If she had to pin down how she was feeling these days, Jemima was anxious. The anxiousness had swallowed up most of her other emotions – days when she felt almost content, almost happy, almost free; days when she felt sorry for herself, or sad or resentful or exhausted. She spent most of her energy trying to seem calm enough just to get through the day, but there was an almost constant flutter in her heart. She was anxious about everything.
Somehow, she was about two-thirds of the way through the pregnancy, and everything seemed to be normal – so she had been told – but that did not stop her fretting about everything as it happened. And if she could have gotten used to the growing bump or the other side-effects, there were plenty of fears in the sea. Normal as it may be, there seemed to be a very real chance of nearly dying in childbirth (see: Adrienne Lestrange; see: Daffodil Grimstone) – and Merlin, it would be her luck if she couldn’t manage to give birth successfully. And that was before she even considered the baby’s future, and theirs – those nebulous nightmares kept her awake most nights. But never mind! During the days, she found other things to fret about. How not to spend any money they obviously didn’t have, for one; how not to take up any space, or get in anyone’s way, or press Ford for anything, overstep the bounds of caution they seemed to have in place – the real truce of this pretend-marriage, pure politeness and show. Jemima even worried that the other Greengrasses, and her family when they visited, could all see the strain of the pretence, see through her smiles, this stupid charade. She worried, too, that she was going to go insane before the baby even came.
She had steeled herself to project calmness when Ford approached her, but she blinked in surprise at what he actually said. “Oh!” she said swiftly, “– of course.” She wasn’t actually sure if he was asking or expecting, if he had already made plans for them – be it a social event or a necessary errand – but she wasn’t going to pick a fight with him about it when her only alternative was spending the day slowly and painstakingly embroidering some muslins for the baby. (She had never had much patience for embroidery, before – but she had had rather a lot of practice in these last few months.) “Where are we going?” Jemima queried, because Ford seemed – unsure. And she supposed she ought to know, practically, if she ought to change out of her day dress, or if there was anything she should bring.
Somehow, she was about two-thirds of the way through the pregnancy, and everything seemed to be normal – so she had been told – but that did not stop her fretting about everything as it happened. And if she could have gotten used to the growing bump or the other side-effects, there were plenty of fears in the sea. Normal as it may be, there seemed to be a very real chance of nearly dying in childbirth (see: Adrienne Lestrange; see: Daffodil Grimstone) – and Merlin, it would be her luck if she couldn’t manage to give birth successfully. And that was before she even considered the baby’s future, and theirs – those nebulous nightmares kept her awake most nights. But never mind! During the days, she found other things to fret about. How not to spend any money they obviously didn’t have, for one; how not to take up any space, or get in anyone’s way, or press Ford for anything, overstep the bounds of caution they seemed to have in place – the real truce of this pretend-marriage, pure politeness and show. Jemima even worried that the other Greengrasses, and her family when they visited, could all see the strain of the pretence, see through her smiles, this stupid charade. She worried, too, that she was going to go insane before the baby even came.
She had steeled herself to project calmness when Ford approached her, but she blinked in surprise at what he actually said. “Oh!” she said swiftly, “– of course.” She wasn’t actually sure if he was asking or expecting, if he had already made plans for them – be it a social event or a necessary errand – but she wasn’t going to pick a fight with him about it when her only alternative was spending the day slowly and painstakingly embroidering some muslins for the baby. (She had never had much patience for embroidery, before – but she had had rather a lot of practice in these last few months.) “Where are we going?” Jemima queried, because Ford seemed – unsure. And she supposed she ought to know, practically, if she ought to change out of her day dress, or if there was anything she should bring.
