“That is not exactly…”
Zeke leaned forward.
“Careful.”
Judith squeezed his wrist.
He leaned back.
Bishop Staltzfus sighed.
“We heard something else.”
Judith’s chest tightened.
“What?”
“That you may not be able to have children.”
Zeke went completely still.
Judith stared.
“Who told you?”
The bishop looked down.
“Your mother told one of the older women years ago.”
Judith felt naked.
Exposed.
Furious.
“And this concerns you why?”
The bishop hesitated.
“Because Brother Thorne may not have been fully informed.”
Judith looked toward Zeke.
His face had become dangerous.
She spoke first.
“He knows.”
The bishop blinked.
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Zeke answered:
“And I remain married.”
Elder Miller looked confused.
“But you wanted children.”
Zeke stared.
“How do you know what I wanted?”
“You said—”
“Three sons.”
Judith muttered.
Zeke rubbed his face.
“That sentence is going to follow me to my grave.”
Despite herself, Judith laughed.
The bishop seemed scandalized.
Zeke looked at him.
“Yes.”
“I want children.”
“No.”
“I will not discard my wife because her body may not provide them.”
Elder Miller said:
“But marriage exists partly for—”
Zeke stood.
His size filled the room.
Judith immediately touched his hand.
He looked down.
Calmed slightly.
Then spoke.
“You told her there wasn't room for her because she had no husband.”
“Now she has one.”
“You come here and suggest she isn't useful because she may have no children.”
“What exactly does this woman have to produce before you allow her to simply exist?”
Silence.
Judith stared at him.
The bishop’s face softened.
For the first time, perhaps he actually heard it.
He looked at Judith.
“We wronged you.”
Elder Miller turned.
“Bishop.”
“No.”
Staltzfus raised one hand.
“We did.”
Judith’s breath caught.
The bishop continued:
“We thought about resources.”
“Rules.”
“Future households.”
“We did not think enough about what our words did.”
He looked down.
“I am sorry.”
Judith had imagined apologies before.
They were always grand.
Satisfying.
The real one left her confused.
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But truth.
They left before dusk.
Afterward Judith stood at the window.
Zeke came behind her.
Did not touch.
She reached backward.
Took his hand.
Pulled his arm around her.
“You were magnificent.”
He kissed her hair.
“I was angry.”
“Same thing sometimes.”
“You stopped me from throwing Miller outside.”
“It was twelve below.”
“He owns a coat.”
Judith laughed.
Then became quiet.
“Do you truly mean it?”
“What?”
“If there are no children.”
Zeke’s arms tightened.
“Yes.”
“How can you know?”
“I can't.”
Judith turned within his arms.
“Then?”
“I know what I choose today.”
“And tomorrow?”
“I choose again.”
She stared.
Zeke continued:
“That’s marriage, isn't it?”
Judith smiled through tears.
“Apparently the hermit has become wise.”
“Winter damage.”
By February, Judith’s monthly bleeding did not come.
She told herself nothing.
Stress.
Change.
Marriage.
Winter.
Anything.
Then March arrived.
Still nothing.
Judith did not tell Zeke.
Not because she wanted secrecy.
Because hope felt dangerous.
She waited another week.
Then vomited while making bread.
Zeke stared.
“That seems bad.”
Judith wiped her mouth.
“Could be flour.”
“You've lived around flour your whole life.”
“Maybe this flour is aggressive.”
He frowned.
Judith sat.
Her hands shook.
Zeke saw.
He crouched in front of her.
“What?”
She looked at him.
“I might be pregnant.”
He became perfectly still.
“What?”
“I said might.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“How?”
Judith stared.
Zeke’s ears reddened.
He rubbed his face.
“That was a stupid question.”
“Deeply.”
“I mean how do you know?”
“I don't.”
“Late bleeding.”
“Nausea.”
“Breasts hurt.”
Zeke looked toward them automatically.
Judith slapped his shoulder.
“Focus.”
“Sorry.”
His face changed again.
Hope.
Terrible bright hope.
Judith saw it.
Fear followed immediately.
“Don't.”
He looked at her.
“Don't what?”
“Believe it yet.”
“Judith.”
“The doctor said…”
“I know.”
“What if I lose it?”
Zeke’s expression softened.
He took both her hands.
“Then we lose it.”
“You wouldn't blame me?”
His face hardened.
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“What if it happens more than once?”
“Judith.”
He leaned closer.
“Your body is not a contract you owe me.”
She began crying.
He sighed.
“You cry more since marrying me.”
“You say intolerably decent things.”
“I can stop.”
“Don't.”
He kissed her forehead.
Sarah Keene, a frontier midwife from farther down the valley, confirmed it two weeks later.
Pregnant.
Likely eight weeks.
Judith sat in stunned silence.
Zeke walked outside.
Sarah frowned.
“Is he upset?”
“No.”
Judith knew.
“He needs to hit a tree.”
A moment later an axe struck outside.
Sarah looked toward the window.
“Ah.”
Zeke split enough firewood for three households.
Then returned.
His eyes were red.
Judith held out one hand.
He crossed the room.
Dropped to his knees.
Pressed his forehead against her stomach.
“There may not be anything to feel.”
“I know.”
He stayed there anyway.
Judith put her hand in his hair.
“You said three sons by spring.”
Zeke groaned against her dress.
“I deserve this.”
“It’s spring.”
“One child.”
“Possibly daughter.”
“Even better.”