Marco: Australian Twist

Title: Marco IV: Australian Twist
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Sequel to Marco, Mentally Challenged, Contessa, and Interlude
Written: 14-16 January, 2019
Fandom(s): A Place to Call Home / (Pride and Prejudice)
Pairing(s): Marco/James Bligh, (past) Marco/George Bligh
Warnings: time travel, miscarriage, husband confusion, prejudice, homophobia
Summary: Marco disappears from 2005 to find herself back in Inverness, New South Wales.  However, when the hospital sends for her husband, the wrong Bligh turns up—or is he the right one?

Marco IV: Australian Twist

Marco was sleeping.  She was aware she was drifting in a nightmare of her own creation.  At some point she was aware of a tender hand caressing her face and then firm fingers enveloping her own.  When she was coming out of consciousness, she asked, “The baby.”

The hand in hers squeezed and another hand was placed over her stomach.  “All is well, honeycomb,” the undoubted tones of James Bligh told her.  She wondered at the petname.  “Dr. Duncan was able to save our baby.”

“Thank the Lord,” she murmured, turning her head toward the voice and letting her eyes drift open.  Her hand skated over his to feel her stomach, knowing she had to play this carefully.  “Could you do something for me, James?  To make me feel better?”

“Anything,” he responded, his blue-gray eyes looking at her imploringly.

She let her fingers flutter over his, hoping he would see this as a sign of intimacy, “Can you tell me the story of us?  I think the baby would like to hear it—even if the baby may not have ears yet.”

“What a peculiar thought,” he said, a laugh in his smile.  “Babies not having ears.”

Of course, they didn’t have sonograms yet.  They wouldn’t know what a fetus looked like unless it was aborted or there was a miscarriage and then they might think the child was malformed.

“You never know,” she murmured, her black eyes looking into his.  “We don’t know the mysteries of birth.  Of what’s happening.”

He sighed and massaged her stomach through the blankets that were placed over it.  “It’s strange to think you’re only about ten weeks along.  Our wedding night.  How peculiar.”

Not knowing if they had been intimate more than their wedding night, she just smiled at the thought of her baby.  “Tell me our story, James.  Tell the baby our story.”

“All right,” he stated carefully, looking at the door, which was closed.  She followed his gaze just to see what he was interested in.  “I was at Cambridge.”

Ah, so she had been in England. 

“Grandmama and Dad and Anna came over in April for a late May graduation and Dad kept on spending more and more time disappearing in London, according to Anna, so I decided to investigate.”

“Despite your courses,” she chided him.  “And final examinations.”

He blushed and nodded.  “Then I followed him one day—he went to a hospital and escorted the most beautiful creature I had ever seen out of it.  You were wearing this dress in a golden color, which just offset your hair wonderfully, these gloves that I always found peculiar on Anna but looked so natural on you, and the most glorious hair.  My,” he blushed, “my fiancée had black hair, but it was nothing like yours.”

So, Olivia had existed here, she thought to herself.  Keeping her face schooled, Marco just looked at him attentively, their fingers now entwined over the small bump in her belly that they couldn’t really feel because of the blankets. 

“Then what happened?” she asked, interested to see what had occurred in this reality. 

“I followed the two of you to a picnic in Hyde Park.  You were speaking about your love of piano and thanking Dad for allowing you access to one.  I sort of blundered in,” (he blushed at this) “and I accused Dad of insulting Mum’s memory—and you quickly assured me that wasn’t the case.  I remember the fire in your eyes.  You told me that Dad was writing a report on the hospital and you were providing information to fill it out so it wasn’t so clinical.”

Well, that sounded like something she would say.  Marco had no idea that George Bligh had been courting her and had believed he was using her for his report, which was the reason for his initial interest in her.

Looking at her earnestly, James continued, “Dad confirmed it, and I went to the hospital the next day.”

Marco’s eyes widened in shock, but James was too lost in his story to notice.

“I didn’t know it was a mental hospital.  It took me half an hour to convince some doctor that I wished to see Nurse Hightower, and you appeared half an hour after that in your little uniform.—I know you said you don’t miss it, but I sometimes wonder, honeycomb.”  He lifted her hand and kissed it, which was strange to Marco as she knew he was a homosexual.  Except maybe he wasn’t?  How could she ask without either confusing him or angering him or insulting him?

