The newspapers are full of battles and boats, words that make a vague sort of sense to her from the discussions she's heard Horatio have with other sailors, with Bush over suppers where she sat quietly and only listened, knowing any hint of a question would only bring Horatio's limited patience to an end. Still certain words she knows by heart. Certain words she's memorized and held close, hoping that knowing them will act as a sort of charm or talisman against hearing them.

She braces herself at every knock at the door, holding in the fear that this messenger will come bearing an envelope she will not be able to bear opening. Bad enough to know that two of her words - surrender and prisoner - have been made reality. She cannot bear to know that the other is not so distant from those, that his odds of death are much better than his odds of freedom.

Still she has some small comforts. She has made friends with a few of the wives, though none of them wives of Captains. She does not fit well with them, with society talk, with dresses of lace and ribbon and talk of parties. She is a simple woman who loves a man she is not enough for. She knows this and aims no higher, only risking shame to Horatio's name when he is there with her to keep her in check.

It would be lonely were it not for Barbara. The other woman invites Maria on walks until Maria is too heavy with child to make the trek through the park, and then she comes to their small house, bearing gifts of tea and scones and biscuits, talk of silly wives and other things meant to make Maria laugh. They share things in common despite the fact that they themselves are as different as night and day. Maria sometimes thinks to ask Barbara why she comes there, why she wastes her time, but the fear that in doing so she would bring it all to an end keeps her silent.

As it is, it has been nearly two weeks since she has seen Barbara, though she is not surprised, having heard from her mother's news stories from the taverns that Barbara's husband, Admiral Leighton, is dead. Maria mourns the man she's barely met, mourns for Barbara in silence. She strokes her hand over her belly in reassurance, hoping the small cocoon of liquid around her child is enough to keep any mournful thoughts at bay.

When the knock comes on her own door, she shivers and gets to her feet. Winter whips outside the doors, causing the windows to shake in their moorings. She peers through the glass and sighs in relief, loosening the chains that do little to hold the door closed. "Lady Barbara! Do come in."

"Maria." Barbara enters the house and kisses both of Maria's cheeks swiftly, the movement causing the cold air to kiss Maria's skin. She moves into the room and Maria shuts the door behind her, locking it once more against the chill.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Then you know?" Barbara's face falls, a mixture of grief and relief on her features. "I thought sure I would be the one to tell you."

"It has been weeks since Admiral Leighton's death…" Maria pauses, her eyes watching as Barbara's expression changes, closes down and suddenly everything solidifies and clarifies. "Oh, I see. I was…not aware."

"I would have it that you still did not know." Barbara looks at the window, no doubt preferring the snow washed afternoon to the look Maria can feel hanging heavily on her face. Loss. Sorrow. Betrayal. "I received word today that Napoleon pronounces him dead."

"Dead."

Barbara turns her gaze back to Maria and nods once. "He attempted escape. He was drowned in the Loire River in France."

"And…and it is your loss you mourn." Maria nods herself and turns to the fire, moving close so she can feel the stinging heat against her belly. "My loss does not matter, I suppose."

"Maria." Barbara shakes her head. "Of course it is your loss. He's your husband."

"Only because he could afford to be otherwise, I imagine." She traces the mantle where there are faded lines of dust, brushing it free of her fingers into the fire. "How long?"

"Since our return from South America." She has the grace to look away as she answers, no longer looking at Maria. "He would not betray you. Not after the first."

"No?" Maria nods and moves back to her chair, her hand protectively on her stomach, shielding her child, wishing someone could shield her. "Why not, do you imagine? The deed had been done, had it not?" She looks at Barbara and waits until the other woman meets her eyes. "You changed his mind though, didn't you? Kisses stolen during parties? Touches at dinners while his simple Maria stood by?"

"That is not how it was."

"You stole my husband, though I imagine he was not so hard to steal. You are the wife he deserves, aren't you? A proper lady. A woman. Not some…not me. I wonder which of us he spent his last thought on, don't you? His lover or the mother of his child." She bows her head, unwilling to hold Barbara's gaze any longer. "How sad that you have mourned two lovers now in this war. So fortunate for you that you look so stunning in black."

Barbara stands and straightens her dress carefully. "I had hoped, perhaps, you would understand. Hoped we could grieve together."

"I do understand, Barbara. It was not enough that you mourn him in silence. You needed me to know so that my own grief could not overshadow yours." She turns away, facing the fire again. She drops her hands from her stomach, staring down at the heavy weight that, until a few moments before had been her beloved child. Now it felt like a burden, an anchor dragging her down. "I will be taken care of?"

"I'm sure the Admiralty will make sure of it. There's some question as to whether they will do a court martial in absentia, given his surrender of Sutherland, but I'm certain…I will, of course, make sure the child is taken care of."

"Will you?" Maria nods, her voice as cool as the air outside. "Why?"

"It's Horatio's child. It should be educated. Brought up…properly." Barbara swallows and clears her throat carefully. "The child deserves that."

"And then you will have everything, won't you? My husband's love. My child's love and gratitude, no doubt. Elevated him or her to proper status, proper class. Let my child betray me for a better life since you could not get my husband to do the same."

Barbara shakes her head. "Are you so cruel, so bitter that you would deny your child those things, Maria? Deny his child those things?"

Maria stands, no longer taking great care to hold her stomach, no longer soothing the rough kicks and movements. Instead she takes them as punishment. This is what she deserves for marrying above her station, for thinking that compassion equaled love, for thinking love could grow, for thinking he might ever love her.

"Of course, the child deserves everything. It's what Horatio would have wanted. Though I suppose you know that just as well as I." The child weighs her down, slows her steps as Maria moves into the kitchen without another word, leaving Barbara to take her own leave of the small, dark, drafty house.