Lady in Rags

Chapter Fifty-Two: A Series of Moments

Time was a series of moments, which became hours, which became weeks. They were mostly quiet, painful, and comfortable moments, if pain could ever be comfortable. Verity grew used to it, constantly prickling her side. Perhaps she had been born with it, and only dreamed what it was like to live without it. Her day was nursing the baby, and if Neil was ill, nursing Neil, or if he was not, spending her time with him in silent companionship.

He was not often ill these days. After his late-autumn cold, he recovered well. He continued to gain weight, and his fevers grew less frequent. He was keen to walk the grounds, even in the chilly weather, to teach his lungs to brace again. He was not keen to be cosseted and cosied. Sometimes Verity would walk with him, up and down the garden paths, carrying Anne, carefully swaddled, in her arms. They never talked much. When either was tired, they would find a place to sit down, and she would carefully press the baby into his arms, and he would jog her slightly, if she was awake, or just sit and watch her sleep. It broke Verity's heart every time, watching the tenderness with which he held their daughter, the tentative caress of his fingers.

"Do you love her?" she asked, one chilly day in November, when it was beginning to seem like winter.

He met her eyes for a moment, wide with surprise. "Yes." He dropped his gaze again to the baby. "How could I not? She's ours."

The two words were unexpectedly painful to Verity. Perhaps he saw something of it.

"I treated you so coldly after she was born – I'm sorry. I – I was very confused. I wanted to help her, but I had to leave, and come here, because I needed – to remember. Do you know, I had a son, and I hardly remember losing him? I remembered it, right after they told me she was a girl. When they put her in my arms, the only thing I could feel was fear that I would hurt her. I couldn't love her at first. I was so scared, and confused. But I wanted to protect her – and I ran away, here, from her, and from you. I'm sorry."

Verity bowed her head. "Thank god you came to love her."

"I'm sorry," Neil repeated helplessly.

In early winter, Anne took ill, with one of the coughing, crying illnesses babies get. Verity nursed her through several sleepless nights, full of the strange terror of loss. Babies were so delicate. Neil, in the next room, shuffled in several times in the night, to check on them both, to take vigil with her, or to walk up and down with the fretfully coughing baby in his arms, and give her a chance to rest. One morning, she woke up to find him sleeping on the bed next to her, in his dressing gown. It was almost like before the shipwreck. She pulled the blanket gently over him. And then the baby started crying to be fed, and waked him.

"I think she's getting better," Verity said in relief, jogging her. "She's hungry. Hold her while I loosen my nightdress."

And he had held the baby, and Verity had untied the neck of her nightdress to feed her. When he handed the baby back to her, his cheeks were pink.

"You've seen all of me before," Verity reminded him gently. "Even if you don't remember it. And I can't stand on ceremony. I won't. If you come into my room when I am sleeping, you must accept seeing my private moments."

"We are husband and wife," he said. "I just... did not expect you to undress."

"There is not much other way to do it."

Verity went to stand by the window, and face away from him. Dawn was breaking. The servants would be up soon, and she could leave the baby to their attention for the morning, and sleep. She was safe to sleep now, properly, for hours. She felt as though she hadn't slept in weeks. There was always someone to take care of.