Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

Elsie.

Two months later

I wake before my alarm.

A nausea sits in my chest like a stone, spreading slowly through my jaw, fingertips, the backs of my knees. I lie still for a moment, letting my body decide how badly it wants me to move.

Eventually, I get up and kneel on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, throwing up into the water closet.

I tell myself it’s from stress. That the headaches and sleepless nights were from stress, although it’s been two months of cold tile floors. Two months of brushing my teeth twice every morning to scrub out the taste of bile. Two months of Mom standing in doorways, watching.

I take the test from the package, fumbling with the wrapper like it’s made of knives. My hands are shaking, but I try to steady them against the edge of the sink. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the worst and the impossible, and then I follow the instructions, holding the stick just right, peeing on it and waiting.

The seconds stretch.

I count tiles on the floor. I count the cracks in the ceiling. I count each erratic heartbeat in my chest too. The bathroom is silent except for the hum of the exhaust fan, but every sound seems louder than it should. My stomach twists and my palms are cold.

I glance at the test. There’s nothing in it yet. My chest tightens and my legs feel like lead.

Then — two lines.

Two.

I stare. Blink. Blink again. My throat goes dry. My stomach turns inside out and my knees buckle, but I hold myself on the tile anyway.

It can’t be real. It can’t be. My hands shake so badly I drop the test back onto the sink, gripping it again, tracing the lines with trembling fingers. It’s real. The nausea in my chest blooms into something heavier, something I can’t name. I want to scream, to cry, to throw up, to disappear — all at once. But I stay there, frozen, clutching the test in my hands.

Eventually, I shove it into my pocket. I can’t look at it again. I move to the kitchen, fill the kettle, and stand at the window. The neighbor’s cat moves along the fence with complete, infuriating confidence. The kettle whistles loudly but I leave it boiling rather than making tea.

After few seconds, I walk robotically up the stairs and back to my room.

***

Mom opens my door without knocking and holds the test between two fingers, her expression unreadable. 

Fuck. She found it. 

I don’t know how. I wrapped it and hid it at the bottom of the bin. I was careful, but somehow, she knows.

She stares at me like I’ve grown another head. Her jaw tightens, her eyes dark.

“Who?” she asks.

For a moment I see him again. “I don’t—I don’t entirely remember.”

“You don’t remember,” she repeats flatly, her eyes narrowing to slits.

“I wasn’t well that night. At the party. I thought it was the champagne but I—”

“Elsie.” Her voice drops. “That is not an answer.”

The room goes very still, then my mother starts shouting.

“How could you do this to us?” she says, her voice rising. “Do you have any idea what this will look like? In this town? Everyone knows us. Everyone talks.” My father rushes in at the sound of her voice.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’re pregnant,” she cuts in sharply. “Pregnant with some man you can’t even name.”

My father doesn’t say anything. He stands by the window with his hands behind his back, staring outside like he’s trying to see something far away.

My mother starts pacing. She presses both hands to her face, rubbing her temples.

“We can’t keep this,” she mutters. “We can’t just let this happen.”

I sit there, my hands folded together so tightly my fingers hurt.

Finally my father turns around.

“Go to your room, Elsie,” he says quietly.

I look between them. “What—”

“Go to your room.”

His tone ends the conversation.

I stand and walk upstairs. I hear my mother start talking again the moment I close my door.

I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the carpet.

I don’t know how much time passes until there’s a knock on my door.

My mother opens the door before I answer.

“Change your clothes,” she says.

I look up at her. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

Something in her tone makes my stomach tighten. I change into the first dress I find and follow her downstairs.

The dining room lights are already on and father is standing by the sideboard, pouring wine.

And someone is sitting at the table.

For a second I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Then the man turns slightly in his chair.

Silver hair, dark suit and the same heavy, watchful eyes I remember from the party.

Aldric.

The air leaves my lungs all at once.

My mother moves past me like nothing is wrong. “Sit down, Elsie,” she says.

I don’t move.

Aldric watches me from across the table, calm and patient, as if he’s been expecting me.

My father sets the wine bottle down. “Sit,” he says again.

So I do.

He looks exactly the same as he did at the party—silver hair neatly combed, dark suit, that same calm expression. He glances at me as I sit down, his eyes moving slowly over my face before he focuses on my father once again.

Dinner passes with the men talking about things I’m not included in.

My mother serves the roast and pours wine and speaks only when spoken to.

I keep my eyes on my plate.

Every so often Aldric looks at me with that unwavering attention I remember from the party.

When dinner is over my father pours him a glass of expensive wine while my mother gathers the plates. I stand to help her.

“Sit down, Elsie,” my father says.

I sit.

Aldric lifts his glass, takes a slow sip of wine, and sets it back down.

His eyes move to me.

“So,” he says, almost mildly. “Your parents tell me you’ve found yourself in a… delicate situation.”

Heat climbs up my neck.

No one speaks.

He leans back slightly in his chair, studying me in a manner that make me extremely uncomfortable.

“In a town like this,” he continues, “people notice things. They talk. A young woman suddenly with child… and no husband.”

My mother’s fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

I stare down at my hands.

“It would be very unfortunate,” Aldric says, “for your family’s name to become the sort people whisper about.”

Silence stretches across the room, then he looks directly at me. “But these things can be… corrected.”

My stomach twists. “How?” I ask quietly.

A small smile touches the corner of his mouth. “You marry me.”

The words land like something dropped onto the table. My head lifts.

“I’m not marrying you.” My voice sounds thin even to me. “You’re older than my father.”

My mother stands so suddenly her chair scrapes against the floor.

The slap comes before I see it. My head jerks sideways, my cheek burning.

“You should have thought about that,” she snaps, her voice shaking with anger, “before opening your legs for a stranger.”

The room goes still again.

Aldric rises slowly from his chair, adjusting his cuffs as if nothing unusual has happened. He looks at me, calm and certain.

“You’ll marry me,” he says, then he tilts his head slightly.

“And in time,” he adds, “you’ll be grateful someone was willing to.”