The sun dipped low, casting a golden hue over the small kitchen as Ana set two plates on the worn table. William’s footsteps echoed on the wooden porch outside before he pushed open the door, a gust of evening air swirling around him as he entered.
“Evening,” he greeted with a tired smile, his medical bag landing with a soft thud by the door.
“Supper’s ready,” Ana said. She watched him wash up at the basin, his hands methodical and sure—a contrast to the storm of thoughts in her head.
As they sat down to a meal of stewed beef and fresh bread, the silence was comfortable. Ana broke it first, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin.
“I spoke to Izzy and Rosie today,” she began.
“Ah?” William propped his elbows on the table, his attention fully on her now. “And how are they?”
“Rosie’s glowing,” Ana replied, a faint smile touching her lips. “She and Charles—well, they’re finding their way to each other.”
“Good, good.” His nod was absentminded.
“And Izzy...she made light of it, but we talked about the birthing yesterday. It was...” Ana’s voice faltered, the memory vivid in her mind. “It was difficult.”
He reached across, covering her hand with his. “Childbirth can be. But you were there for Mrs. Freeman, and that’s what matters.”
Ana drew in a deep breath, the exhale shaky. “William, do you think less of me if I admit I’m scared of having children?”
“Scared?” The concern in his eyes was clear, unfeigned. “Ana, whatever is on your mind, you can tell me.”
She met his gaze then. “I do want them—children, I mean. Someday.” A sigh escaped her, carrying the weight of her confession. “But the idea of childbirth terrifies me. To be so out of control, the pain...”
“Ana.” His voice was a balm, soothing the raw edges of her fears. “You don’t have to decide anything now. And when the time comes, should you wish it, I’ll be right there with you. You won’t be alone.”
After finishing the dishes, Ana joined William in his office. William sat ensconced behind his desk, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose as he pored over medical journals, their pages dense with knowledge that promised solace to the suffering.
Ana curled in a corner of the settee, her fingers tracing the well-worn spine ofLittle Womenbefore flipping it open. The words of Louisa May Alcott, though familiar and comforting, struggled to hold her full attention. Her mind wandered through the prose, lost amidst the March sisters’ trials and triumphs, seeking parallels in her own life.
Their mother had gotten a copy of the book when she and her sisters were younger, and it had become an instant favorite for her, Rosie, and Izzy. They’d read it over and over, and even acted out one of the plays Jo was always writing. Their mother had applauded madly.
As night deepened, the book fell gently from Ana’s lap, and she glanced up to find William still immersed in his studies.
“Bedtime,” she whispered, more to the room than to him.
In the privacy of their bedroom, the weight of the world slipped from their shoulders. His hands were tender, and knowledgeable, weaving a warmth that spread through her veins. She surrendered to the sensation, to the magic he conjured with each caress.
“William,” she breathed, as the space between them vanished, “even if I didn’t want children, I don’t think I could stop...this...with you.”
He responded not with words but with a kiss.
After, tendrils of William’s breath fanned against Ana’s skin. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, lulling her into a state of half-awareness. She lay still, listening to the sound of slumber that escaped him. The moonlight wove through the curtains, casting a pale glow over his features.
The room was steeped in tranquility, the world outside their door a distant memory. Here, time seemed to tread lightly, allowing moments to linger, thoughts to unfurl like the petals of a blooming rose. As the minutes trickled by, Ana felt a warmth spreading from her chest, an ember of emotion glowing brighter with each shared heartbeat.
A sigh escaped her, a whisper lost amidst the symphony of nighttime sounds. The realization settled within her like the final piece of a puzzle long left incomplete. She was falling in love with William Mercer, not out of necessity or convenience, but because he had become the compass point of her existence, the unexpected joy in a life she thought mapped by duty alone.
Yet as the certainty of her affection swelled, she worried that he had no feelings for her beyond those of lust. She suddenly wasn’t sure if it was enough to keep them together.
