The next morning, Evelyn woke before him. She lay quietly for several minutes, listening to the rain. She knew the arrangement had changed. She also knew there was still one thing they had not discussed: what happened after the child?
Her condition had been clear: she would stay. But now she wanted more than staying—she wanted him to choose her. That frightened her, because if he did not, she would have to leave with a broken heart instead of a settlement.
Nathaniel woke. "You're thinking too loudly."
She turned. "I didn't know thinking made noise."
"Yours does."
"How?"
"You frown."
She touched her forehead. "I do not."
"You do."
"Then stop looking."
"I can't."
She smiled. He reached for her hand. Neither mentioned the future—not yet.
Three weeks after the kiss, Evelyn became ill at breakfast. Nathaniel noticed before she did; she had pushed away her tea.
"You haven't eaten."
"I am not hungry."
"You said that yesterday."
"I ate yesterday."
"You ate half a peach."
"It was a large peach."
"It was not."
She gave him a look. "Do you spend your mornings counting my meals?"
"Apparently."
"That is unsettling."
"It is becoming a habit."
She stood, but the room tilted beneath her. Nathaniel caught her elbow.
"Evelyn!"
"I am fine."
"You nearly fell."
"I stood too quickly."
"You stood beside a chair."
She sighed. He called the physician. Evelyn protested until the doctor arrived. The examination was brief. Then the physician smiled.
"Your Grace, I believe you are going to be a father."
Nathaniel stared. Evelyn stared. The doctor looked between them.
"Neither of you is going to say anything?"
Nathaniel finally whispered, "A child?"
"Yes."
He looked at Evelyn. She was smiling. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—not the controlled laugh he used in company, but a startled, almost boyish laugh.
Evelyn touched his hand. "You're happy."
"I am terrified."
"That is different."
"It is not."
The doctor smiled. "You may discover that both feelings can coexist."
After he left, Nathaniel remained beside Evelyn. He looked at her. "We're having a baby."
"Yes."
"Our baby."
"Yes."
He took her hand. The words he wanted to say were too large, so he said the simplest thing: "Thank you."
Her eyes softened. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do."
"For what?"