Marco: Contessa

Title: Marco III: Contessa
Sequel to Marco and Mentally Challenged
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Written: 9 January, 2019
Fandom(s): A Place to Call Home, Season 1, Episode 1 / (Pride and Prejudice)
Pairing(s): Marco/George Bligh
Summary: Somehow she was forgetting Darcy in this strange new life and falling more and more in love with her husband.  But just how long could she hold onto it?

Contessa

Marcelle Aurelia Bligh hated her name, no matter how aristocratic it sounded.  She had been born Marco Hightower and then, after traveling through a door through time, married Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in the early nineteenth century.  She thought her life had been perfect, never regretting the future, until the day she died in childbirth and woke up in the body of a young teenager in 1948 London.

Strangely, it was her own young teenage body.  It was as if time had wiped away nearly fifteen years and she had been left an orphan.

Now, she was on her not-quite-honeymoon, sitting with her mother-in-law, the matriarch Elizabeth Bligh, married to a man more than twice her age (George), younger than his son and heir (James), and barely a year older than his daughter (Anna).  She had no idea how old her daughter-in-law, Olivia, was, but she would guess about eighteen or nineteen.

She spread her skirts out on the bed as she got herself comfortable. 

“I didn’t mean to take you away from my grandchildren,” Elizabeth Bligh apologized.  “I’m sure you and Anna want to dance.”

Smiling indulgently at the older woman, Marco answered simply, “I only like dancing with George, as you well know, and he’s gone to fetch the nurse.”

“Maybe you’ll get to dance later, dear,” Elizabeth suggested, patting her hand.  “You seem so happy when you dance.  I never thought I’d see my son happy again since his wife, Elaine, died.  No, I think you’ll breathe fresh air into us Blighs—unlike Olivia.”

Well, Marco could certainly agree with that last bit.  Picking up a novel by the side of the bed, she opened up to the bookmark.  “Let me read to you.”

“No,” Elizabeth begged.  “I’ve kept George isolated all these years, frightening off women who might be interested, encouraging ladies in society—but he chooses a convent girl.”

Not quite certain what to say, Marco remarked casually, “My mother was a convent girl.”  Or, rather, she had been a nun in a convent.  In the 1980s.  How far away that now seemed.  Part of her thought since she would be about fifty then, she might go to Italy and find her.  Her father was due to be born out near Chicago in two years.

At this, Elizabeth laughed.  “I suppose that’s how your Catholic Archbishop of a father met her.  Inspecting the school?  He must have liked a pretty young thing.”

“They met,” Marco emphasized, “when my mother was twenty—my age, supposedly.  She was no longer a school girl.  They also waited five years to marry.  Give Bishop Hightower credit.  It wasn’t quite that scandalous.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrow.  “An Archbishop running off with a convent girl, albeit one who had graduated.  That is certainly the stuff of scandal.  He must have been three times her age!”

“About that,” Marco agreed.  “Not as bad as your son and myself.—But you rather approve of us.”  Pausing, she admitted an insecurity.  “When I was first engaged, Mrs. Bligh—”

The older woman looked up with her bright eyes.  “’Mother’, I insist.  You don’t have one, dear one, and I know I can be quite the personality” (Marco’s eyes gleamed at that) “and probably scared you half to death when we first met, but I see what you’ve done for George.  I didn’t know he was existing simply for the sake of his children.  I forgot the sound of his laugh.  You’ve done that, my dear.”  She reached up and cupped her cheek.  “Somehow, you seem older than a mere girl of nineteen.”

“I feel like I’ve lived much longer,” Marco confessed, smiling down at the woman.  “Now—when I was first engaged, Anna was horrified at the thought I might have children.  I don’t know how to broach the subject with George.  We’ve been married less than two months, James is just newly married though he seems unhappy, and I don’t want to bring up such a weighty subject.—But it is a possibility.”

“Oh, Marcelle,” Elizabeth cooed, sitting up.  “Are there signs?”

Blushing, Marco nodded.  “As I said, we’re just married—”

“But there’s been time enough,” she stated happily, taking her hand.  “Another grandchild.  I’m so pleased for you, Marcelle.  Ash Park needs a baby.  It’s been too long, and I don’t think I can count on Olivia.  The match was a good one, but it’s proving unsuccessful.”

“Don’t be hard on James,” Marco begged even though she didn’t particularly like her stepson.  He was rather put off by the fact she was American, following the cue of his little mouse of a wife, but he was gay and living in 1952, which had to be difficult no matter which way you cut it.  “There’s also plenty of time for them.  James is barely twenty-two.  Some men might like to wait a few years before starting a family.”

“I love that boy desperately, but sometimes I wonder about his commitment to that girl.”  Looking confused, she admitted, “He could have waited for a nice Australian girl.  There would have been no shame in that.”

“I think James just needs to—” grow up, was in her mind, but she didn’t say it.  “Settle.  His life has changed drastically.  He’s no longer a student but a man who has to help manage a station.  He’s no longer a carefree young man, he has a wife.”

“He should have thought about that,” Elizabeth stated unhappily.  “No.  You are our future, and as soon as ship’s nurse gets here, I want her to look you over.”

“But I haven’t even told George—” Marco begged.

Elizabeth simply waved her off.  “Women often tell other women—sisters, mothers—it is quite common before the husband even knows, and it is good to be certain.  If we can be certain now—all the better.”

The two women didn’t have long to wait when a pretty woman in her forties appeared in a nurse’s uniform.

“You must inspect my daughter-in-law,” Elizabeth stated before either the nurse or George, who had followed her inside, could say anything.  “I want to know if I’m going to be a grandmother.”

“Mother!” Marco sighed as she looked at the older woman affectionately.  “George is standing right there.  What was all that nonsense of ‘being sure’ before telling him?”

“Well, now he gets to play an active role,” she stated happily, looking entirely too smug.  “Oh, wipe that astonished look off your face, George.  You’re a bridegroom.  You have a beautiful young wife who fortunately has something to say for herself, unlike Olivia.  I’m not simple-minded.  I know what goes on in that cabin of yours.”

At this Marco was blushing profusely.  She took in a deep breath and peaked a glance over at her husband, George, who as soon as he got over his initial shock, came over to her and kissed her hand.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “I was asking for advice.  My mother’s dead.”

“Not at all, darling girl,” he murmured, stroking her face.  “Perhaps you should be in something a little more comfortable and in our cabin?  I can take care of Mother.”  His gray eyes were so kind and expressive.  She could see the hope within them.  He wanted this baby. 

She breathed out as she leaned her forehead against his.  “I’m not leaving Mother until I know she’s well, and I want to dance!”

The nurse came up to her and placed the back of her hand against Marco’s head.  “How far along do you think you are, Mrs. Bligh?”

“Er,” she whispered.  “About two months I would guess.”

George looked at her in amazement.  They had been married a month and three and a half weeks.

“Wonderful,” she told her as she took Marco’s pulse.  “I’m going to try and hear your baby’s heartbeat as that’s the least invasive way I can confirm.  Now, are you getting sick from foods?  Smells?”

“I hid George’s cologne when we were packing,” she admitted with a small smile to herself.  “It became a little too pungent.”  Looking over at her husband who was holding her hand, she murmured, “Sorry, baby.”

Marco had a habit of calling George ‘baby.’  She wanted to differentiate him from her first husband.  Although the two men had very different names, “George” had always referred to ‘George Wickham’ when she was speaking with Georgiana Darcy.  Her sister-in-law had also always been ‘G’ or ‘Georgie.’  When she was first married, she had daydreamed about Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina, realizing she’d be able to see his films, possibly on the big screen, and how he had called his fourth and final wife ‘Baby’ even in public.  In a nod to the Hollywood Icon, she adopted the nickname for her husband—who believed it was “wonderfully American.”

“I don’t mind,” George promised, cracking a smile, “however I was seriously beginning to think I left it behind in Scotland.”

“No foods are making you ill?” the nurse asked.  Her smile was soft but she was taking in their interaction carefully.

“Food didn’t bother me last time,” she stated before she could think, remembering that with pregnancy everything was important.  “It was always the smells.”

Elizabeth looked confused but said nothing.

“And how was the birth?” the nurse asked as she indicated that Marco should lie down.  “Was it an easy pregnancy?”

“I almost lost the baby several times.  She came early in the end and I had—I think it was childbed fever afterward.  I was on bed rest for months and months.—I remember how bored I was.  I couldn’t even go outside or ride.”

George looked at her in worry before he murmured, “She was about twelve or thirteen.  I should have thrashed the bastard who got you pregnant when I had the chance.”

Remembering the loving relationship, Marco sighed and closed her eyes.  “Please.  I don’t want to quarrel about something that happened seven years ago.  It’s over.”  Then for good form, she added, “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

“He can’t force you into what was practically child prostitution,” George mumbled. 

Still, Marco wondered why this body had given birth to a child at such a supposedly young age.  It was her body, it certainly was.  It was her own reflection that she had always had looking back at her.

The nurse looked down at her sympathetically and Marco just breathed out through her nose.  “I feel everyone is suddenly quiet because they don’t know what to say,” Marco stated carefully as the nurse used her stethoscope to listen to her belly.

It was a strange feeling and she almost giggled, but she thought that would be too distracting.  Then a smile formed on the nurse’s face and she stood up.  “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Bligh.  You’re going to have a little boy or girl in seven months, if Mrs. Bligh’s calculations are correct.”

Marco breathed out in relief and made to sit up, but George rested a hand on her shoulder. 

“Is there anything I need to know?”

