Laura awoke late the next morning. She stared at the ceiling, her stomach very liquid inside her, and tried to remember exactly what had happened last night. Sensations came to her — Lord Wiltshire's expression as she had stepped on his toes, the vile tang of Lady Roynor's vinaigrette, the sharp snap of flesh against flesh as she slapped Neil's cheek, Richard's voice in her ear telling her it wasn't possible.
Her stomach gave an unpleasant jolt and she queasily sat up. She was alone in the bed, but wrinkles in the sheets next to her told her that Richard had been there with her until recently. She was relieved by that. After his reaction last night, she had been afraid. Part of her reluctance to tell him, she realized now, had been fear that he wouldn't believe her, wouldn't trust it to be his. The way Neil hadn't.
Swallowing her fears, she scrambled out of bed. She had to speak to Richard. She had to know how he felt.
The maid, when Laura called for her, said that he was in the attics. Puzzled, Laura put on her dressing gown and slippers and climbed up two flights of stairs, to where the ceilings were low enough that she could have touched them if she jumped.
It was dark up here, one rather grimy window at the far end of the passage letting in just enough light to reveal warped floorboards and stained walls. A door stood open on the dim landing, light slanting softly into the corridor. She went to it and peered through to see Richard sitting on a crumpled dust sheet on the floor, rummaging through a wooden chest. Around him, the room was cluttered with vague stacks of furniture hidden under dingy dust sheets. Against one wall, a small cabinet and a chest of drawers had been uncovered.
"Richard?"
He jumped and turned, then climbed to his feet. There was dust on his cheek and in his hair.
"What are you doing up here?" she asked.
"Um." He was holding something in his hand and raised it towards her. It was a wooden toy carriage, missing one wheel. "I woke up this morning and I did a lot of thinking. We—" His voice trembled. "We're going to need a nursery, aren't we?"
Relief swept over her: he believed her. She nodded and held her arms out towards him. He pulled her into a tight, clumsy hug, the toy carriage poking into the small of her back.
"All night I kept waking up," he said into her shoulder, "thinking it had been a dream. I can still hardly believe it now. It's true, tell me — one more time."
"I'm with child." Laura's throat contracted and she swallowed. "You're going to be a father."
Richard's arms tightened around her. A moment later, she felt something warm and damp on her shoulder and realized he was crying. His hands on her back trembled and the carriage he held dropped to the floor with a sharp thunk. Laura had never seen Richard cry before. She'd seen tears in his eyes, but he'd never cried. And now he was weeping and gripping her like a lifeline. She stroked his hair. She didn't quite understand it. She'd expected smiles and kisses. But she thought he was happy.
Slowly, he got control of himself, relaxing his grip and steadying his breathing. He drew back, blinking, and rubbed his eyes dry on the sleeve of her dressing gown.
"Are you alright now?" she asked.
"Yes." She got a smile from him at last. "I'm sorry. I— I'm so happy it hurts."
"There's no need to apologise for that." She wiped a smudge of damp dust from his cheek, the last vestiges of her anxiety fading. "I'm happy you're happy. I've been waiting a long time to tell you."
He kissed her. "How long?"
"Maybe two or three weeks." She tilted her head while he kept kissing her, slow, chaste little kisses along her cheekbones. "I was so confused. I knew what was happening, but you'd said it couldn't, so I didn't know what to think."
His kisses paused. "I'm sorry." He met her eyes. "It's my fault."
"It's not your fault."
"I mean, not really. But I..." He sighed heavily. "I remember lying in bed, my father and Sir Templeton standing over me, and Sir Templeton saying that was it for me — I'd live, but I'd never have a child. He was so... definite. And I never questioned it. I should have questioned it."
"You had no reason to."
"I had you." Richard looked pained. "I might have made a terrible mistake last year."
"What do you mean?"
"Before we were married. This might have happened then."
It hadn't occurred to Laura until now. "But we would have made that mistake, Richard, and it could never be a terrible one."
"Wouldn't it?" He dropped his gaze to her waist and touched her belly. "We'd both have loved the baby, but could we have loved each other, if it had come first?"
"Yes," Laura said firmly, closing her hand over his and pressing it closer. "I'd never not have fallen in love with you, given the chance. It might have happened a different way, but it would have happened eventually."
His eyes widened. "Even if that first night, in the library at your father's place...?"
She considered it. "I think so, yes. We would have married, wouldn't we? We'd have had to. And I would have been angry at first — I was always angry back then anyway — but if it was just me and you, and then a baby, I would have loved you sooner or later. Definitely."
He smiled slowly and then kissed her again. "I'm glad we were safely married first anyway."