“I don’t miss it,” she promised.  “I never liked being a nurse—especially there.”

He nodded carefully and then continued the story.  “I made you promise to have dinner with me.  I broke it off with Olivia the next morning.  I knew I couldn’t marry her when there were women such as you in the world.  You were so soft, so reticent at first, but as soon as I started talking about poetry, your face brightened and you had so many opinions.  You were wonderful to watch.

“Dad—” he admitted, “he was so angry when he found out I had broken off my engagement to Olivia in favor of you.  For awhile I thought he was secretly in love with you, but he assured me when I showed him the engagement ring I picked out for you that it wasn’t the case.  Nothing could be further from the truth.—You came down to Cambridge for my graduation and met Olivia, and even though you didn’t know who she was, that I had even been engaged before you, you hated her.  When she told you that she was cousin to the Queen, you answered that your uncle was Prince Amerigo Napolitani and your mother was a Principessa.”

That certainly shocked her and she squeezed his hand and he smiled at her.

“I was so surprised, so pleased.  Dad, of course, seemed to have known or at least pretended he did.  After that you were Principessa Marciana.”

That was certainly unexpected.  The mental institution had taken the Italian Marco and given her a—she didn’t even know what language ‘Marciana’ was.

“I married you two days later, my beautiful wife,” he sighed.  “The day after my graduation.  It was the happiest day of my life.”

Was it?  Could it really be?

“You are my salvation,” he murmured, lifting her hand and kissing it again.  “Marciana.”  Oh, it seems he called her by that name.  “You saved me from the worst parts of myself—and I can’t seem to get enough of you.”

It was like that then.

He got up from his seat beside her and let his blue-gray eyes search her black ones.  He then leaned down, closing his eyes, and kissed her sweetly.  Marco let herself fall into the kiss, knowing this was her future, and she breathed in his crisp scent of his aftershave and something she couldn’t quite identify.  When he opened his lips to deepen the kiss, she breathed him in and opened her lips obligingly.

What she was given was a firm kiss that stole her breath away.  Although part of this felt wrong, this was the son of the man she had known intimately for two months, she reminded herself that this man’s child was in her womb and he seemed to love her. 

His kisses were, once again, different from Darcy’s and George Bligh’s.  Darcy’s had been dominating and intoxicating.  They had been overwhelming.  George Bligh’s had been soft and wondering as if he couldn’t believe that she would even let him kiss her.

James—James—James was a question and an answer all within a kiss.  Lifting her hand from on top of his over her stomach, she let it cup his cheek as the call was given and it was answered. 

There was a knock on the door and he pulled away, giving her a beautiful smile she hadn’t seen the last time she had been in 1952.  Then he walked toward the door, his hand sliding from hers where they had been gripping each other, his other hand slipping from her stomach, leaving Marco bereft.

The door was opened and Anna and George walked in, Anna carrying flowers.

It was strange seeing George Bligh and knowing he was not her husband.  Surreptitiously, she looked at her left hand and saw that she was wearing a large diamond unlike the one she had worn before and that the gold wedding band had three small diamonds in it.

“Anna,” she greeted with a smile.  “You didn’t need to get me flowers.”

“James telephoned,” Anna told Marco as she came over to hug her gently.  “He said you’d be here for the next few days and we thought you could use some flowers from the garden.”

She smiled at her friend.  “How thoughtful of—”  She was about to say ‘Mother’ but realized that wouldn’t exactly work.  “Sorry,” she covered.  “I’m still a little dizzy.”

James came over and crouched over her, looking into her black eyes.  “Some water perhaps?”

“Don’t fuss,” she begged.  About to reference her first pregnancy, she realized perhaps she shouldn’t, that no one knew about it.  Of course, George Bligh would because he would have seen her file, but no one else necessarily would.  “It’s nothing,” she promised. 

“We worry about you,” James stated plainly as he retook his seat and grasped her hand.  “The doctors don’t know why this pregnancy is so difficult since you seem to think your mother’s was not.”

“Not to my knowledge,” she agreed carefully.  “Then again, Mom never spoke about it.”  She thought back to her mother, how she hadn’t seen Oria Hightower when she was back in 2005.  The knowledge that she couldn’t tell anyone crippled her.  No one would believe her—she’d be sent back to a mental institution.  Still, that newspaper clipping she had in her dressing room was confusing.