“Mrs. Bligh should see a doctor immediately, in Sydney perhaps or one competent where you live,” she stated, “if she gave birth at just twelve years of age.  This shouldn’t cause complications now, but I would like to be on the safe side for the sake of the child.—Now.  The other patient.”

Elizabeth looked seriously unhappy at the idea she hadn’t been forgotten about in all the fuss over a future baby.

They ended up leaving Elizabeth in bed because she shouldn’t strain herself, and George took Marco back to the dining room so they could dance.  By silent agreement, they didn’t mention the pregnancy to the other three, and just went onto the dancefloor to celebrate privately.

Marco felt elated.  She was married, adored, and she was going to have a baby.  And this time there was pseudo-modern medicine to help!  She breathed out a sigh of joy as she was twirled outward and then caught in her husband’s arms, her black cocktail dress swirling out around her.

“You’re the most beautiful woman on earth,” George told her simply as the song turned slow.  “I would even hazard a guess that you’re glowing.”

“I wasn’t glowing before dinner,” she teased as she looked up into his cool gray eyes.  “How could I be glowing now?”

He merely laughed a little and held her closer, and she let herself fall into his arms.  When she looked back out of the door that led to the gangway, she saw Sister Adams—the nurse who had looked after her—standing with the ocean behind her, taking in the two of them and smiling to herself.

“We should have champagne,” George suggested when the song ended before it began to pick up again.  “We don’t need to tell the others just yet.”

“No,” she argued, placing a hand against his chest.  “You have something if you like, but there’s an Old Wives Tale in America that alcohol harms the baby.”  She smiled at herself, thinking how no one knew the dangerous affects of alcohol or medication against fetuses.  “I just—it’s something my mother told me, and she always wanted me to be safe and happy.  I would like to follow her advice in this—just until the baby is born, then we can have a toast.”

“Your mother sounds like a very wise woman,” he agreed, taking her hand in his. 

“And let’s tell your family—” (“our family,” he insisted) “when ‘Mother’ is up and better.”

He picked up her hand and kissed the palm of it before leading her off of the dancefloor.  “I’m surprised she’s having you call her ‘Mother’ after just two months.  Elaine never gained the privilege.  They were always ‘Elizabeth’ and ‘Elaine’ to one another, and that was only after Anna was born.”

“Goodness,” she responded as she retook her seat next to Anna.  “I knew Mother was fastidious, but not to that extent.  I think she views me as a lost duckling.”

“But not an ugly one,” George promised as he took up his own seat and picked up his glass of wine, holding it to her in a salute before taking a sip.

James was well and truly drunk.  Of course he was.  Not only was he married to the wrong person but he was married to the wrong gender.  That must be absolutely horrible.  Marco was lucky she had such perfect chemistry with her second husband.  He was a gentler lover than Darcy had ever been, whose lovemaking was always passionate and somehow headstrong.  Still, he clearly treasured her and she liked being treated gently, as if she would break when she was in his arms.  For so long as she was being ordered about in a mental hospital, lost in a haze of drugs, she thought she would be nothing more than a patient number for the rest of her life.

“How is Grandmama?” Anna asked carefully, clearly ignoring James.  “Is she resting?”

No, she was not.  When Marco and George had left, she had taken out a piece of paper and started writing down various baby names, even though Marco had said it was too soon.  She’d quickly gone over to the woman, taken the list, and written ‘Robert’ at the top of it—the name of her father.  Her mother’s namesake, ‘Aurelia’, had already been given to her child lost in the pages of a novel.

Smiling to himself, clearly remembering what Marco was thinking, George responded, “She’s excited to get back to Australia.”

“We have another week,” Anna sighed.  “Sometimes I think we’ll never get there.”

Taking George’s hand on the table, Marco looked at her friend.  “I find it rather idyllic.  Romantic.”

At this, Olivia caught a sob in her throat, and everyone but James looked over at her in worry.  “Romantic,” she breathed.  “What’s so romantic about this place?—I was supposed to be the adored bride,” she continued spitefully.  “Why did you have to sneak your way into this family?  You’re just—American.”

“Olivia,” George stated rather forcefully, “you will apologize to your mother-in-law immediately.”

Her husband always meant business when he reminded ‘the children’ that she was his wife.  His face was stern and all happiness wiped from it as he looked at the girl who had married his son. 

“It’s nothing,” Marco tried to diffuse the situation, but George merely took her hand.

“It’s not ‘nothing’,” he stated calmly but coldly.  “You are my wife.  You deserve respect.  You’re from an upstanding family in Boston.”  (Not quite, but still.)  “I will not have you treated like this.”

“How did you even possibly meet?” Olivia continued in her confusion.  “You were writing some report?  That’s so terribly vague.  She was a convent girl and yet she’s too old to be in school.”  Her black curls fell around her face, which was so terribly unhappy.

“We owe you no explanation, Mrs. Bligh,” George said carefully and coolly.  “May I remind you that while you may have known my son for several years, you did not become a member of this family until after Marcelle did.  She is my wife.  I am head of this family until the day I die—” (which was certainly peculiar to hear given that Elizabeth was the clear matriarch) “and even beyond that—she will be my wife until that day.—Now, apologize.”

Olivia’s lip gave a little quiver and then she bowed her head and whispered, “I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Bligh.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Bligh,” she responded carefully but without any warmth.  “We’re both young brides.  We should be friends, if anything.”  Placing her napkin down on the table, she got up and squeezed George’s shoulder.  “The flowers are a bit much.  I’m going to take a walk.”

“Would you like me to join you, my love?” he asked.

“No, I’ll go check on your mother, perhaps, and her list of possibilities.”  She leaned down and kissed his gray hair, somehow having become fond of the color. 

Making her way out onto the deck, she breathed in the salt air and found that it didn’t make her feel remotely nauseous.  She must have meandered around the deck two or three times before she saw the familiar form of her stepson, perched on the guard rail, as if ready to jump. 

“James!” she shouted before taking after him at a run.  Immediately, she was standing beside him, careful not to touch, knowing that touching him would be the wrong thing.  “James, what’s wrong?  Are you drunk?”

He nodded.  “Yes, I am drunk.  I can’t bear to look at my little wife.  She’s nothing like William.”  At this he collapsed in on himself, crying, though still holding onto the guardrail. 

“No one’s like anyone else,” she stated carefully, looking up at him in desperation.  “I—I loved once before your father,” she confessed, “and they’re nothing alike—and I like that.  I don’t want my husband to remind me of Fitzwilliam.  I imagine that would have been horrible at the beginning.”

Despite himself, James seemed a little interested, although clearly intoxicated.  “He’s the man who appeared the night before graduation.”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “He kind of—followed me, unfortunately.  Your father, obviously, dislikes any mention of him, so we don’t bring him up.”  Taking a deep breath, she inched her fingers across the wet rail, knowing she was ruining her gloves, but this was far too important.  “Why don’t you come down, James, and you can tell me about him?  I don’t care that you’re married to Olivia.  I don’t care that William was—an impossibility.  What I care about is that we’re now family and you need someone to tell.”

“You hate Olivia,” he stated brokenly.  “I hate Olivia.”

Reaching up toward him, she whispered, “Take my hand.  Please, James.  I can be your friend.  I’ve known—others—” (not quite.)  “I get it.”

Hesitantly looking toward her, he stepped down from the rail and fell into her arms, crying. 

“You’re just—adjusting,” she soothed.  “Let me take you to your grandmother and you can sleep on her sofa tonight so you don’t have to see Olivia.”

“She’s horrible,” he sighed into her shoulder, clasping onto her.  “How did I not realize she was going to be horrible?”

“We don’t always realize what’s right in front of us,” she promised, rubbing a hand up and down his coat.  “Come on, let’s get you back to Mother’s.”

As they were walking down the boardwalk, she took a deep breath and noticed that Sister Adams was coming out into the night air in her white nurse’s uniform and white hat.

“Trouble’s coming,” she murmured.  “Look smart.”

James’s eyes came up and took in the nurse before he tried to regain his height and almost tripped as he played with his cufflinks.

“Sister Adams,” she greeted, pausing for a moment.  “The smell of flowers became a bit too much and my stepson offered to escort me around the ship.  Have you stopped by to see Mother?  Is she feeling better?”

“She is in quite the optimistic mood,” she teased, “but I’m sure you know why.”

“Why?” James asked, clearly confused.

“Two marriages in less than a month!” Marco quickly covered.  “Olivia was far more elegant than I was, I’m afraid to admit.”  She touched James’s arm to steady him before turning back to the other woman.  “Goodnight, Sister Adams.  I’m sure we’ll see you again.”  She touched James’s arm again and they continued on their way. 

If the nurse wasn’t convinced, she didn’t stop them.

It was only another few minutes until they reached Elizabeth Bligh’s stateroom.  “Do we have to tell her?” James asked, clearly worried.

“No,” she responded.  “No, never.  We’ll just tell her you had a bit too much to drink and you want to sleep it off away from Olivia, who would mother you too much.  Your grandmother does protect her hens, but she’s not overly maternal—”  Though, to be honest, Marco was beginning to doubt that. 

She knocked on the door and when she was bid to enter, she popped her head in.  “We came to check on you and James had one too many and was hoping if he could sleep on your couch.”

Elizabeth was setting aside what was clearly a list of names and looked at her grandson.  “Olivia kick you out, then?”

“No,” he admitted.  “I miss William.”

Looking anxiously at her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth was clearly worried.  “He is your best friend.”

“She knows,” he groaned.  “She saw.  My father’s wife figured it out and—how have you not run to Dad yet?” he asked miserably.  “Surely, he’d want to know.”

