Chapter 14 What I Carried Alone
YSABEL
Leon doesn't argue.
He stands in the alcove for a long moment after I finish speaking, his face working through something I can't quite read. Then he nods once, slowly.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. I'll take you back."
We walk out of the narrow passage together, past the tapestry that hides it from the corridor, past the dust and the smell of rosemary that clings to these old stones. Neither of us speaks. There's nothing left to say right now, nothing that wouldn't make things worse.
My bags are still waiting in the entrance hall where I left them. Leon picks them up without being asked, and I grab the baking tins from beside the bags where I left them. We walk to the car in silence, and he opens my door, and I get in.
The drive back to my parents' farm is quiet. The same roads, the same fields, the same landscape I've known my whole life. But everything feels different now. Heavier. More complicated than it was this morning when I agreed to come.
When we pull up to the gate, the sun is starting to sink toward the hills. Leon turns off the engine but doesn't move to get out.
"I heard what you said," he tells me. "In the alcove. I heard it."
"I know."
"I'm not going to pretend I understand everything yet. But I'm going to think about it. Really think about it."
"That's all I'm asking."
He looks at me, and I see something in his eyes that might be hope or might be fear. "Can I come back tomorrow? To work?"
I consider it. Part of me wants to say no, to put distance between us while I sort through everything that happened today. But I want to see whether he will still come after hearing what I said, without treating this afternoon as a promise that I'm coming back.
"Yes," I say. "You can come back tomorrow."
He nods. "Thank you."
We get out, and he takes my bags and tins from the back seat. I accept them at the gate. Our fingers brush, and I feel the echo of what we shared in the alcove, but I don't let myself linger on it.
"Goodnight, Leon."
"Goodnight, Ysabel."
I walk through the gate and don't look back.
But I don't sleep well.
The guest room feels smaller than it did before, the bed too soft, the ceiling too close. I lie awake for hours, thinking about the alcove, about Leon's hands on my face, about the words I said and the words I didn't say.
And underneath all of it, the secret I'm still carrying. The one that changes everything.
I press my hand against my stomach in the dark. There's nothing to feel yet, no curve or movement, just the knowledge of what's growing there.
Leon's child. Our child.
A life that began before everything fell apart, that's been with me through all of it.
He doesn't know. I had wanted to speak yesterday, before wanting anything else from him. Instead I brought the words back here unsaid.
I should tell him. I know I should tell him.
But every time I think about saying the words, I feel the fear rise up in my throat.
What if it changes things in ways I can't predict?
What if he tells his mother? What if Vera decides that a Rosciano heir is too important to be raised by a servant's daughter on a border farm?
These are the thoughts that keep me awake, circling and circling until the first gray light of dawn creeps through the curtains.
By the time I get up, I've made a decision.
***
Leon arrives at the usual time, work clothes and boots, ready for whatever my father needs him to do. I watch him from the kitchen window as he crosses the yard to where my father is already working near the barn.
My mother is beside me, preparing breakfast.
"You were gone a while yesterday," she says. Not accusatory, just observant.
"I know."
"Did you get what you needed?"
The question echoes what I asked myself all night. Did I get what I needed? I got my clothes and my baking tins. I got a moment of closeness with my husband that left me more confused than before. I got a reminder of why I left and why leaving is so hard.
"Some of it," I say. "Not all."
She doesn't push. She just hands me a knife and points me toward the bread.
After breakfast, I find Leon helping my father move crates near the storage shed. He looks up when I approach, and I see the careful hope in his eyes, the way he's trying not to expect too much.
"Can I talk to you?" I ask. "Alone?"
He glances at my father, who waves him off. "Go. I can manage this."
We walk together to the small bench near the vegetable garden, the one where my mother sits in the evenings to watch the sun go down. It's private here, sheltered by a row of tomato plants that have grown tall enough to screen us from the house.
I sit. Leon sits beside me, leaving space between us.
"What is it?" he asks.
I've rehearsed this a hundred times in my head. I've imagined saying it calmly, clearly, with all the right words in all the right order. But now that the moment is here, I can't remember any of them.