She pretended to fall asleep soon after that.

No one spoke after George Bligh noticed she had nodded off and she heard people leaving.  Still the hand in hers was still warm and she knew that James hadn’t left her. 

In reality, she did fall asleep not twenty minutes after that, and she awoke in the middle of the night to find James sleeping with his head and arms on her bed, sprawled out beside her legs, while still sitting in the chair.

Marco wondered if she could love this boy.  Part of her still thought of herself as a thirty-something woman, but she was just a teenager here.  Then again—she had yet to check…

At some point in the night, Nurse Adams came in to check on her and Marco put her finger up to her lips to show she should be quiet.  The nurse looked at James indulgently and it was only then that Marco realized her fingers had somehow found themselves in James’s hair.  Was she doing this as a stepmother?  As a wife?  As a friend?  She didn’t know.  It was all a muddle.

James never left her side. 

He was extremely attentive, and her fondness for him grew exponentially as it was him—and not George—who cared for her.

She accepted his sweet kisses when they were alone and enjoyed it when he read to her nineteenth century poetry.

On her second day there, she had a visitor in the form of Doris Collins.  She smiled at the woman who came bearing flowers, her hair up in the tight brown curls up at her forehead, her lips the bright red, her stockier frame in a blue dress with small polka dots.

“Mrs. Collins,” she greeted with a smile.  “How are you?”

“It is not you who should be asking, your highness,” she simpered.  “When I think that my tonic may have caused—”

“Oh, no,” Marco sought to reassure her, glancing over at James.  “The doctors assured me it wasn’t the tonic.  Quite the reverse.  The tonic certainly only helped with the distressing situation.”  While this wasn’t necessarily true, she was going to claim it to her grave, for the sake of the poor lady who only wanted to help women with their pregnancies.  “Isn’t that right, James?”

Caught briefly as if in headlights, James stated, “Yes, Mr. Collins.  I remember one of the nurses saying something of the sort.”

Doris Collins heaved a sigh of relief.  “That is good to hear.—But you poor dear.  If there is anything I can do—”

“Your well wishes and your prayers are enough,” she stated kindly with a smile.  “I have always firmly believed that prayer has the power to cure—or at least help in the process—and I know the Lord is listening.”

Mrs. Collins nodded solemnly.  “Of course, Princess.  You have been in my prayers since I first learned of your condition.  I will not deviate, you have my word.”  Then, stepping forward, she grasped the metal end of the bed.  “Do tell me, do you know anything of pagan rites?  I do not wish to upset you for the sake of the baby—but as soon as I met you, I knew you were a woman of knowledge as well as class and breeding, your highness, even before I knew your name.”

Blushing at the compliment, although Marco knew it was perhaps meant in flattery, she stated, “If it’s not too distressing.  I would love a distraction.”  Glancing over at her husband—husband!  James was her husband, and wasn’t that peculiar?—she then turned back to Doris Collins.  “There are pagans here in Inverness?”

Carefully, the lady confessed, “Not as such.  It is only, it is Nurse Adams—”

Now she was certainly interested and shared a glance with James.

It was her husband who spoke.  “We met her on the ship.  She diagnosed Principessa Marciana’s pregnancy.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Collins stated, looking between the two of them.  “I do not wish to offend.”

“You are not offending,” Marco assured her.  “Now I am even more intrigued.  I didn’t take her for a pagan.”

“Well,” Doris Collins stated, coming around the bed and taking the extra chair that had been placed there for Anna who stopped in every day.  It seemed like ‘Grandmama’—and wasn’t it strange to think of Mrs. Bligh in those terms?—had been told not to leave the estate by Dr. Duncan unless absolutely necessary, but she had sent a bouquet of her prized roses.  “I caught her going into the river—naked—and she claims it’s part of some religious rite.”

Brows furrowed, Marco looked between Doris Collins and her husband, who looked equally confused.

“It wasn’t some form of baptism?” James asked.  “That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“No,” Mrs. Collins assured.  “It wasn’t.”

“Well,” Marco murmured.  “Best not to ask, I suppose.  That explains why she wasn’t wearing a cross on the ship.  Remember when I asked, dearest?”  Turning to James, she looked at him expectantly.