“What is there to know?” she asked, sitting down.  “You’re married to Olivia.  Everything else is private.  I’m just sorry I never really got to speak to William.  He sounds like a man worth knowing, someone interesting if not fascinating.  He certainly seemed the type to break hearts.”

“At least he didn’t break yours,” Elizabeth stated imperiously, though with a twinkle in her eye.  “No, you were too wrapped up in George.”  She reached out for Marco who went around the bed and curled up against the free pillow.  “You’re such a dear girl, Marcelle.  I can’t believe your—guardian, whoever that was—willingly let you go and didn’t try and keep you in London.”

“Oh,” she sighed.  “I think I was more of a burden than anything.  A young American girl with no family who prefers to play the piano all day than do anything useful… such as plan parties.”

“That we have in common,” Elizabeth decided before turning to her grandson.  “You’re positively wet, as are you, Marcelle, dear.  James, go into the bathroom and you can take one of my robes.  You know where the couch is.  It’s obvious.”

“Drink water,” Marco suggested as he got unsteadily to his feet.  “It’s going to taste disgusting, but I hear it helps with alcohol.”

He saluted her.  “Right, Stepmother.”

“Oh, Lord, don’t call me that!” she begged.  “I have a perfectly good name.”

“No,” he argued, turning around and coming toward her.  He cupped her cheek in a motion that would have had romantic attentions if it were anyone than a young homosexual man who happened to be her stepson.  “You’re my stepmother.  I need to accept that—you helped me.  You didn’t have to.  You could have left someone else to find me or just gotten rid of me so your own children would inherit.”  (Marco fought letting her eyes wander to Elizabeth.)  “You’re my stepmother in every sense of the word.”

“Except ‘wicked’,” Elizabeth added in as the two young people were regarding each other.

At this, Marco finally turned.  “How do you know I’m not ‘wicked’?”  She laughed then at this.  “I’m terribly ordinary.”

“Hardly that,” James guessed.  “No, you might be just what our family needs.”

“Well,” she decided, “although you’ve seen more of the world than I have” (which wasn’t quite true) “I’ll be happy to call you ‘my stepson’.  Now, go get ready for bed, James Bligh.”

He nodded and then made his way back to the bathroom.  The women looked after him before Elizabeth sighed, “I think that marriage was ill advised.”

“It was,” Marco agreed as she curled up around the older woman who was fussing with a blanket to put over her as she had bare arms.

“We must keep you warm, my dear.  You have someone special to start thinking about.”

“You think I’m not thinking of my ‘little nudger’?” she asked.  “This baby means everything to me, Mother.  I may have only suspected for about a week and known for three hours, but this baby now comes first.  I will not end up in a bed, not being permitted to move.  Now—apart from ‘Robert’—I want Roman names.”  Her child was part Italian, after all, and had a rich history.  “’Ursula’ for a girl, perhaps, and even ‘Roman’ for a boy.”

“I quite like ‘Ursula’,” Elizabeth confessed as she picked up the names.  “Lavinia?”

“Oh, yes,” Marco agreed.  “Regina, perhaps.”

“No,” she stated firmly.  “Elaine’s sister is named ‘Regina.’  The woman is a harpy.”

“Not ‘Regina,’ then,” Marco agreed with a laugh.  “We’ll do anything to keep unwanted family members’ names from the mix.”

James came out in what seemed to be his boxer briefs and undershirt underneath a large silk robe.  Marco briefly wondered if, like his father, he wore those hilarious blue striped ones.  “What are you ladies of the House of Bligh plotting?”

Setting her list aside pointedly, Elizabeth teased, “Never you mind.  Now, you can get a blanket and pillow from the closet and I want you to rest now.—If only I could somehow get word to George to come pick you up, Marcelle.  I don’t like how wet your gloves are.”

“It can’t be helped,” she sighed, not quite ready to move.  “Give me a moment.”

She must have drifted off to sleep, because when she next opened her eyes there was a knock at the door and George was walking in, looking concerned.

“The poor soul got her gloves all wet,” Elizabeth stated quietly.  “James has had a bit much to drink and she helped him in.”

“In her condition?” George asked in worry.  He walked over to Marco who turned to look at him. 

“Hey, baby,” she greeted.  “Have you come to be my knight in shining armor?”

“I don’t think you want to sleep in your cocktail dress and hat, darling,” he murmured as he stroked her hair away from her face.  “I think I was right.  You are glowing.”

“I’m tired and ready to be taken back to our cabin,” she answered, carefully getting up.  Knowing that Elizabeth was watching them, she nonetheless let herself be pulled into her husband’s arms and he kissed her lingeringly.

“You’ve made me so happy today.”

“You better continue to be happy,” she told him carefully, “and I expect you to demonstrate your -happiness in the next half hour.”  Leaning up, she kissed him slowly to get her point across.

What they hadn’t realized is that James had woken up.  He was now sitting up and staring at them, clearly a little muddled, but with a look of wonder on his face.  She looked over and winked before she allowed George to take her back to their cabin. 

Marco was honestly surprised when she walked over to the vanity and he knelt down beside her, reaching up to kiss her again languidly.  His tongue slipped against her lips and then breached them, causing her to lose her breath.  She breathed out in excitement as he continued to kiss her and then he surged upward and picked her up.

Laughing into the kiss, she wrapped her arms around him as he picked her up and placed her on the bed.  Kneeling down again, his eyes never leaving her, he took off her two pumps and tossed them over to the side before letting his fingers run up her leg until they reached her garters. 

She fell down on to the bed when he came back up, her garters removed, and crawled on top of her.  “We’re wearing too many clothes,” she chided him.

“This time perhaps,” he agreed as her leg stretched up, to hook him to her.  “Next time, perhaps not.”

Laughing, she let his fingers trace over her face in wonder.  “Baby,” she whispered.  “We’re going to have a—well—baby.”

He smoothed over her long hair, a look of complete adoration on his face.  “I will always love you, Marcelle Aurelia Bligh,” George stated firmly.

“Good,” she agreed, “because I’ve been informed by competent doctors that I won’t be walking through any doors to anywhere in particular or to nowhere at all.  You’re stuck with me until the day you die, George Bligh.”

“I can live with that,” he agreed, kissing her again, a little more desperately—

—when she woke up it was to the feel of hands in her hair, which she had neglected to braid.  Keeping her eyes closed, she began the usual tradition.  “June.  1952.  The Queen is Elizabeth II, who is married to the Duke of Edinburgh.  The President of the United States of America is Harry S. Truman.”  She peeked and turned over to look at her husband who was sitting on the bed, fully dressed though sans jacket, and was letting his hand run through her hair as a book was in his other hand.  “I think Eisenhower is going to win the November election.”

“Do you?” he murmured, leaning down to offer the day’s first kiss.  “He was a general, if I remember.”

“He was,” she agreed.  Changing the subject, she murmured, “The nurse wasn’t wearing a cross.”

“Was that frightening for you, my love?” George asked carefully, still stroking her hair though he had abandoned his book on the bedside table.  “It’s the first time you’ve seen a doctor or nurse since we took you back to the Grand.”

She shook her hair.  “No,” she promised.  “I knew she was there to check on Mother’s heart—and then to see about the baby.—But I’ve never seen a nurse here in—well, we’re not in London anymore.  However, they all wore crosses.”

“That was Saint Dymphna’s Asylum,” he reminded her carefully.  “It was a religious institution.”

Shrugging, she leaned her head up against his shoulder.  “She’s called ‘sister.’  That’s religious.  Still, it’s what I’m used to.”

It was two nights later when James was reading to Elizabeth and Marco stopped in to tell them it was time for dinner—and was Elizabeth well enough to go?—when Sister Adams dropped by again.  “Come,” Marco told her stepson.  “Your father and sister will be happy to see you—and you can’t avoid certain other people forever.  You’re sharing a ship!”

He grimaced.  “I’ve managed to avoid her for the past few days.”

“Too true,” she agreed, coming up to him and looking at Elizabeth.  “I hate to ask you to order your own grandson, but it’s beginning to look a bit odd.”

He sighed, already being dressed for dinner down to the bowtie, and went to go get his jacket.  Marco wondered who had snuck him his clothes over the past few days.  She had seen Olivia crying on Anna’s shoulder, much to Anna’s obvious annoyance, but Anna and Marco had obviously both taken two sides of the argument, without even meaning to.

Sister Adams was waiting calmly by the door.  “How are you feeling, Mrs. Bligh?” she asked.

“Why should Stepmother feel anything but refreshed by the sea air?” James asked her in confusion.  “You actually look incredibly healthy.  Your eyes are bright, your skin is glowing almost—it’s quite amazing considering how Olivia has seasickness.  You’re positively flourishing, Marcelle.”

“Well, I’m glad to see that Sister Adam’s tonic is working,” she stated, nodding to the nurse who had given her some vitamins for the baby.  She didn’t have many in her store, but she had enough for the final week.  Turning to the nurse, she asked, “I have a question, but I don’t want to seem forward.”

“Please, Mrs. Bligh.  I’m here to help.”

“It’s just I attended a convent school and we had a hospital—and all the nurses and doctors wore crosses.  Somehow I always thought it was because they were in the medical profession along with having sworn an oath to God—but you’re not wearing a cross from what I can tell.”

Sister Adams looked at her for a moment before shaking her head.  “No, the cruise ship has no religious affiliation, and I’m not permitted to wear jewelry of any kind, I’m afraid.”

“Oh dear,” she murmured, reaching out and touching her arm.  “Did they make you take off your wedding band or some such nonsense?”  She remembered almost all of the doctors and many of the nurses wearing wedding bands—never engagement rings, those would catch—but wedding bands certainly.—They had also made her take off her wedding band, the one Darcy had put on her finger.  Even when she had ‘been cured’ and released to George Bligh, they hadn’t given it back.

