She had known, of course, when they had begun their dance, that he had had problems in the past. His mother had been born a Lestrange, his cousin was Thomas Pettigrew; that Art lived such a modest lifestyle—a lifestyle that allowed him to furnish her with even a first glance, never mind a second—was only because he had lost his inheritance. Poor luck, perhaps, but even poorer self-control, a situation that Dezzie herself had worked to remedy.

Most of all, Desdemona blamed herself for not noticing the signs sooner.

“Are we in trouble?” she asked plainly, ignoring his protestations. Worry for Arthur, for their marriage, was secondary to worry about the future of the small human they had brought into the world.