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William took my hand in his, bringing my fingers to his lips, “My Rose, she is not the sort of person who can be kept out with a closed door. She gets what she wants, always.” I couldn't stand his furrowed brow, the sadness in his eyes. I turned my attention to the white wonderland outside, resigning.
“What does it mean, then?” I finally asked in a whisper. He pulled me nearer him, and I could see his jaw working.
“It means I must be on my toes until we are married and can leave Massachusetts.”
Chapter Seven
Six weeks flew by, officially welcoming late February. During which time, I was feeling horrible. William had come and gone once every two weeks after New Years, blaming his work in the city. Every time he returned, he would be happier and happier to see me. Doting on me at every opportunity, William would bring gifts and all manner of affections. And every night, he would meet me in my room where we would talk endlessly and make love until we were both shattered.
By the end of the month, I was consistently sick and exhausted. Mary fought to get me up in the morning and I would frequently fall asleep on the couch in the library. More concerning still, there were too many moments when I would vomit whatever I had eaten.
Word had gotten around soon after New Years of our engagement, and it was no surprise to find that Greta McCloude claimed it was because I was pregnant. My mother tried, any time she met with the other wives of the community, to squander those rumors to the best of her ability. Tensions were thick, and I found myself going out less and less. Even Ursula stopped calling and writing entirely.
That hurt the most.
But on the morning after William left for the city again, at the end of February, Mother flung open my door and stormed in with such enmity. I sprung from my slumber in terror. Her eyes were raging with a thousand questions, and my stomach sank when I spied Mary behind her. Did she finally tell Mother about the sheets?
The sheets I knew incriminated us.
“What is it?” I asked, guilt crawling up my throat with bile. Mother sat roughly on the edge of my bed, her warm hand on mine and her face serious. I blinked away tears forming out of fear.
“Rose, you must answer me honestly, can you do that?” she urgently asked. I agreed, still groggy, jittery with dread.
“Yes, Mother, anything,” I croaked.
“Rosemary, have you had your monthly bleed since Christmas?” Her eyes traveled from mine to between my legs and back up. I looked down at my nightgown, trying to put it all together, to remember when I had the tortuous bleeding, but could not. She pressed again, “Your bleed, Rosemary, have you had it since Christmas?”
“I cannot recall—”
“You are! Oh, Rosemary Abbott!” Mother jumped to her feet, throwing her hands in the air, turning this way and that in a flurry of emotion. I crept toward my pillow, away from her. What was she on about? “You have, haven't you?” she asked, tears pooling in her eyes, hands over her mouth.
My mother's frail figure shook with horror at whatever thought had been planted in her mind. I was not even sure what one could have done to stop one’s moon cycle. Why was she so emotional? I couldn’t handle it, my stomach churned. I thought this would be about taking William to bed.
I climbed from the bed, sliding my arms into the soft linen of my dressing gown to walk over to my dimming fireplace. I poked at it until the flame rose high and danced on the brick of the hearth. Mary was in the corner of the room, tears streaming down her face. It was all becoming a bit much.
“What are you talking about?” I finally asked after fighting the vomit to stay put. Mother was beside me in a moment, tugging on my arm in denial. I whirled toward her, unnerved.
“Did you go to bed with William?” The question slipped from my mother's lips. My eyes widened, my heart jumping into my throat with understanding.
“Yes,” I breathed. Mother’s face paled, her nails digging into my arm as Mary cried out from the doorway.
“When?”
“Christmas Eve was the first time—”
“The first time!” she shrieked.
“It was when we left the Christmas ball. We didn't intend to, Mother, we just got carried away!” I tried to calm her down, her hysterics were making my stomach flip faster, no doubt I’d lose it any moment. My mother gripped the hearth for support, her sobs broken and terrorizing. “Mother, what? Does that have something to do with what's wrong with me?”
“Yes! Yes, you stupid girl!” she screamed, slapping me across my face. The sound of her skin making contact with mine was deafening, and I stumbled backward. It was as if she’d embedded shards of glass in my cheek, the skin pulsating with my heartbeat. Fear coursed through my veins; she had never hit me before. “You have a child in your womb, Rosemary!Hischild! You’d think you’d know that with how well read you are!” she spat with patronizing venom. Again, as if she had slapped me, I was taken aback.
“What does that mean?” I asked no one in particular. Part of me expected it; I loved William, having his child would have happened. The other part of me worried about my reputation, for they were all right.
I placed my hands on my stomach, rubbing it lightly. What would William say? We would need to push the wedding sooner, and then we could leave Massachusetts together. I smiled at the thought and looked back up to my scowling mother.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked angrily through clenched teeth.
“This is a good thing, isn't it?”