“I lost mine during the war,” Sister Adams stated with a forced smile.  “I’m afraid that René was never able to give another as he died.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” she murmured, secretly knowing that pain.  “I understand the war was horrible for those who fought.  My—” She almost said ‘grandfather,’ thinking of her Italian mother’s father, Amerigo—“uncle,” she amended, “fought.”

“Oh, where?” she asked.

“Italy mainly,” she returned.  “We are not currently in contact.”  Marco had never met him.  Oria Hightower’s entire family had repudiated her when she left the convent and her vows to marry Robert Hightower.  Then again, perhaps she should send a letter.  Pretend to be a distant relation.  It could be possible.  Perhaps she could have a correspondence with her own grandfather, as peculiar as that might now be.

Turning to James, she looked him over critically.  “I can pretend to be related to you,” she decided, causing him to put his hands in his pockets and laugh. 

“I see why Dad likes you,” he stated, offering her his arm.  “I request the pleasure of the first dance this evening.”

“You should perhaps dance with your wife,” she suggested as they waved goodbye to Elizabeth and Sister Adams before they left the suite.  “She’s been wondering where you are, crying on Anna’s shoulder.  I can’t even get close to my dearest friend because your wife is monopolizing her time.”

“Perhaps I can dance with you and then placate my wife with one dance.  I want to show everyone that you have the full support of the family.”  He looked down at her.  “I didn’t realize how good you were for us.  I listened to Olivia because I thought I should be supportive.”

“You don’t mind that I’m an American?”

He paused and turned to her.  “I am the last person to mind something like that—and you know why.”

“Good,” she stated.  “We can be the outcasts of the Bligh family, even though no one would ever guess that’s why.  If you ever—if it ever happens again—I want you to come to me night or day.  You can trust me.  I will always listen, even when we’re old and gray and you’ve inherited the estate and I’m a widow.”

“You’ll always have a place at Ash Park,” he promised, and they were now approaching the dining room.  He let go of her arm, so she could precede him into the room, where she greeted everyone with a smile and offered her hand to George, who kissed it. 

“Mother is with Sister Adams,” she stated as she put her napkin in her lap.  “I’m afraid she’ll probably be the worst patient, but I thought James should leave her sickbed after being dutiful for the past few days.”

“Already the matriarch and Mrs. Bligh is not even dead in her grave,” Olivia mumbled petulantly, though it was clear everyone heard her given that their heads all turned to her in shock.

“I think,” George stated carefully, “you should either apologize, especially as I think every one of us is worried for my mother, or you should leave.”  He looked at his son, who was sitting there with an expression of perplexity on his face.

No, she probably was nothing like William, Marco realized sadly.  She doubted a family like the Blighs would engage in divorce, either.  With this little nudger, they already had a potential second heir lined up.

Olivia took a sip of her glass of wine and Anna looked fearfully at her father. 

A waiter came over with a full pitcher of orange juice for Marco.  There was already a juice glass at her seat instead of the usual wine glass as she had informed the maître d’ that she no longer intended to drink wine or spirits on the rest of the trip and would prefer a suitable alternative.

“Mrs. Bligh,” George stated carefully.

“Why is she so loveable?” Olivia whispered desperately, her eyes moving back and forth quickly in thought.  “What does she have that I don’t?”

The problem was Olivia just wasn’t William.  She wasn’t even male.  It would be over fifty years before men would be able to marry other men, women other women, and still it wasn’t accepted everywhere.  Not even in all fifty states.

“You’re embarrassing me,” James told her quietly but firmly.

Letting her husband pour her a glass of juice, Marco picked it up and took a sip.  “What’s for dinner?” she asked, trying to break the tension.

George, however, wasn’t having it.  “Mrs. Bligh, where would you prefer to dine?” 

Olivia looked around desperately, but even Anna’s face was hard.  She then carefully stood without a word and left. 

After she had gone, James sighed and ran a hand over his face.  “I know it’s been about a month, but I want a divorce.”

At this Marco choked on her juice and Anna took it from her fingers, running her fingers over her hair as Marco took in several deep breaths.

“She’s changed,” James continued as if nothing had happened.  “She was always polite and kind before.  Now she’s not polite or kind and—I really think I made a mistake, Dad.”  He folded his hands now.  “I know you’re probably disappointed, but I’ve been talking to Grandmother and a little to Marcelle when she stops by, and I know this is not what marriage is supposed to be and I don’t think it’s going to get better.  And—” he continued with a smile “—Marcelle can have children if I never manage to remarry.”

George seemed hard, unyielding, as he looked over his plate and stared at his son and heir.  “Have you consummated the marriage?”

Shaking his head in the negative, which frankly didn’t surprise Marco in the least, James promised, “No.  I haven’t even kissed her since the wedding.”

That was definitely a bad sign, then. 

“You chose so much better for yourself than I did,” James murmured as their appetizers came and only Anna picked up her spoon.  It was Marco’s place, with Elizabeth’s absence, to begin, so she dutifully picked up her spoon and took one sip of her soup before setting the spoon down again.

Taking a deep breath as clearly George wasn’t saying anything, she suggested carefully, “Why doesn’t Anna move into the honeymoon suite and James can take her single room, and we can reevaluate?  We are on a ship in the middle of the ocean.  Emotions are heightened.  Things perhaps will be clearer when we arrive back in Sydney.”

George looked over at her and took her hand.  “You’re right, of course, my love.  We will face this together as a family and give Olivia respect during this process, whatever happens.”

“Good.  We can have a quiet family dinner before everyone begins to move their things.  Perhaps it would be better if someone else packs James’s things so there won’t be confrontation.”

“You need to rest,” George stated carefully, his hand still over hers.  “I’ll do it with Anna.”

“I don’t rest,” she told him plainly.  “I merely lounge around and read books.”

“That’s resting,” he told her quietly and then he picked up his spoon and James did as well. 

The small family were quiet throughout the meal, no one really speaking.  When the meal was finished, no one got up to dance, but they each went to their respective rooms.  Marco carefully undressed herself in front of her vanity before getting into pajamas and slipping into bed.  A warm body joined her what must have been two hours later, and she curled into it.  “All settled?” she asked her husband whose arm came around her. 

“Olivia is not best pleased,” he responded carefully.  “I wouldn’t be if I were her.”

“I pity Anna.  Before your son was married, we enjoyed picking out Olivia’s faults.  Now she has to live with them.”

She felt a kiss on her head before George asked, “Wherever did you get hair like this?  It’s so thick and full of curls.  It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

It was Mediterranean, that’s what it was.  They were a Romance people—not White, Anglo-Saxon, and certainly not Protestant. 

“My mother,” she finally responded.  “She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“You never told me her name,” George sighed against her hair. 

Her eyes flashing open, she quickly sat up and looked up at her husband.  Then she shook her head and lay back down. 

“You’ve said she was a convent girl—did you mean—in the way you are?” George asked carefully.

Marco shook her head vehemently.  “No, what I meant is that she was a nun in a convent—and she ran away with Dad to America.  She apparently didn’t speak a word of English.”  She sighed in worry.  “Still, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

His fingers kept up their performance.  After several long minutes, when she was slipping off into sleep again, she heard his voice: “She was from a Catholic nation, then.”  Then he laughed.  “You’re practically royalty to the Catholics, I’d imagine—an Archbishop for a father, a nun for a mother.”

“Yes, the pope was very pleased,” she griped, remembering the papal bulls she had found in her father’s desk, one for each member of the three person family, excommunicating them.  She’d had to actively convert and was baptized on her eighteenth birthday, her mother crying in joy from the pews.  Her father had been dead by then.

“So into what people did I marry into?” George mused.  “Mother will be scandalized.”

“Mother won’t know,” she refuted.  “I look English if you’re just glancing at me.  You have to really study my hair or realize that eyes shouldn’t be as black as mine.”

“I thought you were English,” he responded, “well of English descent.—So now you can tell me who your mother is.”

“Oria Napolitani,” she responded carefully.  “The uncle I told Sister Adams about who fought in the war might have fought for Italy.—but I never met him.  The Napolitanis cast us off when Mom ran away from the convent.”

“What were you doing in England then?” he asked, clearly expecting a rational answer from someone who had never been delusional and who had never time travelled.

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, thinking of the door she had walked through to get to Pemberley.  “I really don’t know, baby.  I’ve asked myself that many times.—One moment I was in New York and then—everything changed.”

“Perhaps you were too young,” he suggested.

No, she had been twenty-eight, but she’d let him think that. 

Then he let her drift off to sleep again only to be awakened to the feel of his lips on her breast, suckling.  She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair before arching into him. 

Olivia wasn’t at breakfast or dinner for the rest of the trip.  “She’s just kind of sitting on her bed, staring into space.  I think she’s broken,” Anna reported.

Marco had seen broken people before and it wasn’t the prettiest of sights.  Then again, the girl’s world had been destroyed.  Not knowing if Olivia had been told about the potential divorce, Marco decided not to bring it up.  “Is she packed?”

“I packed for her,” Anna stated carefully.  “I hope I got everything.”

They disembarked to much fanfare, Marco walking on George’s arm in front of the entire family including Elizabeth Bligh.  Two motors were waiting for them, but they didn’t leave the city.  They came to this beautiful house with lush lawns.

“Where are we?”

“The Swansons’,” Anna told her.  “Grandmama and Lady Swanson are friends—allies, rather.  I suppose we’re refreshing ourselves before we return home.  I wonder if we’ll see Aunt Carolyn.”