"I need to tell you something," I say. "Something I should have told you before, maybe. I don't know. The timing has never felt right."
Leon is very still beside me. "Okay."
"When I left the estate, I didn't know. I found out the day I arrived here, after I'd already signed the separation papers and sent them to you. I took a test in my parents' bathroom and it was positive, and I've been carrying this ever since."
I watch his face as the words land. Confusion first, then understanding, then something that looks like the ground shifting beneath his feet.
"You're pregnant," he says.
"Yes."
He's silent for a long moment. I watch him processing it, watch the emotions move across his face like weather across a landscape. I grip the edge of the bench with my free hand, waiting for him to speak, afraid that joy will sweep every unfinished conversation aside.
But that's not what happens.
"Our baby," he says, and his voice breaks on the second word. "Ysabel. We're going to have a baby."
"Yes."
He reaches for my hand, then stops himself, looking at me for permission. I give a small nod, and he takes my fingers in his, gentle, like he's holding something precious.
"How long have you known?"
"The day I arrived. That morning. I had a doctor confirm it before we went to the market."
"And you've been carrying this alone all this time?"
"Gia knows. She bought the test for me. But no one else. Not my parents, not anyone."
He's quiet again, processing. I can see him putting the pieces together, understanding why I've been holding back, why every conversation between us has felt weighted with something unspoken.
"The sickness," he says. "Before the launch. That was..."
"I didn't know then. I thought it was stress, or something I ate, or just being run down. I didn't realize until I was here and started counting the days."
"You found out that morning, and I didn't get home until later. I read your message and thought you just needed a few days away."
"I did need to be away. This was something else I had to work out."
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry you had to face this alone."
"It's not your fault I didn't tell you."
"Were you afraid to tell me?"
I look down at our hands. "I was afraid of what would happen afterward."
"What did you think I would do?"
"You'd be happy. You'd want to tell people. And then your mother would know."
His fingers stop moving against mine.
"She's spent two years telling me I don't belong in her family.
What happens when she decides this baby does?
" My voice drops. "I know she hasn't said anything.
She doesn't even know. But I couldn't stop thinking about her making plans, deciding where we should live, telling me what a child with your name needs.
And you explaining that she only wants to help. "
Leon lets out a breath. For a moment he looks toward the house, then back at me.
"You thought I'd let her make you feel like a visitor in our child's life."
I nod. I don't want to, but I do.
"No." The word is quiet and immediate. He catches himself before he says more. "I know saying it now isn't enough. You should have heard me say no to her long before this."
"You're not upset that I didn't tell you sooner?"
"I'm upset with myself for creating a situation where you felt like you couldn't. That's different.
" He turns to face me more fully. "Ysabel, this baby is ours.
Whatever happens between us, whatever you decide about the marriage, I want you to know that I'm not going to use this against you.
I'm not going to tell my mother, or use the baby as a reason you have to come back to the estate. "
"Your mother is going to find out eventually."
"Eventually, yes. But not until you're ready. Not until you decide who knows and when." He holds my gaze. "You can stay here. We can tell your parents when you're ready. And when we have decisions to make about our baby, you and I will make them together. My mother doesn't get to make them for us."
I feel something loosen in my chest, some knot of fear I've been carrying without realizing it.
"I want you to be involved," I say. "This is your child too. I'm not trying to shut you out."
"I know. But I also know I haven't earned your trust yet. Not fully. And until I do, I'm going to follow your lead."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what's been said settling between us. In the distance, I can hear my father moving crates, the sound of normal life continuing while everything changes.
"What happens now?" Leon asks.
"I don't know. I'm still figuring that out."
"Can I..." He hesitates. "Can I still come to work? Here, at the farm?"
"Yes."
"And we can talk? About the baby, about us, about whatever you need to talk about?"
"Yes."
He nods, and I see relief wash over his face. "Okay. That's enough for now. That's more than enough."
***
The next few days pass in a strange kind of rhythm.