The first time she sees him, he is a dashing young sea Captain, denied his rank by peace. He has no money in his pockets and no prospects at hand, but he is lovely and kind and he bows to her in a way that makes her feel as though she is something like a woman, someone to be seen and desired.

She blushes when his hand grazes hers and accepts him into the house, her own shillings going into the ledger so her mother will not know. He promises her full payment some way, some how and offers her a smile that is both self-deprecating and knowing, and she does not doubt his word.

Marriage:

The veil hangs down her back and the dress is warm and more than she should have. But she is to be a Captain's wife. Horatio's wife. She feels a thrill at the thought of it, refusing to allow it to be marred by the look in his eyes. He does not love her, not as she loves him. She knows this, but she can love him enough to fill the gaps that he cannot. Where he has duty, she has love and she will support him as his ship and officers cannot.

She will only have him tonight, she knows, and then he will be gone again as if he were never in her life. There are differences - she knows him now, and holds his name. He will have tasted her kiss and moved inside her flesh - but it will be the same world, bleak without him in it.

Birth:

The room is dark and heavy with heat, oppressive despite the weighted snow and bitter winds that blow outside and rattle the windows. She does not know how it must feel, to have the wind cut through cloth and flesh as it tosses the story sea against you, but she knows this sharp pain rendering her breathless, voiceless. She feels like a creature, not a woman and not a person, something primal and unknowing, giving in to the hard pain that feels to cleave her in two.

The cry, when it comes, seems an echo of her own silent one, though it rings louder than the church bells pealing in the distance. The warm weight is laid on her chest and her eyes close, her head falls back and she gathers her son to her, pulling his blood red body to her breast. Her voice breaks on the whisper. "Horatio."

Child:

She wonders, as she watches them, if other mothers feel this strange emptiness in their breast, this tight jealousy that curls cold hands around her heart. She watches him with Horatio, watches Horatio with him. There is something different in the man who crawls on the floor with his son, the man who is relaxed and happy and laughing without reserve. She stands apart from them, knowing that if he knew he were observed, her husband would return, replacing the man so happily being a father.

But soon Horatio sees her and his softly sounded "Da!" changes to "Ma!" and he scrambles across the floor to her feet, clutching at her gown. She starts to reach down to him, but a gentle hand on her shoulder stops her and Horatio bends to pick up his namesake and settle him securely in her arms. He kisses her softly and leaves her to caring for their son, ignorant of the press of her fingers against her lips to hold his kisses there.

Second:

Her mother spouts words about daughters, but she doesn't acknowledge them and refuses to hear the spite and disappointment in them. Instead she looks down at her little Maria and smiles, whispering soft words that echo like lullabies. She's as unreal as a doll with pale skin that blushes when she cries and dark eyes that stand out large in her small face.

She is the image of her father with dark curls that lay against her skin and land like soft feathers on Maria's lips as she kisses them. She knows of other wives that bemoan their husbands away at sea, but Maria has her Horatio and her Maria and holds them to her in ways that life will never let her hold her husband.

Death:

She does not cry. He stands stoically apart from her as she looks up at him, the fever ravaged body of her beloved son in her arms, her daughter beyond her reach. She stares at him with eyes that do not see him even though for nearly a year he is all she has wished to see. Instead she holds Horatio out to him - as balm, as offering, as sacrifice. The tiny body shudders and gasps and goes still and she lowers him to the bed from the altar of her arms.

For the first time since their marriage, she does not hear Horatio's voice as he speaks to her, does not hear the rough hint of emotion in his words. Her life has been for him and for his children and without them, she is nothing. It is not just grief that stops her heart as she looks up into his anguished eyes. It is fear.

Lydia:

There are allowances she makes and certain things she has come to accept. Though she does not think on it, and she does not wish to believe it, there is a possibility that her Horatio would seek comfort in the warm flesh of another. It would be need, she knows, and nothing more, and it would be forgiven for, and this she knows, when he comes home to her, he is hers and hers alone. He will kiss her and touch her and learn her again and he will find his solace in her.