Refreshing themselves meant that they were indulging in cocktails and eating fresh fruit on various parts of the lawn while George went and spoke to Sir Henry.  Marco couldn’t help but let her eyes follow the man who had received the report on her, and hoped that her name had been changed to protect the innocent.

She was sitting in a lawn chair with her herbal tea, despite the heat, and just took in the air.  James was coming up to her with his scotch when her vision was interrupted by a young man with blue eyes and dirty blond hair.  “You are the talk of the house,” he stated.  “You’re not Mrs. James Bligh, and I remember Anna Bligh from when I was younger.  Who are you?  You’re too well dressed to be a maid.”

“In my many incarnations,” she responded flippantly, “I have never been a maid.  I’m certain that would have been quite the challenge.”

“Dear me,” he responded, holding out his hand.  “Andrew Swanson.”

“Marcelle Bligh,” she returned as she took it, only to have him kiss the back of it.

“A cousin, then?” he wondered aloud.  “I really am quite curious, now, Miss Bligh.”  He gave her an entitled smile, and she decided in another life, when she had been Marco Hightower, the pianist, she would have allowed him to take her to dinner just so she could be seen.  Publicity was everything as an artist, even a classical one.  He, however, continued, “My mother told me to court Anna—but, really, Miss Bligh, I find myself intrigued.”

“There is nothing to intrigue,” she responded, finding it unfortunate that she was wearing day gloves so her engagement ring and wedding band were hidden.  “And I’m certain your mother would not want you to court me.”

“Oh, really?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.

Not sure how her husband wanted to introduce her to the family, she took a sip of her tea and regarded Andrew Swanson.  “Is Sir Henry your father?”

“He is,” Andrew answered, looking back over his shoulder to where his father and George had disappeared.  “He’s unfortunately a member of parliament.”

Setting her cup aside, she sat up.  “Why is that unfortunate?  He’s trying to help your country.  He’s trying to change things, hopefully for the better.  Your father is doing a service to his country.”

“Dear me,” he stated as he sat back.  “You’re a patriot.”

“I’m American by birth and British by citizenship,” she responded, leaning back.  “I could hardly be called an Australian patriot.  I’ve been to the docks and now to your home.  I haven’t even properly seen Sydney, let alone Ash Park.”

“A distant cousin,” he suggested with a wicked smile.  “Whyever did you not marry your Cousin James?”  His blue eyes glittered in intrigue, and Marco found this all rather amusing.

“Well,” she pretended to suppose, “perhaps because I met him after he had become engaged.—I don’t think we would have been very happy.  He’s so—” She turned to her stepson and smiled at him fondly.  “Young.”

“Oh dear,” Andrew returned, sipping his own glass of scotch.  “I suppose that puts me right out of the running, though I would like to say that I am twenty-six and not twenty-one.”

She laughed at this, remembering how Darcy was eight and twenty when they had first met.  “That certainly makes the difference, I suppose.”

“You can’t be older than twenty-one,” he teased.  “Perhaps a man your own age is a little much.  You need someone—”

“Older?” she interrupted with a laugh.  “More mature?—I suppose you think you’re the perfect candidate in those categories.”

“Well,” he responded, “if you’re not marrying relatives, I’m the only eligible bachelor here.”

In this garden, certainly.  This caused her to smirk.  She enjoyed playing with people.  She never did it as a child because she was the daughter of a prominent Bishop, and then after he died she was sent to a convent school, and even before her Daddy’s death she was on tour.  Still, on tour she would occasionally have fun once she had graduated from Julliard.  Men thought because they were rich or had flashy jobs, she would pay more attention to them—the White Rose.  International Superstar.  She would give them the time of day for three hours and then never return their calls.  Her mother, Oria Hightower, said that’s why she had never married, she was too cynical.  No, she hadn’t found the right man—not until Darcy.  Not until George Bligh, a small voice whispered in her mind, which she couldn’t quite ignore.

“But you forget,” she responded innocently, “I’ve only been here.  There may be more bachelors out there.  Think—I have all of Australia at my feet.”

He looked down at her legs, which were encased in hose, and the black pumps which were the first shoes she had really owned in London.

“Quite fashionable feet,” he agreed, staring at her ankles.

She looked down at her shoes for a moment and then wondered, “Really?  They were a gift.”

“Whoever it was had exquisite taste.  Those shoes are worth at least three hundred American dollars.”  That was a lot, even for 2015.  She’d had more expensive shoes, but never as a gift so she could go to lunch—though that had been a date, even if Marco hadn’t realized it.

“Well, I’ll be sure to properly thank the giver of the shoes,” she decided to herself, thinking of all the ways she could seduce her husband once they were in their own home.  Darcy had usually seduced her—well, always.  Now, all Marco had to do now was kiss her husband and suggest they find somewhere private, and he made love to her with a gentleness and yet completeness that made her toes unfurl. 

“Are you interested in fashion, Miss Bligh?” he asked her quite openly.

“Shouldn’t you be asking Anna that?” she suggested, sipping her tea.  “She is quite fashionable.”  Anna always put the most intriguing colors together, ones that should clash and yet strangely did not.

“Unlike Mrs. James Bligh,” he noticed.  “Such a mousy little thing.”

Marco barely contained a laugh.  It seemed like everyone saw her as a ‘mouse’ no matter whom she encountered or where she went.

“Tell me about your shoes,” he suggested.  “You didn’t realize what a prize they were, or how my mother is sneaking glances at them.”

They were just shoes, but she would never say it.  “I attended a convent school in London,” she returned.  “Mr. George Bligh felt I should have proper shoes to go to lunch.”

“A convent girl?”  His left eyebrow lifted.  “How intriguing.”

“There is nothing intriguing about a convent,” she told him quite plainly, remembering the one she had attended in New York, in her father’s former Archbishopric, where the name ‘Hightower’ (although scandalous) still meant something.  “There are nuns who pray and rap your knuckles with rulers.  You learn, quite early on, that putting a simple bow in your hair is a sin.”  She shrugged.  “Still, I love being around God so much.”

“Oh, dear,” he decided, “a religious convent girl—in the most fashionable shoes I’ve seen all week.”

She leaned forward, “Perhaps they were a reward for being so pious.”

“I have absolutely no doubt,” he drawled, his eyes taking her in, and she honestly didn’t mind.  As Mrs. Darcy she was prone to scrutiny and admiring looks.  As Mrs. George Bligh, she would always be true to her husband, no longer simply out of gratitude, but out of something more.  “Do say you’ll pray for my soul.”

That was a pick up line she had never heard.  “Mr. Swanson,” she responded with a laugh.  “I doubt I would have much influence.”

Her eyes caught the sight of George and Sir Henry, who were now leaving the house.  She really hoped that George changed the names in the report, or called her “Marcelle.”  Then again, her official record said, “Marcelle Hightower,” she remembered.  It’s how she had had her name inadvertently changed.

The two men walked over to them and George reached out for her hand, which she then offered to him.  “This is the young lady I was telling you about,” George told Sir Henry.  “Mrs. Marcelle Bligh, my bride of two months.”

Andrew’s eyes blew wide.

“He fell in love when you played the piano for him?” Sir Henry asked, taking her free hand and kissing the back.  “How absolutely enchanting, and what a wonderful love story.”

“I didn’t know at the time he was falling in love with me,” she responded with a laugh.  “I was lost in the music.—I must have played for hours that day.”  Turning to her husband, she suggested, “You’ll be sick of my playing within the month!”  Then, when she looked back at father and son, she told them in a hushed whisper, “He proposed just after I finished playing the piano for a crowded restaurant—somehow he had convinced the Management to allow me to use their instrument.”

“I did go about finding every piano I could,” George laughed.

Andrew looked at her, his eyes still curious, “There were no pianos at the convent?”

She laughed a little.  “None that were in tune.”  Her black eyes were now sparkling in amusement.  “Poor Mr. Swanson mistook me for some poor relation of the Bligh family, despite my fashionable shoes.”

Sir Henry looked down at his son, clearly displeased.  However, he then smiled at Marco.  “You, Mrs. Bligh, are now one of the foremost women of the county.”

Well, she was used to that, albeit in the 1800s.  “I’m sure I can manage somehow.  Ash Park is near a town, isn’t it?  I want to get to know it, know all the shopkeepers, all the wives.  It’s the fastest way to make yourself popular.”

“Watch out, Doris Collins.  She is the quintessential gossip in all of Inverness, but she means well.”

Looking up at her husband, she decided, “I’m just going to make sure she has something good to gossip about, and not something negative.  It’s always difficult, and sometimes you just can’t manage it, but a girl can always try.”

Andrew looked at her carefully.  “You’ve done this before.”

Thinking of Pemberley, Lambton, and nineteenth century London, she responded, “From a convent school?”

He regarded her as a smirk.  “Next time you are in Sydney, Mrs. Bligh, I insist on taking you dancing if your husband can spare you.  Perhaps he and Father can talk politics.”

“I have been known to pass up a dance,” she admitted, “but with my husband’s permission, I gladly accept the open invitation.”

It was then that Sir Henry noticed the cup of tea beside her.  “Why are you not sipping a G and T, Mrs. Bligh?  Or champagne perhaps?  You’re on sovereign soil and not the great blue deep.  This must be remedied.”

It was George who fortunately interceded.  “My wife is following some advice her mother gave her before she died.  I’m sure next time she’s here, she’d gladly accept.”

“Your mother was a wise woman, Mrs. Bligh?”

Opening her mouth to answer Sir Henry, George spoke again.  “Her mother was an Italian Countess who fled to the United States before the war.” 

