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“No! What in your mind makes you think this is good?”
“I'm going to be his wife, Mother. This would have happened anyway, this is good! We just get married sooner, elope!” My mother raised her hand to strike me again, and I quickly flinched away. Without another word, she left, storming from my room as quickly as she’d come in.
Mary stood in the doorway. “I saw the sheets, Rosemary. The ones you tried so desperately to hide from me.” I swallowed the acidic vomit, barely meeting her eyes. “I had hoped what I found was not evidence of your sinful transgression, but when I expressed concerns to your mother about your absence of a bleed, I knew what I’d found.”
“Mary, I’m—”
“No, you have failed your family.” She left. I crumbled to the floor, sobbing.
***
Dr. Miller arrived several hours later to observe and diagnose me, which he did, as pregnant. Disquiet leeched itself into my bones and as much as I wished to tell William, I knew I could not risk writing to him. Such news was worthy of a conversation, a private conversation.
The next few weeks went by with only Mother and Mary knowing of my condition. It was a vicious cycle of sicknesses and with the little support I was given by the two of them, I felt more isolated and alone than I ever had since Adam’s death.
On the morning William was expected to return, I paced my bedroom, having gotten little sleep the night before. The window was wide open, winter wind filling the space of my bedroom which I hoped would bring clarity to my predicament. The sky outside was only just lightening when a soft knock came on the door.
“Miss Abbott, are you awake?” Mary asked quietly.
I pulled the curtains of the window closed. “Yes, Mary, you may come in.” She entered the room without another word, preparing to dress me in a satin, forest green gown. It crossed my mind that it was a bit much for an everyday dress, gold accents and fabric fine.
“Why this dress, Mary?” I wondered.
She pulled my hoops up higher than usual to hide the small, but distinctive lump between my hips, “Mr. Blackwell is to be expected between now and Sunday, is he not?”
“Yes, he is. Though, I’m not sure why you act as if we aren’t getting married,” I said, sliding my arms into the top.
Mary chuckled humorlessly, “Oh well, you seem to be living in a fairytale! You have never secured a man until you are his Misses. Even then, what is it that the French say? There can be three in a marriage bed.”
“Mary! William is different from anyone I have ever known. I feel so connected to him, as if we are one in the same. He would never,” I explained as she finished buttoning the top of my gown.
“You are incredibly young, Rose. You have not yet experienced the kind of turmoil that can come with being in love with someone you hardly know at all–”
“I know more about William than you think! And I have experienced the turmoil of being in love!”
“Is that so?” There was no teasing in her eyes, only displeasure.
“What of the turmoil with Greta and William? And you cannot tell me for one minute that being unwed and with child is not fraught, because it is in this culture!”
“You had a choice in the matter, Miss, and you chose wrongly.” Mary walked toward the door, done with the conversation.
“I chose what I thought wasright.”
“And what you thought was right was truly wrong. One must be pure when they marry unless they have been wed before. You are no longer such. May the Lord have mercy on your soul when Judgement comes.” Mary walked out with a sour look on her face.
“Damn the Lord and damn his mercy!” I shouted to her, my foot slamming against the wood floor.
I could hardly believe I heard it, that she had said it. My throat tightened, tears blurring my vision as I stormed to the library, where I stayed for much of the day. I refused to eat, refused to speak to Mary for the rest of the day. Mother did not worry about it, did not even come to check on me once, attributing it to my ‘condition.’ Father was increasingly nonexistent.
Around noon, Michael entered the library, clearing his throat so as not to startle me. I gazed up at him from the settee, a novel long forgotten in my lap.
“A letter, Rosemary,” he said, setting it on the table beside me. I waited until he left to grab the thick white paper and unfold it.
My dearest Rose,
I am in New York as I write to you, just in from London. I am pining to see your glowing face and touch you soft skin. Know that I will first thing tomorrow when I arrive at your doorstep. Expect me no later than six, when the sun is barely kissing the sky.
Your love,