"Yes. It would have been a terrible scandal." She bit back a laugh. "Elizabeth would have been furious. And Neil would never have forgiven me."
Richard's smile faltered, and a shadow grew over Laura's happiness. She shouldn't have slapped Neil last night. He'd really been very kind to her before then — there was something to be said for a man who would without comment hold a sick basin for a woman he disliked. But it still hurt to remember what he had said to her.
"He knew you— thought you couldn't have children."
"Yes," Richard said shortly. "I wish I hadn't told him now."
"Have you talked it over with him?"
Richard's expression grew dark. "Let's not talk about him," he said. "I want to talk about the baby."
Laura faltered. "You argued with him."
"I did." Richard touched her cheek. "Let's not talk about it now. How long do we have until the baby comes?"
"About six or seven months, I think."
"Then before we come back to London next year?"
"Definitely."
Richard nodded and looked around the nursery. "It's going to need to be thoroughly cleaned and painted — I'll have the servants start on it once we've gone back to Albroke for the summer."
"We'll need to tell them about the baby then."
"Right." Richard laughed. "I'm looking forward to that — to telling people. Though I suspect it's the talk of the town already. Most of London's busiest gossips were watching me half-carry you to the carriage last night."
She bit back a smile. "Sorry."
"It's not your fault. How do you feel now?"
"Better but still queasy."
"Can I help?"
She shook her head. "It'll pass. I think in a while I'll be able to eat something, and that'll settle it for a bit."
Richard rubbed her arm. "Tell me if you need anything."
She gave him a grateful smile, then stooped and picked up the toy carriage from where it had fallen. In the chest he'd been rummaging through lay a scattered collection of children's toys — dolls, a flute, a wooden horse. Most of them looked broken.
"We won't need these for a few years yet," she said. "They're for older children."
"I know. They used to be mine. I got lost in memories." Richard went to the set of drawers. "There's more, though, that might be of use, clothes and things. I'm afraid Elizabeth and Neil between them have commandeered most of the good things already, but I— I found this."
'This' was a delicate, champagne coloured piece of net muslin, embroidered with faded silk flowers.
"It's the dress Elizabeth and Neil and I were christened in. I didn't know it was here. I don't know if you'd want... I mean, I thought it might be nice if our baby were christened in it."
"Richard, it's lovely."
"It probably needs mending."
"I can mend it." She took it from him and bundled it delicately in her arms. "It's beautiful. Thank you."
He kissed her hand in reply. She sat down with the gown by the window and examined it in the light. The embroidery had come loose in a few places, and some of the ribbon flowers had come undone, but beyond that it seemed in good repair. Richard's mother must have made it for him, many, many years ago. She was long dead now, but Laura vaguely remembered her as a kind, gentle woman — where Richard must have gotten his gentleness from, for it was certainly not his father. Laura was touched by the thought of using the same gown for their child; it made it feel like, amidst the shambles of what had really been a very cold upbringing for both of them, they had somehow managed to find a real family. She looked up at Richard and smiled.
"We can keep the carriage toy too, you know. Mend all the toys, really. One day he'll be old enough to play with them after all."
"Or she." Richard played with a lock of Laura's hair. "I like that idea. We'll have to get a new crib though — unless there's one hiding under the dust sheets somewhere."
He turned on that thought, and began dragging at sheets. Clouds of dust rose into the air as he revealed an assorted miscellany of nothings: shabby chairs, empty picture frames, a schoolroom table, and more dinted and faded furniture. There was, however, no crib. And in the end Richard stood looking perplexed around the room while the dust settled across his shoulders and in his hair.
"There must have been one once, or several even, but they're gone now."
"It doesn't matter." Laura got up and started brushing the dust out of his hair. "A crib is easy. It's everything else that will be hard."
"Right." A smile flashed across Richard's face. He caught her hand and pulled her close again, kissing her. "You'll be a good mother."
A sudden warmth spread over Laura. "How do you know?" she asked teasingly.
"Because you're a good wife."
Laura opened her mouth to make some faint protest — the strength of that compliment made her almost uncomfortable — but Richard kissed her again and she lost her chance. Besides, she thought dimly as his arms came up around her, he might be right; she'd been trying so very hard to be good to him that she might really have done it this time. Despite everything Neil thought. Despite everything she'd been to different men in the past. Instead, when there was a breath of space between them, she whispered against his flesh that she loved him, and had the happiness of hearing in return that he loved her too.
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A/N: This chapter was really hard to write for some reason. Happiness is harder than drama and angst I guess. But don't worry, this is only the calm before the storm ;p