Marco paused and wondered how he knew that there had been a Count Napolitani before the war and that her grandfather had actually been the last one—Clearly, he had done his research even on the ship.  He’d lost his title under Mussolini, of course, and Marco never knew if the title had been restored.  Oria Hightower spoke so little about her family that it took nearly three decades for Marco to piece together the amount of information that would take up about a page when written out.

“Does that make you a Contessa?” Andrew asked with a smirk.  “Dear me, I was speaking to nobility.”

“I’m afraid,” she answered to the best of her knowledge, “I’d have to be the daughter or wife of a Count to be a Contessa.  Only my mother holds that distinction and she was happy to simply be my father’s wife.  She never used the title.”

“That is unfortunate,” Sir Henry stated.  “It would have been intriguing to have an Italian Contessa here in New South Wales.  However: we should style her as a Contessa.”

“Oh dear,” she murmured, gripping her husband’s hand.  “However, I’m not.”

“Italy is in such chaos,” Sir Henry was now saying, somehow taken with this idea.  “Contessa Marcelle, you said, I think, my dear.  These old titles somehow hold for several generations even when practically defunct.”

Her eyes widened in shock.  “George,” she begged, but he leaned down and touched her face lovingly. 

“We were talking about my potential run for parliament.  Please, my love.”

She sighed as she looked into his gray gaze.  “Contessa Marcelle Bligh,” she checked.  “My name is French!  It would have to be—don’t even think about it.”  She would not have it switched to “Marcella’ or even ‘Marcia’.  It would be too much.  She was born ‘Marco’ and had already had to adapt more than once in her lifetime.  She just wanted a simple life—but it seemed wherever she ended up when she walked through doorways, that just didn’t quite happen.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” George promised, kissing her forehead.  “I know how no one even called you ‘Marcelle’ until you met my mother.  You were used to your strange nickname.”

Sir Henry was looking between them in calculation.  “Yes,” he agreed, “this will do very well.”  He called over his wife.  “Have you met Contessa Marcelle?  She’s been hiding under the name ‘Mrs. Bligh’ when she’s a Contessa in her own right!  We simply can’t have that, can we?”

Soon Anna was hugging her and asking Marco why she had never said.  James embraced her and whispered, “my lady,” in her ear before he withdrew.  Olivia sat on a bench ignoring everyone, being generally unpleasant.  She wasn’t even speaking to Anna, who had been her roommate for over a week.

It was Marco who approached Elizabeth Bligh, who was sitting at the outside tea table regally.  “My dear girl, why did you never say?”

“After the war I never spoke of being Italian,” she confessed.  “Daddy was American—I let people assume that Mom was, too.  I didn’t confess to George until a few days ago when he was asking after my rather Italian hair.”

“No wonder your desire for Roman names,” she murmured to herself with a small smile.  “Your children won’t carry the title, unfortunately, what with the reformed Italy, but I am more than pleased, Marcelle dear.  I think it is time that I give up the seat of honor at our dining table.”

Not understanding at first, Marco just looked at her mother-in-law.

“I have always sat in the place of the Lady of the House,” Elizabeth illuminated, “even after my dear husband died and Elaine should have stepped into my place.  No, I will make way for you, my dear.  A Contessa in our family!  I have been thankful almost since the moment I met you that my son should find a treasure like you, but I think you have proven that you are indeed an asset to the family name.”

Marco bit her lip and nodded.  “Thank you, Mother.  I hope I can count on you to guide me.”

It turned out they were spending the night at the Swanson residence.  Marco wasn’t certain whether or not to be thankful.  She was sick of travel and wasn’t looking forward to a long journey.  Still, Andrew Swanson was terribly attentive, and now Lady Swanson believed that Marco was an equal.  It was rather daunting.  Although it was a small dinner party, Marco suddenly felt the pressure of being a woman of substance, something she hadn’t quite felt since her—well—death.

When she appeared at dinner in her dark blue cocktail dress, the gold and blue hat on her head, the sapphires in her ears, Mrs. Swanson whispered to a maid who came down not two minutes later with a gold and pearl necklace, which she could wear to accent the simple though tasteful dress.

George looked at her appreciatively from across the room. 

Olivia was small and withdrawn, trying to hold a conversation with James, who was obviously not paying attention.  At least Andrew Swanson was now speaking with Anna, although he was catching glances at Marco.

“I’m sure your jewelry is all at Ash Park,” Lady Swanson was now saying.  “Andrew was saying that, despite your title, you were a convent girl.  You probably have none of your mother’s jewelry.”

“No,” she responded.  “When Mom fled Italy, she barely had a dress to her name.”

“She must have been fleeing the Fascist regime.”

Had it been that early?  Her mother would have fled before her supposed birth in 1933.  Marco honestly didn’t know what was happening in Italy then.  “I think you must be right,” she agreed, taking a sip of her orange juice.  “She never really spoke about Italy.”

Marco was just glad when she could finally retire for the night after having returned Lady Swanson’s necklace.  She fell onto the bed in her pajamas and stared at the ceiling.  “This is terribly unfair,” she remarked.  “I don’t know how to be a Countess!”

“You know how to be a wife,” he suggested carefully, “how to be a friend to my children.”

“It took some time with James,” she admitted.  “He was espousing some of his wife’s views about Americans.  I don’t think it helped that I’m younger than he is.”

George came and sat on the edge of the bed.  “He came around,” he comforted.  “Just apply what you were saying about the town and the wives—and you’ll be fine.”

“But there are going to be soirees, now,” she murmured.  “Ladies with titles and important husbands—”  At George’s affronted look, she added, “Not that I don’t have an important husband.  I have the most important of husbands in the civilized world.”  She leaned up and kissed him softly.  “I suppose we have to be extra specially quiet.”

“My beautiful wife,” he complimented, holding the back of her head to him.  “You don’t know how rare and precious you are.  I somehow knew that first day I met you when you were so hostile, so untrusting.”

“I was always untrusting,” she argued.  “I thought you were some massive test and I was trying to pass you, baby.”

“Well, I married you, didn’t I?” he quipped before he pushed her back down on the bed, his tongue tracing the curve of her neck.

The next day she had almost forgotten until she went downstairs in her simplest day dress as she didn’t have anyone she wanted to impress and she was going to be in a motor all day.  The maid curtseyed to her, confusing her, and then she turned into the breakfast room where James was talking placidly with Andrew.  Lady Swanson was sitting at the head of the table, sipping her morning tea.  “Contessa,” she greeted upon seeing her.  “Come, sit by me.”

Marco was never so glad to leave a place in her entire new-life-as-Mrs.-Bligh.  She just wanted to get away from sycophants, especially when she didn’t consider herself an actual Contessa. 

The drive was long but decent, the roads a little bumpy the closer they got to Inverness, and she spoke with Elizabeth about baby’s names almost the entire drive as she, George, and Elizabeth were in a separate motor from the other three.

“What is your uncle’s name?   The Count?” Elizabeth asked as she looked over her list.

“Amerigo, which is a little funny,” Marco admitted, “considering Mum went to America.”

“My dear, everything is providential,” she responded, looking over her list.  “Now, if only we could be home soon.”

Someone had unfortunately sent a telegram.  While everyone in town got up and cheered for the family as they went past, reminding Marco of what it was like to go through certain towns around Pemberley when she was Mrs. Darcy, the servants knew she was Contessa Marcelle and all acted accordingly.

“Can’t I just be ‘Mrs. Bligh’ here at home?” she begged Elizabeth when they were in the drawing room, sitting at the beautiful piano.  “I like being ‘Mrs. Bligh’.”

“You must be seen and known as the Countess, my dear child,” she apologized.  “I know as a convent girl you’re not remotely used to this—”

“No, it’s very different,” she sighed.

“But we have a certain position in society.  It’s important, even if there is a divorce, that James caught the third cousin to the Queen.  It was an eccentricity that George would take an American Bishop’s daughter for his second wife, a potentially beneficial one, but an eccentricity nonetheless.  Now that you’re found to be a Contessa, this is a game changer.”

“Everyone thought he married me because I was young and pretty, now they’re going to think this is some sort of political alliance.”

“Oh my dear,” Elizabeth sighed, running her hand down Marco’s cheek as she sat beside her.  “It will be all right.  People just have to see the two of you together to know he’s utterly devoted to you in a way only a man in love can be.”

Marco pressed her lips together and then nodded.  “Have we decided what to do about Olivia?”

“The girl is a catch,” Elizabeth sighed, “but she’s such a disappointment, and James can’t bear to even look at her anymore.”

“I guess the divorce will go through, telegrams will be sent, and she’ll be on a boat heading back to Europe in disgrace.”

“I do love that boy,” Elizabeth confessed.  “He does, however, prove to be a challenge.  Maybe this baby is the answer.  He, or if it’s a girl one of her little brothers, can be James’s heir.  He’ll be a Bligh, the son of a Contessa.”  She patted Marco’s hand.  “Play for me, dear.  I’ve heard so much about it, but I haven’t actually heard you.”

Marco gave her an impish look and immediately started playing Gershwin, pressing all of her frustration into the flight of her fingers, her spine shivering as she started to transition into Elton John, even going so far as to start singing his lyrics.  She didn’t have a bad voice.  It was okay.  It was passable, but with her piano playing and her passion, people always stopped to listen to her.  When she somehow managed to switch from ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ to ‘Cry Me A River,’ she heard someone enter the room behind her.  She ended with several light chords and then lifted her hand from the keys.

A hand alighted on her shoulder and she felt George lean forward and kiss her cheek.  “I’ve missed hearing you.  I didn’t know you sing.”

