Her reaction left him flabbergasted. She had nothing to be sorry for, from his perspective; even if she had intended to make everything worse, she had every right. He was the one who had inflicted the marriage upon them, or at least set the wheels in motion by lying to Mrs. Dempsey. She hadn't known what she was agreeing to, when she said I do; not that he was in love with someone else, not that they were teetering on the brink of poverty, nothing. It would have been entirely reasonable for her to hate him. Why hadn't she meant to make things worse? From her perspective he was certain he deserved it. But she was too good to wish harm on anyone, possibly; she had always been more gracious than he deserved.

"You make things bearable," he said. How many times in the past months had he thought that if it had to be anyone, he was terribly glad it was her? Even now it held true, because it wasn't her fault that Tycho had been in his room that night, and he imagined that another woman in her shoes, walking in on what she had, might have left him or ruined him by now. Certainly it was a rare person indeed who would have any pity left for him, under the circumstances.

With a surge of feeling — perhaps it was gratitude, perhaps something else — Ford rose to his feet and moved to where she was on the bed, standing in front of her. He reached to take both of her hands in his. "I'm grateful that you're the mother of my child," he said. "I hope they turn out a lot like you."

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The following 2 users Like Fortitude Greengrass's post:2 users Like Fortitude Greengrass's post
   Daffodil Grimstone, Jemima Greengrass

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♥︎ Thank you Lady ♥︎

Bearable. She sucked in a breath, a little surprised by that. And wasn’t that tragic and terrible, that things were such a mess she was just relieved Ford didn’t wholly resent her presence, the myriad ways she had unwittingly or otherwise made his life harder? He was in love with someone else (a man, at that), and they had no money, and it felt like they were drowning just trying to get through the days. And bearable was so small and depressing a word, so far a cry from anything she would once have envisioned her future husband ever saying to her, so far from that grand romance she had hoped for, that in any other circumstance it should have made her cringe. Because if bearable was the best compliment, she couldn’t be a very good wife –

But here, with Ford, in context – wasn’t it about the best outcome she could have hoped for?

Then he bridged the gap, took her hands in his, and was saying nice things like that, about wanting anyone to be anything like her. This was all the comfort she had wanted, been longing for, except now that he was offering it Jemima could hardly bear it. Maybe it was the closeness, that felt too much after weeks of feeling so un-anchored; maybe it was that somehow he had a touching confidence in her that she didn’t share. That might be one of the nicest things anyone had said to her, and it wasn’t fair that he could still keep making her like him more, even though she knew everything bad about him there was to know. There was something about his gratitude that cleaved a little too close to romance – that imagined marriage she would not have – that wrung her heart out all the more, even as it filled it.

Her bottom lip wobbled, and she felt moisture pricking in the corner of her eyes, but she – didn’t want to cry on him. Instead Jemima leaned into him, just enough to squeeze his hands back in thanks, and rested her head briefly against his arms, hiding her face until she’d fought off the urge. “I’m alright,” she murmured, muffled, in case he tried to ask her again, had heard the choked sob in her throat, or the following sniffle. And she did feel better about the baby now, a few steps down from catastrophe. “I’m alright now. I promise.”

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The following 2 users Like Jemima Greengrass's post:2 users Like Jemima Greengrass's post
   Fortitude Greengrass, Rosalie Hunniford

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It was impossible to miss the signs that she was holding back tears, and that only barely. Ford froze, suddenly panicked. Talking to people who were distressed was something he was good at, actually — at least he had often done it surprisingly well historically. At the moment, though, he had no idea what to say or do. He had cheered her up before when things had felt dire — when they were set to marry each other and had nothing but his cruelty in the coatroom to consider as a basis for their relationship. Was this moment worse than that? Whether it was or not, something was different now. He had not materially changed from the person he had been six months ago, and neither had she, but somehow they were entirely different. Strangers again. That was what this felt like, he realized. The cloying feeling in his chest... it was the feeling of witnessing a stranger out in public having an unexpectedly intimate emotion, something that you had no right to see. Something where the best response might be no response, to pretend for the sake of politeness that you hadn't seen at all.

She was alright now. She promised. Ford had the sense that he had failed this moment in some monumental but difficult to articulate way; a lack that could not be specified but would be felt forever.

"Alright," he agreed, softly, because there wasn't anything else left to do.

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♥︎ Thank you Lady ♥︎