It was late Monday night when Catherine slid the bread into the oven. She’d thought that baking might quell her nightly worries about the baby—the ones that kept her lying in bed hour after hour, waiting for the inevitable to happen.
And yet it still hadn’t.
Perhaps she’d bake another loaf. They could never have too much bread. The more she and Mrs. Bell baked, the more the men ate. She sang the refrain of a hymn that both she and Beth especially loved back in Rollings Woods as she retrieved more flour. She’d just reached her favorite part of the song when she turned and spotted Jonathan at the door.
“Please don’t stop.” He smiled and strode to the table.
“Oh, well . . .” She didn’t sing often in front of other people, only at church where her voice blended with others. And with Beth, of course. Or when she thought she was alone. She’d known none of the hymns when she attended services here for the first time with Jonathan, so she supposed he hadn’t heard her sing—until now.
“You have a lovely singing voice,” he said. He watched her with such intensity that Catherine thought if her cheeks grew any warmer, she might burst into flames right there in the kitchen. Despite the fact that they’d been married for a week now, she wasn’t certain if she’d ever grow used to the way he looked at her.
It reminded her of the way Harlan had looked at her, before the war. And a whole lot of good that had done her. She wouldn’t lose her heart to Jonathan in that way—shecouldn’t. That would lead to nothing but disappointment.
“Thank you,” she said softly in response to his compliment.
“What are you doing in here?” He craned his neck to see her workspace.
“Baking,” she answered, setting the scoop of flour down. She brushed her hands together. “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. “I heard someone rustling around in here and thought it might be one of the guests, struck with hunger at midnight.” He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit.
It was only then that Catherine realized how much her feet ached and her back hurt from hours of standing and moving about. She sat.
“What are you doing baking in the dead of night?” he asked as he sat in the chair next to her.
“It calms my nerves,” she answered truthfully.
He cocked his head. “Do you have something weighing on your mind?”
“I, well . . .” She looked down at her stomach, unsure how to put her fears into words.
He smiled. “Mrs. Bell told me that it’s fairly normal for mothers-to-be to worry over their unborn children. Come spring, you’ll be able to hold this little one in your arms.” He looked at her with an expression akin to reverence, as if he could hardly believe that it was possible.
Catherine wanted to match his hope, to tell him her fears were normal, and that she, too, was excited for the birth of the baby.
But that would all be a lie. And it was time for him to know the truth.
She drew in a deep breath. “I was married for five years, and all during that time, I was unable to give birth to a single baby.”
Jonathan scrunched up his forehead, as if he were trying to make sense of her words.
“I lost each baby I carried,” she explained, the pangs of every single loss weighing her words. The pain lessened each time in between the pregnancies, but it never fully disappeared, roaring back to life at each new loss.
Understanding passed across Jonathan’s face. He said nothing, but reached out to lay a hand upon her arm. Catherine’s skin prickled under his touch. It was such a small gesture, and yet it filled her with warmth from head to toe. Harlan had never been so understanding. She’d often wondered if he knew how much it hurt her to lose each child. If it hurt him—and she wanted to believe it did—he never showed it.
But here was Jonathan, a man she’d only known for a week, extending sympathy in a way Catherine had only known from her mother, Beth, and some of the other ladies in Rollings Woods.
“I can’t say I know how you’re feeling, but I can understand loss,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I can understand fear.”
“Thank you.” It was all she needed, really. After a moment, she added, “I want to say that I’m hopeful this time will be different, but it’s difficult to summon hope after so many disappointments. Sometimes I wonder if God truly wants me to be a mother.” A single tear forced its way from her eye and she quickly swiped it away.
“Only God knows the answer to that question.” Jonathan squeezed her arms, and she looked up into his eyes. “But I personally believe that you would be a wonderful mother to any child. And I’ll hold the hope that we get to meet this one.”
It was all she could do to restrain herself from flinging her arms around him again. They were married, yes, but she still hardly knew him.
As much as she appreciated his kindness, there was one other concern she needed to voice. “I fear you’ll be disappointed if I’m unable to carry children.”
“Let’s not worry about that now,” he said, and Catherine had never been so grateful. “Tell me, did you grow up with siblings?”
