell her to stop.”
He looks at his mother, then at me. “The arrangements are sensible.”
“I don’t want them.”
“You don’t know what you’ll want when you’re exhausted.”
“I know who I’ll want with me.”
“You’ll appreciate the help afterward.”
Something in my chest seems to fold inward. I have come downstairs for a husband. I have found another person explaining why my answer does not count.
“Cancel it,” I say. “Tell them we’re going to decide together.”
“We have decided.”
I wait. He watches me, irritated, expecting me to understand that he has been clear.
Behind me, his mother moves aside so I can leave.
I go upstairs and collect my bag. The delivery man has gone. Cressida is smoothing a crease from the pale green chair with the flat of her hand.
I don’t speak to her.
In the guest room, I close the door and sit on the edge of the bed they have moved for me. Then I call Mom.
“I need to come over,” I say. “When Dad’s there too.”