We Could Get By

xvi.

It had taken only a few hours for Nellie to realize that she could no longer go about her business as usual. She fought to keep herself busy, to focus on the bustle of her shop, but it was an impossible task. Everything made some semblance of sense now, at least. Nausea, the unprovoked urge to cry at just about anything- the physician had reported Nellie was just short of two months along, stroking his beard thoughtfully as if to say there was anything about it that required careful consideration, though it seemed a sudden eternity to her. Almost two entire months had slipped by without her knowing. Two months in which she had tended her shop and gone airily about her life without suspecting anything was different. She could not help but feel an initial stab of guilt for not telling Sweeney, for not even knowing herself.

Nellie's entire world had been shaken, tipped violently onto its axis, and not put back the way she had left it. She thought the world itself had stopped turning, then started again much too quickly for her to ever catch up. She could not fathom the idea of furnishing the guest room, of painting it a cheery shade of yellow, of something new and exciting and rosy in their lives. That was what they needed, most of all.

Nellie had not expected her husband to be anything short of mildly annoyed with the situation, but he had only held her tighter. That was two days ago, however, and neither of them had uttered a word about it since. Perhaps Sweeney thought she did not notice, but his eyes found hers more often, little fleeting moments over the top of his glass of gin or from across her shop or when she stood at the bureau pulling hairpins from her unruly updo. Nellie had heard that pregnancy made a person glow, but so far, she only looked pale and haggard. Even so, she still held tight to the hope that perhaps this would ignite some long-dormant tenderness in him. Maybe, though, that was asking too much.

Sweeney, seated at the booth near the counter at the front of her shop, seemed devoid of anything even close to tenderness in the harshness of the early afternoon sun. Still, she could not help but smile to herself. He scoured the day's newspaper intently, eyebrows knit close together in heavy concentration. From the look on his face, she could guess fairly accurately that her husband was most likely reading the obituaries. 

As much as Nellie had wished earnestly that she might have a child of her own one day, now that she found herself thrust into the very midst of it, she realized with a stab of icy dread that she had absolutely no clue what to do. She was an only child, so she never got to care eagerly for a younger sibling as a lot of children got to do. Sweeney probably had a decent grasp on the basics, she figured, since he'd had Johanna (for however short a time), but the baker was pushing thirty-eight years old. That's old, isn't it, to be pregnant? Nellie would ask. That is, she would if she had anyone to ask in the first place.

Although she had most certainly tried, Mrs. Lovett had not managed to form any particularly close friendships with any of the women in town. She put forth a valiant effort but only gathered a gaggle of pleasant acquaintances. Her own mother was god knows where. Aunt Nettie was in a cemetery. Anybody she might have conceivably turned to was otherwise indisposed in one way or another. Nellie heaved a sigh and turned her scrutiny outward to the tray of pies she had made. They were as ready as they would ever be.

Toby sauntered through the door, his face alight with the youthful air of excitement that seemed to follow him everywhere. "Afternoon, mum! Say, are there any already done? 'M starvin'." He leaned across the counter, hungrily eyeing the pies on the tray. She smiled at him and reached to tousle his hair.

"Sure are, love. 'Ave a seat, 'n I'll pop down to go get 'em." Before Nellie could leave the shop in a swish of dark lace and long skirts, Sweeney rose from the booth and intercepted her with a swiftness that she had previously thought him incapable of possessing.