September,1855
The dusk settled over Blackwood's cottage with a hush that seemed heavier than the day's dwindling light. Inside the humble parlour, the hearth's embers glowed faintly, casting long, trembling shadows upon the walls. Harriet sat by the window, her hands clasped about her knees, gazing out at the gathering gloom as though seeking some sign in the paling sky.
Ten years she had worn her wedding band—ten years of laughter and whispered hopes, of stolen kisses in moonlight gardens and shared confidences beneath candlelight. Yet no rosy dawn of motherhood had ever come. No flutter of new life, not even the sorrowful promise of a miscarriage, had broken the hush of their home. And tonight, as the cicadas sang their autumnal lament beyond the ivy-clad walls, the ache in her heart felt as keen as ever.
She had not heard Robert's step upon the path nor the soft click of the latch, so deep was her distraction. Only when his gentle voice called her name"Harriet… Harriet, love?" for the third time, did she start, her nails pricking the tasseled cushion beneath her. She turned, and in his familiar silhouette, outlined by the lamplight, saw concern etched upon his brow.
"Robert," she whispered, her voice catching. He crossed the room in two strides, gathering her into his arms before she could rise. His coat rustled softly; his warm presence filled the small room with both comfort and sorrow.
"Oh, my sweetest heart," he murmured, stroking her hair. "What weighs upon thee so?"
She drew in a tremulous breath, and then the dam of years cracked. Tears spilled free as she lifted her face to his, her shoulders trembling. "Robert… it is ten years. Ten years we have loved one another, yet I remain barren an empty cradle, an unfinished promise."
His arms tightened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. "My love… thou art not empty. Thou art my world."
"But I am incomplete," she cried, her tears glinting in the firelight. "Have I not prayed at every chapel and knelt before every idol? I have offered supplication to saints and offered coin to every altar… and still we wait. Lisa—my dearest friend—has three bairns now. Her eldest, born but a season after her own vows, attends the village school already. Their laughter drifts upon the breeze like the sweetest music. And here…" She cast her arms about the room, as though encompassing ten years of quiet sorrow, "…here is only silence."
She brushed a tear from his sleeve. "The neighbours speak in half‑whispered tones 'tis said I have 'closed womb' and 'empty fate.' Old Mrs. Clemens stared at me the other day and shook her head, saying, 'Some gifts God withholds for reasons beyond our ken.' But such reasons are small comfort to a woman who yearns to cradle her own child."
Robert's hand covered hers, guiding it to his cheek. "I cannot bear thy grief. We have walked this path together, and together we shall bear its burdens. No taunt of neighbours nor shadow of disappointment can diminish the worth of thy gentle heart."
He rose then, wrapping both arms about her. "Let them speak," he said, voice low and fierce. "I care not for their idle jests. Thou hast given me laughter when gloom threatened, courage when fear weighed upon me, and a kindness that redeems my every sorrow. To me, thou art more precious than a thousand babes."
Her tears stung anew as she looked up at him, anguish and love entwined in her gaze. "Yet I fear the year draws on, and with each harvest the ache grows keener."
He placed a tender finger beneath her chin. "Harriet Fairweather, thou shalt always be my beloved. If fate denies us in this world, then our love shall be its own miracle."
She pressed her forehead to his chest, her tears softening against his heart. "Promise me… we shall never let this sorrow sunder us."
"By all that I hold dear," he vowed, voice thick with feeling, "I swear it. We are one in joy and one in sorrow, until my last breath."
They were still wrapped under each other's arm when a sharp rap upon the door fractured the fragile peace. Robert and Harriet, still entwined upon the low settee, startled at the summons.
"Aye, who calls at this hour?" Robert asked, rising to his feet.
His mother's voice, crisp and imperious, answered from the threshold: "Robert, thou art blind to the confusion within this house! Open at once!"
He crossed the room and drew back the latch. Into the warm glow of the hearthlight stepped Catherine Blackwood, her silken skirts rustling and her sharp gaze sweeping the chamber.
"Good eve, Mother," Robert began gently. "What brings thee so late?"
Catherine's lips curled in thin disapproval as she advanced. "What brings me? A silence so heavy it presses upon my very ears. No children's laughter to greet me, no cry of life within this empty dwelling. Surely thy bride's womb is as sterile as the grave!" Her voice, cold as November wind, rang clear.
Harriet rose slowly, her cheeks paling. "Madam, thou art most—"
"Madam?" Catherine snapped. "I said I do not fancy thee. Thy presence is an affront to all propriety. Ten years hence, and not one babe to lighten the burden of wedlock!" She swept past Harriet, her skirts brushing the patterned carpet, and let loose a torrent of cutting remarks—each more stinging than the last.
Robert's jaw tightened. He laid a firm hand on Catherine's arm. "Mother, I have borne thy jests for too long. My wife is no cause for laughter or scorn."
Catherine recoiled, hissing, "How dare thee raise thy voice to me?"
For the first time since their union, Robert's temper flared. Veins stood prominent at his temples as he answered, voice ringing through the room:
"I shall raise it as need be. If Heaven grants us no child, then we shall adopt one in good faith and raise it as our own. But I will not abandon my wife to the cruelty of idle tongues!"
The silence that followed was absolute. Catherine's haughty façade cracked, and she swept from the room, her skirts swirling like storm clouds, leaving behind only the echo of her offended footfall.
As the latch clicked home, Robert turned and found Harriet trembling, tears coursing freely down her cheeks. He gathered her into his arms, pressing her head against his chest.
"Oh, Harriet," he murmured, voice soft with remorse, "forgive me. No one shall ever treat thee thus again. Thy worth is beyond measure."
She sobbed, beating her hand upon his coat as though in fury at herself. "I am but a barren failure—"
"Thou art my life," he intoned, lifting her chin so her tear-swollen eyes met his. "No sterility, no slander, can diminish my love. We shall face every dawn together, be it with children or without."