Laughing, she answered, “Barely.  I just felt like some Elton and you really need the lyrics.  But would you like something from the war?”  With a grin, she let her fingers fall again onto the ivory and started with Edith Piaf. 

When she finally turned to the room, George was standing beside her, Elizabeth in a comfortable chair with some knitting, and both Anna and James in the door, leaning against the frame as if afraid to enter.

Seeing that they were lacking someone—who might be gone within the month—she asked, “Where’s Olivia?”

“We’ve put her in the guest cottage,” James answered, coming in.  “We thought it would be better for the divorce.”

“Does she know?”

“I told her just now,” James grimaced.  “She started throwing things.”

Right.  Well, that made sense.  The poor girl—even if she was a snobbish little mousy thing—had just traveled halfway round the world to find out that her husband didn’t even want to share the same continent with her.

“I’d lock your door tonight,” Marco suggested, giving him a significant look. 

James looked a little shocked.  Perhaps he thought Marco meant Olivia would try to murder him.  Maybe she would.  However, Marco was more concerned that Olivia would try to consummate the marriage—at any cost.

“You two young ladies have an appointment with Dr. Jack Duncan,” George cut in.  “We need to check that the marriage was unconsummated in Olivia’s case—and with you, we need to see if everything is in order.”

For a moment, Marco was afraid he meant her psychiatric pills that she was decidedly not taking, but then she saw the glimmer in his eye and realized he meant the baby. 

At James’s confused look, Marco looked over at her husband and nodded.  Elizabeth, sensing the momentous occasion, set down her knitting and gave them her full attention.

“It’s a little early,” George began as he took Marco’s hand, “but it seems we’re going to welcome a new baby into the family.”

Anna’s face was completely blank in her shock, but James entered the room fully and shook his father’s hand before kissing Marco’s cheek.  “That’s why you were talking to that nurse!  Oh, a little brother or sister!  This is wonderful.”

“But she’s not Mom,” Anna stated in horror.  “I knew it was a possibility, but she can’t add to the family.  She’s not Mom.”

Marco bit her lip but remained seated on the piano bench. 

“Sweetheart,” George began but, with tears in her eyes, Anna fled the room.  The rest of the family just looked after her at where she had been leaning in the doorway.  George came over to Marco, kissed her on the head, whispering, “I love you,” before going after his daughter. 

Elizabeth took out her list.  “Now, which names are we favoring?”

James looked at the list from where he was sitting and then laughed, shaking his hand.  “Let me see that,” he asked, reaching for the list, which was a bunch of scribbled names, some crossed out, some circled.  “Oh, Lavinia, definitely.  I vote for Lavinia.  Lavinia Marcelle perhaps?”

“Any idea for a boy’s?” Marco asked.

“It’s not on here,” he responded.  “Mark, definitely.”

“That’s not remotely Roman,” she scoffed.  “No, it would have to be Marcus.  Can we have a ‘Marco’/’Marcelle’ and a ‘Marcus’?”

“Well,” Elizabeth noted, “only your husband has the peculiar habit of calling you ‘Marco,’ so really it would be ‘Marcelle’ and ‘Marcus.’  That’s far enough away.”

Sighing, Marco instructed, “Scribble it on.”  A pen was procured and James wrote it down faithfully, Marco looking over his shoulder.  “I’m still not sold on it, though.  I want ‘Roman’.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll have a son named ‘Roman’,” Elizabeth placated.  “In my day, my husband named our children.”

“That is the way,” Marco agreed, “but it seems we women—and James,” she added with a laugh, “are taking it into our own hands.”

No one bothered to change for a light dinner, but George proposed a toast to his unborn child, and everyone drank to the health of the baby.  Anna and Olivia were conspicuously missing.  Still, the four of them enjoyed themselves before Marco ascended the stairs to go inspect her shared bedroom with her husband, the room that would be hers for the rest of her life.

The lights were off when she opened the door and walked through.  Before she could find the light switch, she felt her husband’s hands on her hips and then he turned her before enfolding in his arms and kissing her desperately, as if they would lose each other.

The ride into town was a tense one.  George personally drove them, Anna coming for support (for Olivia, Marco thought uncharitably), and the village hospital had one large room that served as a communal ward, and then a few private rooms, a nurses’ station in the hall, and Dr. Duncan’s office.

All four of them met Dr. Duncan in his office.  There was only one chair, the other piled high with papers, and Marco was going to forfeit it to Olivia who looked fragile until Dr. Duncan looked at her kindly and invited, “Contessa.  You need to stay off your feet, from what I understand.”

“I don’t want anyone to make a fuss,” she murmured as she looked around everyone.  “From what I can tell it’s only about nine weeks.”

Olivia looked at her in confusion.  “What are you talking about, Mrs. Bligh?”

“You weren’t there for the announcement,” Anna added a little helpfully.  She was still clearly torn about the pregnancy but she and Marco were friends, and it seemed like that sentiment was going to win out.  “Daddy and Marcelle are having a baby.”

“I insist Olivia goes first,” Marco said before Olivia could say anything spiteful.  “I know I hate waiting, and I don’t think her nerves should be tested.”

Olivia blanched.  “I don’t want—I couldn’t—”

“I’ll hold your hand,” Anna offered.  “It will all be over quickly, I promise.  Won’t it, Dr. Duncan?”

He looked a little uncomfortable and then nodded.  “Just a quick examination.  A nurse will be in there with me, I take a look, and then you just get up and you’re done.”

Licking her lips, Olivia admitted, “Take a look at what?”

Anna tried to hide a smile behind her hand and, well, the question proved everything.  This was worse than Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves, the young woman believing that her marriage was consummated because the king kissed her kindly goodnight and then slept beside her.

“Dr. Duncan, if you would be so kind,” George requested kindly.  “Anna, you go, too.  I’ll wait here with my wife.”

Olivia shakily took her purse and exited out of the room, Anna behind her.

The doctor poked his head out, smiled, and turned.  “Mrs. Collins is here with her famous pregnancy tonic, Contessa.  You might perhaps want to employ her services.  They don’t hurt the child and seem to calm the nerves, from what I can tell.  They’re rich in carrot juice, which is an excellent source of vitamins.”  He then nodded to George before leaving.

“Perhaps I should get some,” Marco suggested, standing.  “I understand she is an important person.”  She leaned up and kissed George’s nose.  “Let us girls gab.”

“She’ll be ‘gabbing’ about your luxurious hair before you know it,” he teased, kissing her lips before he took the chair and placed his hat on his knee.

Looking at her husband in fondness, Marco then slipped out of the room.

She found the nurse’s station easily where there was a woman in a dark blue dress with large polka dots, her brown hair curled close to the head, and lurid red lipstick on her mouth.  This must be her, then.

“Mrs. Collins?” she asked, coming up quietly and nodding to the nurse.  “I was just talking to Dr. Duncan and he said you made this tonic for ladies in a family way—”  Letting the question hang, she looked at the woman with her wide black eyes.

“Oh my dear,” Mrs. Collins stated, taking her hands.  “May I congratulate you.  My tonic is used throughout Inverness and has very beneficial results, I assure you.  Just a spoonful every morning after breakfast, I find is the best.  Some ladies prefer to take it in the afternoon if they’re a bit peckish as I have several vegetables in there for their medicinal uses.”

“I will do exactly as you suggest,” Marcelle promised with a smile.  “How do I get on your list?  Should I start taking it today?  We think I’m about nine weeks, it’s why we’re here to see Dr. Duncan.  I had a nurse check my suspicions, but I find a doctor is best, don’t you?”

Doris Collins looked bewildered and flattered and then quickly said, “Yes, my dear.  We are lucky to have Dr. Duncan.  I brought three extra bottles for the hospital and one is, of course, yours.”  She took a large bottle that certainly looked like a medicine bottle and hopefully didn’t taste like it.  “I’ll put you on my list and deliver a bottle to you the first of next month.  I hope you don’t mind, a small remuneration.”

“Just drop something in the post,” Marcelle said kindly, “and I will see that it is delivered for the bottle—and this one, of course.”

Taking out a small little booklet and a pen, she asked, “Your name, my dear?  And address.”

“Oh,” Marco smiled, ready to surprise this woman.  “Contessa Marcelle Bligh.  Ash Park.”

At first it seemed like Mrs. Collins didn’t realize.  She was scribbling away and then looked up in shock.  “Contessa?  Ash Park?”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “We arrived from England just yesterday.  You can understand that my husband, Mr. George Bligh, wanted to be certain as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Bligh married!” she gasped.  “To a Contessa!”  Scribbling quickly she then looked at her book a second, to see if she had gotten it right, and then closed it with a nod.  “Contessa, welcome to Inverness.  You are most welcome here, and if you need anything—”

“Oh dear,” she sighed.  “I would love to call on you perhaps sometime next week, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything to write down your address, and just thinking of a baby—my mind is quite elsewhere.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Collins effused.  “You brave dear, carrying a child while on a sea voyage.  You and Mr. Bligh must be so happy, Contessa.  How does Mrs. Bligh take it?”  Clearly she was fishing for information, and Marco was happy to give it to her.  Good gossip was better than idle gossip.

“Thrilled,” she confessed, leaning in.  “I told her my suspicions first before anyone, and she insisted on the nurse.  As soon as Sister Adams heard the heartbeat, Mother started making a list of names.  What do you think, Mrs. Collins?” she asked and the poor dear’s eyes went wide.  “I’m an Italian Contessa and I thought a good Roman name.  I understand the importance of an English name, but this child will have the blood of Romulus running through his veins.”

