Generation One: Chapter 11- Heavy Burdens

Chapter 11 - Heavy Burdens

I was with Fred and the horses when I realized that everything was not as it should be. 

The first inkling that something could possible wrong was the arrival of Gregorian with an empty saddle. I felt my blood run cold at the sight. While it was possible Gregorian was here and my father was not for some innocent reason, it was unlikely. Papa is an excellent horseman. Something had to have gone wrong.

I raced for my horse, and was just about to ride out to look for him alone, when Fred stopped me. “Henry, listen to me. You cannot go alone. What if Uncle Charles is hurt? You will not be able to help him by yourself. I will come with you.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Swinging into our saddles, and off into the gathering darkness we went, and I could only hope we weren’t too late.

We rode on, over hills and down paths I had never seen before, hoping to see my father around every turn, but the path ahead was always empty.

Finally, we found him, and nothing in my life could have prepared me to see my father lying in the middle of the path unmoving.

At first I was afraid he was dead, but I saw his chest move a little. I turned in my saddle to look at Fred, and he nodded. He took off in the direction of the doctor’s home. It was up to me to get Papa home without injuring him further.

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Being the youngest, for now, I have gotten good at hearing conversations not meant for me. This is one of them. I was in my parents’ parlor, and in the next room Mama was talking quietly to the doctor. I could hardly make out what they were saying, but I knew it was not good.

 I had been in the main parlor playing chess with Mama while Aunt Caroline played the pianoforte; when Fred had burst in, pale as a sheet.

 Mama had stood up as quickly as possible and they had gone into the next room.  My aunt stopped playing, and came quickly to where I sat.

I stood, and she said to me, “Ellen, go get ready for bed, now.”

“But Aunt Caroline, what is wrong with Fred? Where are Papa and Henry? Papa never came home for supper.” I asked, confused.

“Not now, just go to bed. Read a book if you can’t sleep, but you need to go to your room. Do not argue with me.” Aunt Caroline said, her voice firm. 

I obeyed, and for a while I tried to settle down for the night, but then I heard many running feet and raised voices. I tried to keep reading, but my curiosity got the better of me.

I snuck to my parents study, being careful to avoid the servants, who would surely send me back to bed.

This is where I now find myself, trying to listen to a conversation I am not supposed to hear. 

Before I could hide, Mama came in. She looked surprised to see me, and then predictably she asked what I am doing.

“Mama,” I said, “Something is happening. I heard people running about, I have not seen Papa or Henry since this morning, and no one will tell me anything. I want to know what is going on.”

Mama smiled in a sad way. She leaned down and gave me a hug. “Oh, my inquisitive girl, I am afraid your father has been hurt.”

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.

“I…I hope so, sweetheart.”

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When Ellen had gone, I finally let myself cry. It was so much weight to carry; trying to hold the whole family together.

I cried for my husband, my children and myself. Oh Charles, would he ever wake again? Would I be left with three children to raise alone, without the love of my life, the tiny baby I carry would never get the chance to meet their father? And what about Fred? Charles was truly the only father he had really known. What would the loss do to him? I dared not think what his death would do to me.

But what if he survived and he woke a different man? When I was a girl in France, one of my neighbors fell from a great height and survived, but transformed from a warm-hearted man to a man with a heart of stone. I could still lose the heart of the man I married, if not the body. I could barely hope that my Charles could possibly live and be the same man, if a little harmed in body.

Only time would tell. 

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For two weeks, we waited. I hardly left his side. I cried there, alone in our rooms more times than I care to count. Henry and Fred looked after Ellen, keeping her as happy as possible. I found an unexpected friend even in the midst of my pain.

Caroline, who had antagonized me from the day we met, was a source of comfort as the days dragged on. She knew how I felt and did her best to help. She listened to my fears and wonderings, not offering meaningless platitudes.

One day in the beginning of the third week, we were sitting in my private parlor when I felt what I thought was a particularly strong kick from the baby, but it wasn’t. The baby was coming now, with Charles still unconscious.

“No,” I whispered through the pain, “it’s too soon! It’s too soon for the baby to come!”

Thankfully, both were healthy. I had to name them by myself. I wanted to wait, to wait until Charles had returned to me and we could name them together, just as we had done with Henry and Ellen, but that was not going to happen.

I named one Madeline.

I gave her twin the name Miriam.

And still Charles slept.

A few days later, I knew which of the three futures I had imagined in the first days would be my reality.

The doctor had said at first it was well that Charles slept, for it allowed his injured body to heal. As the days had turned into a week, he began to say that the longer he slept, the less likely he would wake at all. When our daughters were born and he was still lost in dreams, the doctor had regretfully told me it was only a matter of time before the body joined the soul in death.

I resigned myself to that fate, to that loss.

But against all odds, two weeks and three days after he had, as far as we could tell, fallen or been thrown from his horse, Charles Darcy woke up.

I was in the nursery, comforting a crying Madeline, when Ellen burst into the room. 

I was about to ask her why she had left Charles, she had been reading to him, when I saw her face. Her expression told me all I needed to know. I put Madeline back in her crib and ran, as fast as my feet could carry me to our bedroom.

Those blue eyes, which I had despaired of ever seeing again, were open. He lay there, pale and week after all that time asleep, looking older than I had ever seen him, but he was awake.

“Hello, my love.” He said, his voice barely a whisper and rough from disuse.

I began to cry again, but they were happy tears this time.