When he returns from his ship after so long apart, he does not touch her beyond a soft brush of fingers against her cheek. There is much to be done and told, she knows, and she stays out of his way during the long summer days, but at night when he comes to their bed, his body is still and his touches do not come. She lies to herself and tells her he still grieves, still mourns. But she knows it is a lie and her Horatio is hers no longer.

Lady Barbara:

She sees her for the first time at a luncheon that, as Captain Hornblower's wife, she is invited and obliged to attend. There are whispers given behind delicate hands and the sweep of eyes over her. She does not come to these - has not as she has had children to raise oh, my babies and no outfits to make her way in society - but Horatio's name is bandied about now and she needs to show her face.

She sits stiffly in her place, ignoring the gasps as everyone realizes whose wife she is, and follows the gaze of several discerning eyes that sweep to the woman across the room from her, bedecked in blue silk and every inch a Lady. Her heart clenches and she raises her chin proudly and does not let it show.

Mrs. Hornblower:

Her fingers move slowly over the buttons of her coat, her hands trembling. He waits impatiently by the door, energy spilling from him in waves of frustration, his dark eyes sending sharp glances her way as she finishes and reaches for her gloves. His sigh sets her to shaking again and she bows her head and hurries to his side.

She feels underdressed and patchy beside his grand uniform, drab in the yellow dress she's had for years. She feels worse as they enter the grand hall, hands divesting her of her coat. The other gowns gleam and glow under the lights and she feels his arm stiffen beneath her hand. Other men display their wives proudly on their arms like exotic birds. Horatio walks stiffly and she wonders if he wishes his simple pigeon would fly away.

Wedding Night:

As the evening wears on, his brow darkens even as Maria feels the weight lift from her heart. She should feel shame, she knows, to take such joy in his pain, but she is only human and she loves him. And he is hers, irrevocably now. He reads the notice through once more and pushes the paper away, getting up to pace the cramped space of their living quarters.

She trails her fingers across the back of his shoulders as she goes into the bedroom, clenching her hands into a fist as he starts from her touch. It has been months since they've touched beyond the most cursory and routine brush of fingers they cannot avoid. She glances back over her shoulder and he is looking at her and she smiles, wishing Lady Barbara all the best as Horatio takes her to bed

Pregnancy:

Her belly is swollen and her feet hurt her, shoes too small even in the cold of winter. She smiles as nicely as she can manage, tears stinging the back of her eyes as Lady Barbara sits with her, telling her stories of Horatio's exploits on Lydia. She wonders if - Oh, please, call me Barbara, as I hope we're to be friends - Lady Barbara is aware of how much her voice gives away, how many clues echo in the soft lilt as she says Horatio's name.

She feels the baby shift and makes a soft sound, her hand covering the movement. She watches Lady Barbara's eyes watch the movement, watches her hand reach out as it to feel the swell, watches it fall away without contact. Horatio's child is hers and hers alone. She only wishes that the victory did not taste so strongly of ash.

Loire:

A man in full uniform hands her the letter and her hands shake as she takes it. The seal resists her attempts to open the bound packet, and the messenger reaches out and breaks the seal before offering her a bow and backing away. She closes the door and rests against it, one hand on her stomach as she unfolds the outer page with her name etched so beautifully across it and finds the news she had hoped would never come.

…regret to inform you that your husband, Captain Horatio Hornblower, has been reported as killed in action, giving his life in the most noble service to his King and his Country… She sinks to the floor , ungainly and uncaring of how she might ever make it to her feet again, tears darkening her eyes before spilling down her flushed cheeks. Nothing matters as the light fades in the distant windows, the cool air seeping beneath the door around her. She doesn't feel anything beyond the weight of sorrow in her chest and the loss of all she's ever loved.

End:

She does not cry out this time, for there is no one to hear her. She does not weep, for there is no one to wipe away her tears. She does not feel the pain as her body reacts instinctively to the pressure, for she does not feel anything.

The midwife speaks in sharp, harsh words, her hands hard on Maria's stomach as she pushes down. She feels heat and hears the cry, hears voices in the hall. She sighs and closes her eyes, everything slowing, quieting, including the frantic rush of blood in her ears. There are shouts that she ignores and cries that she doesn't understand. There is just heat where there was cold and light where there was dark.

Soon she will be with Horatio again.