Seeming like a fish out of water, Mrs. Collins took a moment to recover herself.  “I think that would be very appropriate, if Mr. Bligh agrees, of course.”

“Perhaps we can discuss it next week?” Marco suggested.  “Leave your address with the nurse and I’ll pick it up on my way out.  I’m afraid I’ve left Mr. Bligh for too long.  Thank you so much for the tonic!”

She turned to leave and she heard Mrs. Collins respond, “Thank you, Contessa.”

Smiling back at the woman at the door, she rejoined her husband.  Setting down the tonic, she told him, “I think I charmed her.  She knows I’m an Italian Contessa, that I’m your bride, how far along I am, and that I want to discuss Roman baby names when I call on her next week.”  She sat down on his lap and placed her arms around his neck.  “How is that for a good day’s work?”

“Wonderful, my love,” he agreed, kissing her gently so as not to disturb her lipstick.  “I’ve noticed you can be charming.  You were always careful around me until you met Anna—you were careful then, too—but as soon as you and Mother sorted your relationship out, you were charm itself.”

“I’m a Bishop’s daughter,” she reminded him as she leaned her forehead against his.  “I always have to be polite and charming—except to peculiar doctors who give me pills—and even then I was polite.—Does Dr. Duncan know?”

“I’m keeping your file locked in my safe,” he told her carefully.  “However, you are to tell me if you believe anything that seems a little bit strange.  I want you to talk to me.”

She nodded her head in agreement.  “Good, I can put away those pills and just deal with my tonic.  One spoonful after breakfast is recommended.”

They just sat, breathing in the other, until Dr. Duncan arrived back with Olivia and Anna.  They looked up and saw Olivia was crying, and Dr. Duncan just nodded to them.  It appeared she was a virgin, as Marco had thought.  She didn’t think that James would lie about something so important, especially when it could be proven. 

“I see you have your tonic,” Dr. Duncan noticed.

“Yes,” she agreed, standing up.  “Mrs. Collins and I are going to be friends.  My turn?”

George went up to Anna and whispered something in her ear, and she nodded, before the three of them left to go to a room where a bed’s sheets were being changed.  Marco was given a hospital gown, or what would pass as one in 1952, and then went behind a screen and got out of her dress and hat, going so far as to remove her underwear though not her garters.

Dr. Duncan and George were speaking lowly and when the doctor saw her, he gave her a kind smile.  “I understand this is your second child, Contessa, and you were quite young when you first gave birth.”

“Yes,” she responded, getting onto the bed.  “He told you—”

“Yes, how young,” Dr. Duncan agreed.  “I want you to bend your knees and open your legs.  The nurse is quite competent and your husband cares for you, I’m sure, Contessa.  There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“Of course,” she murmured as she got into the degrading pose. 

“My hands might feel cold.  Don’t be alarmed.—Now, Contessa, can you tell me about the first pregnancy.”

“Ah, I was down in Kent,” she told him carefully, “when I started hemorrhaging blood.  Quite a bit of it.  Everyone was terrified.  I was put to bed and a doctor attended.  He said I wasn’t to be moved but—ah—”  She glanced at her husband who came up and took her hand, kissing her.  “Fitzwilliam wanted the child born in Derbyshire, so he put me in a c-car—and I think I was pretty out of it.  The baby survived.  I spent the next five months or so in bed.  I remember how painful it was—there was so much blood—and then I got a fever.  Everything was in and out and I didn’t know what was up or down.  The next thing I remember is being alone in London.”

Her legs were closed and drawn down and she pulled the hospital gown over her thighs.

“Contessa, did Fitzwilliam take your child?  And then leave you alone in a city at that age?”

Not answering, she clutched the gown to her throat.

“Do you know if your child survived?”

“Yes,” George answered harshly.  “This Fitzwilliam stalked us to Cambridge and we had a brief conversation.  He mentioned their daughter, Aurelia.—Of course, he could have been lying.”

“It’s a good sign that the child seemed to have survived.  The Contessa’s age probably caused all the complications, or at least added to them.”  He stood up and came to look at her.  “Congratulations, Contessa.  You’re about two months in.”

“Nine weeks,” she told him with a smile.

“It could very well be nine weeks,” he agreed, taking out a stethoscope.  “I’m going to listen for a heartbeat to make certain the baby is well, and then you can get redressed before we take some blood and a urine sample.  Your blood pressure, of course.”  Of course, always the blood pressure.  She waited while the doctor listened to her stomach, a smile on his face.  “A healthy baby, Mr. Bligh.  Congratulations to you both.”

He helped Marco sit up.

“Now I want to see you regularly.  Every other week at the beginning given how difficult your last pregnancy was.  I want to know if there’s any blood at all, no matter how light or seemingly unimportant.  Let me know if you have cramps.  We don’t want to lose the next Bligh.”  He smiled and then he and George were being typical males and shaking hands.  Marco made to get up and get changed but then a hand slipped around her waist and she was being thoroughly kissed by her husband.

She smiled at him when he pulled away and whispered, “Hey, baby.  We’re having a little soul all our own.”

“You beautiful girl,” he whispered as he lifted his hand to run through her thick black hair.  “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Don’t say that until you’ve held our child,” she teased, kissing him lightly.  Then she realized something.  “I’ve never held a baby.  What if I drop him?”

“We’ll teach you,” Dr. Duncan promised, “when we first hand you your child.  And I’m sure Mr. Bligh is an old hand.”

George looked at the doctor in exasperation.  “Not too old, I hope.  I have to keep this beautiful girl happy and interested, or she’ll fly back to London and I’ll never find her again.”

“I could fly back to Boston,” she suggested.  “I was born there.”

He kissed her again, seemingly not caring that the doctor was there.  “Te amo,” he murmured against her lips, and she smiled.  Her mother used to say those words to her.  I love you in Italian. 

With one lass kiss, she twirled and went behind the curtain.  She could hear her husband and the doctor talking, which she supposed was only natural.  They seemed to know each other rather well.  It was a small town, she supposed, and Elizabeth had mentioned at breakfast that she was patron of the hospital.

When she came out, she caught the name, “Sister Adams.”

“What about Sister Adams?” she asked as she was directed to sit up on the bed.

“I offered her sponsorship,” George admitted, “after she helped you and mother.  I got a telegram just before we left saying that her mother had died and she would appreciate it if she could take me up on that offer.  The hospital needs a new nurse, and she’s more than capable.”  That didn’t seem to be quite the whole story, but she would go along with it, if that’s what he was going to say in public.

However, Marco remembered how the nurse had seen her and James just after James had tried to commit suicide.  She didn’t want the woman near James or guessing, but she put on a smile.  “I wish you had told me.”

“I’m sorry, dearest,” he apologized, coming over and kissing the back of her hand.  “To be honest, I was more focused on the baby that it quite slipped my mind.”

She looked at him doubtfully, but then just nodded and presented her left arm for the tests.

In the end, an appointment was made for the Wednesday after next, Dr. Duncan would come to the house and was even invited for lunch the next day so he could check on Elizabeth’s heart.  The nearly merry band of four left the hospital, and got into the motor to go back to Ash Park.

Life became regular.  Marco wasn’t allowed to ride because of her condition, but she explored with Anna, both wanting to get away from the divorce.  Olivia just kept on crying and James was indifferent and honestly looked relieved.

Not even with Darcy had Marco had so much sex.  It really was quite—unbelievable.  They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  Marco was sure they were becoming a topic of interest to the servants.  She knew that Elizabeth at least had noticed as she would often smirk at Marco.  Still, she was lucky her clothes weren’t being destroyed. 

Sister Adams—Sarah Adams, it seemed—was given an old empty cottage on the property.  It needed some serious help, but Marco looked about with a smile in her face when she went to see Sister Adams to welcome her to Ash Park.

“How are you liking the hospital?” she asked politely over tea.

“Very much, thank you, Contessa,” Sister Adams told her.  “I had no idea you were Italian.”

“My mother fled the Fascist Regime before the war.  I was keeping it secret for fear of—discrimination—but I can never keep anything secret long from George.  As soon as he found out, he managed to uncover the truth, and he insists I take my proper place in society.  I’m only doing it for my unborn child.  Any advantage I can give this one is certainly welcome.”

“Dr. Duncan speaks very fondly of your family.”

“Everyone seems to be friends,” Marco agreed. 

“I’m still learning the town, I must admit.  I hardly know anyone.”

“We’re in the same position, then,” she suggested with a smile.  “We are both displaced and find ourselves here in Inverness.—You’ve heard about the divorce.”

“I was sorry for it,” Sister Adams agreed.

“Annulment, in reality,” she sighed taking a sip of her tea before there was a large cramp in her stomach and the cup fell from her fingers and clattered onto the floor.  “Oh no.  Not again.”  She hugged her stomach and cried out as another cramp came. 

“Contessa—”

“Get the driver,” she begged.  “I need to go to the hospital.  I’m losing the baby.”

She wasn’t even aware that she was in Sister Adams’ arms in the back of he car or that she was crying as she was begging God not to take her child from her.  She breathed in and out and tried not to let the world swirl around her… Not yet, not yet. 

Hearing a door open, she pushed her way through it and suddenly the pain stopped.  She looked down at her clothes and realized she was no longer wearing a red day dress or the pumps George had gotten her.  Lifting up her hand she saw she was no longer wearing her wedding and engagement rings.

Marco looked out around her and realized that a door was swinging shut behind her.  She grabbed for it and thrust it open, only to find a brick wall behind it.  Somehow, she was no longer in 1952 Inverness.  Or 1813 Derbyshire.  She was somewhere else entirely.

THE END