Her hand slides over her stomach in an unconscious gesture, curving along over the fabric of her dress. There is nothing to see and nothing to feel, but there is something and, though Horatio leaves her, he does not leave her alone.

The bed is damp with perspiration, the sheets thrashed free of their moorings from the tossing and turning that she has done. She slides her feet to the cool floor and sinks to her knees, pressing her fevered head to the ground as well, taking in huge refreshing breathes of sweet air as the cloying night slowly slides away from her.

Her stomach roils inside her and she gasps, pressing her tongue hard to the roof of her mouth to stem the desire to expel the contents of her stomach, to keep back the tide of bile that threatens. She reaches for the bread on her bedside table, breaking off small bites. She forces herself to chew them slowly, swallowing against the thickness in her throat.

She curses his name softly, under her breath, as though he is there to hide secrets from and takes another bite, takes another deep breath and forces herself to her feet.

She hides her stomach behind her sewing, though everyone in the house knows of her condition. It still seems private, a secret for her to share with no one save the heart beating inside her. Her needle lodged in the thread, she reaches down and brushes her fingers over the swell, not nearly far enough along to feel anything save her own expanding body.

Her breasts have begun to feel heavier, and she smiles, thinking of how pleased Horatio would be at that, remembers his hands and mouth on them. He touched her reverently at times, like she was spun glass and silk, and others he was rough and demanding, seeking and giving pleasure in great waves. But always, he would touch her there, suckle the dark tips and rest his head, seeking comfort in ways that, soon, his child will as well.

His child.

It is the first time she has thought it, and the mere words send a thrill through her. He left her so long ago, but he is not gone. Never gone. She strokes her stomach through the fine fabric of her dress then finds the needle once more, each stitch in time with the heartbeat she feels but cannot hear.

She does not leave the house any longer, her belly swollen and heavy, making it harder and harder to walk. The Comte has kindly moved her to a room on the ground floor, as she had nearly fallen down the steps one night, only his quick thinking and sturdy hands saving her from the terrifying fall.

She touches things in the room, having left them as they were, wondering what his Mr. Bush would think of her now. He had not liked her, though he had been gracious. The room seems to still smell of him with a tang of salt on the air and the clean musk of his shaving cream. She occasionally will stand by the mirror and pick up the bristled brush and run her thumb over it, imagine it as it moved over his skin. His eyes watched Horatio as hers did, and she knows that, should she bear a son, his name will be William.

She cries out and struggles against the arms holding her to the bed. She can feel wet heat soak the mattress beneath her and wonders if it is blood or worse pouring from her. There are whispered words and cold cloths and the rough pacing of the Comte outside the door, but she can only feel the hard pain that pulses down her back and flares at her hips, the cleaving sensation as the air leaves her lungs.

Instead of her own cries, she hears the lusty bellow of another. Tears slip past her lashes, their salty demise ending in the mattress as well as hands and voices move over her, caring for her, but she can only seek out the child, her child. Her hands reach out for it, her breasts ache for it, her heart aches for him.

The woman from the village moves up the bed, a bundle wrapped in clean linens in her hands. Cries and whimpers echo through the room until the bundle is in her arms and she pulls back the white sheet, surprised at the dark red flesh, the black hair wet with blood. She acts on instinct, pushing her gown aside to offer him her breast, all the air she thought expelled from her lungs tumbling out again as his mouth closes around her.

Oh, 'Oratio. Look what I have borne you, my love.

He grows as all children grow, she assumes. There are whispers and lies that follow them and reach her ears though she's not to supposed to hear them. The Comte laughs as she asks after them, assures her that he would be so honored that a girl her age would welcome someone of his into her bed, but he has no delusions on that regard. She flushes and looks away and he reaches over to her, his hand warm on hers.

There is reassurance in his touch, and in his gaze, which moves from her to the child on the floor. He bears the image of his father - dark hair and eyes, so solemn and silent. He looks up as if he feels their eyes on them and smiles, his words halting as he tries so hard for her.

Mama

She smiles in return and he turns back to his toys. The small wooden ship that Brown had carved fits in his fist and he dashes about the room, sending it crashing and diving through imaginary waves. She bites back the threat of tears and turns her head, away from the Comte's gentle eyes, away from William's questioning gaze.

The Comte moves from the table, giving her a moment to compose herself, settling on the low settee and pulling William into his easy embrace. He spins a tale of ships and the sea, of the salt-tang that comes not from tears but from waves that crash and thunder. He captures the boy's heart and imagination and then they set to a sailing adventure of their own as he carries William up to bed, visions of sails and stars in his eyes and in his head.

She does not cry as she stands at the side of the Loire, her feet buried in snow. She does not cry as shivering bodies file past her, drenched through cloth to skin and chilled to bones that creak and groan like the ice that covers the dark and deadly river beneath.

She does not cry as a voice shouts out, breaking the silence of the night. She does not cry as those same shivering bodies rush past her again, trampling snow and ice and then fading into darkness until suddenly there is light in her eyes and a cold hand that feels warm against her frozen skin.

She does not recognize the woman who gazes at her, does not know her name or her place in the village. She knows nothing save that the words she utters will cut Marie to the heart if she hears them. She turns her head and pulls free of the gentle touch, making her way to the mass of bodies that comes slowly toward her, coats and cloaks and the angry smell of the water in the air.

She does not cry as they lay his body at her feet. She does not cry as she kneels down, not feeling the cold or the wet. She reaches out with shaking fingers and brushes back damp curls wet to black, pushing them off a familiar pale face. The dark eyes have been closed in respect, though she imagines perhaps they were wide with horror, wide with fear.

She touches his cheek and his lips, blue and cold, colder than death. His mouth is open and she can see it in a smile, curving around her name, calling her mama.

She gets to her feet and nods, watching as one of the men gathers her son into his arms and carries him toward the house. She stares after them, the sound of the river in her ears, in her head, in her heart.

She wishes him fair winds and wild waves, wishes him adventures beyond what she could give him, what she could allow. She falls in step with the Comte, his arm warm around her, as warm as her tears. The sea held his father captive like a jealous mistress, beating in his blood, and now…

And now the sea has claimed his son.