ill to eat.
Was her baby all right?
Seven weeks along, or so she estimated, and she continued to spot her drawers. Not a great deal, but the bright red speckles on the snowy white linen frightened her. Was all as it should be with her pregnancy, or was this intermittent bleeding a sign of something dire?
As an only child with a mother long deceased, she had no one to whom to pose her concerns. The doctor who had confirmed her delicate condition had not been at all forthcoming as to the details of what she might expect. Unwed and ruined too, she was also removed from the homey information she might ordinarily have garnered from married ladies in her acquaintance. Her father meant well, but woman’s problems were not something she could discuss with him. And so she had told no one about the spotting, because there was simply no one to tell, even if she were to leave the house, which she most assuredly was not about to do. Too sick, too shamed, she stayed secreted away in her darkened bedroom with the curtains drawn.
Despite the precautions, prying eyes were everywhere. Even the chambermaids whispered behind her back. Humiliating.
Where was Robert? Why had she not heard from her lover?
She knew so little about him, not even where he resided. Some tenement, she would guess, but which one? Sending a note around to his door was impossible without an address.
The same did not hold true for him. He knew where she lived. Why had he not taken the initiative and contacted her, as he had done in the past?
After that terrible story appeared in the scandal sheets, a salacious indictment of her name without any mention of his, she had expected him to come to her house. But no. He made no effort to see her. Consequently, she had yet to tell him about the baby, that he was to be a father.
Not hearing from him was all so frightening. But for the sake of her child, she would not give in to her worry. Robert would come for her. He made very little money as a dockworker, but they would manage after their wedding. Somehow. Perhaps she would take in laundry to help make ends meet.
Veronica’s foot stalled on the tread. Oh dear. How did one wash clothing?
Hopeless. She was so utterly stupid about the running of a household. Why oh why had she not thought about the repercussions of her sexual activity?
But even if she had, even if she had considered contraception, what good would that have done her? Robert would never have cooperated. A good Irish Catholic like him take precautions? Use a condom? Practice withdrawal?
Ha!
And here she had called herself a proponent of free love. Free seemed to mean the man escaped all commitment and responsibility.
She covered her trembling lips with a hand. What would she ever do?
Her father might disown her, disinherit her, banish her to Europe until she gave birth…
If she gave birth.
Why was she spotting?
After making her slow way down the rest of the stairs, an attack of wooziness struck in the front hall. As black spots danced before her eyes, a man rushed lopsidedly to her assistance. Too ill to care, too ill for politeness, she made no attempt to focus her eyes on his face or to inquire over his name, but merely leaned against him for support while trying not to retch all over his shiny boots.
“Place your arm around my neck,” he said abruptly, his tone educated though stiff.
She wore no corset, no gown for that matter. Clad only in a loose wrap…and red-spotted drawers to catch the steady drip, drip, drip of crimson blood…she did as he bade her.
After settling her into his arms, he began limping up the stairs she had just come down.
“Which bedchamber is yours?” he asked.
“Last door on the left, the end of the second floor hall,” she gasped as a dreadful pain squeezed at her innards.
He noticed straightaway. “What ails you?”
She rested her head against the rock solidness of his chest, and spoke into the soft black wool of his coat. “I am bleeding.”
“From
Was her baby all right?
Seven weeks along, or so she estimated, and she continued to spot her drawers. Not a great deal, but the bright red speckles on the snowy white linen frightened her. Was all as it should be with her pregnancy, or was this intermittent bleeding a sign of something dire?
As an only child with a mother long deceased, she had no one to whom to pose her concerns. The doctor who had confirmed her delicate condition had not been at all forthcoming as to the details of what she might expect. Unwed and ruined too, she was also removed from the homey information she might ordinarily have garnered from married ladies in her acquaintance. Her father meant well, but woman’s problems were not something she could discuss with him. And so she had told no one about the spotting, because there was simply no one to tell, even if she were to leave the house, which she most assuredly was not about to do. Too sick, too shamed, she stayed secreted away in her darkened bedroom with the curtains drawn.
Despite the precautions, prying eyes were everywhere. Even the chambermaids whispered behind her back. Humiliating.
Where was Robert? Why had she not heard from her lover?
She knew so little about him, not even where he resided. Some tenement, she would guess, but which one? Sending a note around to his door was impossible without an address.
The same did not hold true for him. He knew where she lived. Why had he not taken the initiative and contacted her, as he had done in the past?
After that terrible story appeared in the scandal sheets, a salacious indictment of her name without any mention of his, she had expected him to come to her house. But no. He made no effort to see her. Consequently, she had yet to tell him about the baby, that he was to be a father.
Not hearing from him was all so frightening. But for the sake of her child, she would not give in to her worry. Robert would come for her. He made very little money as a dockworker, but they would manage after their wedding. Somehow. Perhaps she would take in laundry to help make ends meet.
Veronica’s foot stalled on the tread. Oh dear. How did one wash clothing?
Hopeless. She was so utterly stupid about the running of a household. Why oh why had she not thought about the repercussions of her sexual activity?
But even if she had, even if she had considered contraception, what good would that have done her? Robert would never have cooperated. A good Irish Catholic like him take precautions? Use a condom? Practice withdrawal?
Ha!
And here she had called herself a proponent of free love. Free seemed to mean the man escaped all commitment and responsibility.
She covered her trembling lips with a hand. What would she ever do?
Her father might disown her, disinherit her, banish her to Europe until she gave birth…
If she gave birth.
Why was she spotting?
After making her slow way down the rest of the stairs, an attack of wooziness struck in the front hall. As black spots danced before her eyes, a man rushed lopsidedly to her assistance. Too ill to care, too ill for politeness, she made no attempt to focus her eyes on his face or to inquire over his name, but merely leaned against him for support while trying not to retch all over his shiny boots.
“Place your arm around my neck,” he said abruptly, his tone educated though stiff.
She wore no corset, no gown for that matter. Clad only in a loose wrap…and red-spotted drawers to catch the steady drip, drip, drip of crimson blood…she did as he bade her.
After settling her into his arms, he began limping up the stairs she had just come down.
“Which bedchamber is yours?” he asked.
“Last door on the left, the end of the second floor hall,” she gasped as a dreadful pain squeezed at her innards.
He noticed straightaway. “What ails you?”
She rested her head against the rock solidness of his chest, and spoke into the soft black wool of his coat. “I am bleeding.”
“From
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