It was the first time, since she had reappeared, that Marco had called him by any petname and a smile spread across his lips.  “I do, honeycomb.  I remember you mentioning the hospital I found you at—my wife was a nurse, Mrs. Collins—and your confusion at her lack of religious devotion.  What was the place called again, Marciana?”

“St. Dympna,” she responded.  St. Dympna was the patron saint of the mentally ill.  “It was a rather sad place.  No one ever got better, no one got cured.  We just shuffled them around.”  That really was the way it was.  She wore a drab gray dress, she took her pills, and she played cards with Susan and Richard.  Absently, she wondered if Amanda had come through in this reality and if she had ever gotten the chance to say goodbye to her friend.  “I was glad to leave and I never want to practice medicine again.”

“You were a nurse, Princess?” Nurse Adams asked from the door, looking at the three of them.  “I had no idea.”

“Indeed,” she responded.  “At a mental institution.  It’s vastly different from what you do here.”  Shivering at the thought of the place, she reached out for James who gave her his hand. 

Nurse Adams turned to Mrs. Collins.  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step outside, Doris.  I need to ask Princess Marciana a few questions.”

The woman fluttered but soon left, leaving the young married couple.  Marco wondered if they had a wedding photograph.  Glancing down at her rings again, she saw how perfectly they matched, unlike rings in either of two previous marriages.  They were both gold bands.  The wedding band had oval shaped diamonds, three, in a row with pointed ends.  The engagement ring beside it had the same two ovals on the outside, a large diamond like a Christmas star in the middle.  It was almost square, except not quite, and was cut several times so that the diamond caught the facets of light beautifully.

“What is it, honeycomb?”  James asked. 

“I wish I had a wedding picture here,” she admitted, trying to couch it in terms so that it could be interpreted either way.  Either she wished she had a picture that existed or she wished there were one to begin with.

“I can have Anna bring it,” he promised, kissing her hand.  “I want one with you round with child when you’re farther along, so we can show our child how beautiful you looked when carrying him.”

Nurse Adams came around.  “Any cramping, your highness?” she asked.

Used to the questions, she bit her lip and looked at her husband.  “Slight.—I didn’t want to worry anyone.”

“How long ago?”

She shrugged.  “Just after breakfast.  I honestly think food is causing it.  I have cakes with you, I almost lose the baby.  I eat, and I cramp.”

“Hmm,” she admitted.  “That is peculiar.—Any sickness?  To food?  Smells?”

“I put the flowers as far away from her as possible but where she can still see them,” James told Nurse Adams.  “The smell of the roses was a bit much.”

Nodding, she took out a thermometer and the examination continued.

To be honest, Marco was surprised by how attentive James was, how loving.  His eyes lit up whenever he saw her after he returned back to Ash Park to quickly change his clothes or to check on Elizabeth Bligh. 

Marco was in the hospital for a week before she was released and then James was allowed to take her home—after they were given a stern lecture by Dr. Jack Duncan not to engage in any sort of marital or amorous activities for fear of the baby’s health.  Personally, Marco thought it was a bunch of hogwash, but considering the fact that she was supposed to remain calm at all times in case her emotions disturbed the child, perhaps it made sense. 

James had a great deal of fun carrying her across the threshold, the chauffeur bringing her suitcase.  In it was her wedding photograph.  In it she was wearing a white dress covered with a dusky blue and gold coat that fell to the floor, reminiscent of the Duchess of Cornwall.  She even had a white plume in her hair instead of a veil.  Marco wondered why.

As he set her down in the entry hall, which was exactly as she remembered it, James kissed her slowly and languidly.

“Now, now,” Anna greeted as she came in.  “You’ve had your bride all to yourself for a week!”

George came in next in a gray suit, his hand in h is pocket.  A slightly pained expression was on his face, and Marco hoped it wasn’t because he was secretly in love with her.

“It’s true,” James answered, “we’re on strict instructions.  Doctors are such a nuisance, but I would never dream of putting Marciana in harm’s way.”  He ran his hand over her long hair, which she had put in a side braid, tucking a strand behind her ear.  “My savior.”

Anna laughed.  “You always say she saved you—but you never say how or from what.”

Wanting to defend the man who had been at her bedside faithfully through her scare of losing her child, Marco took his arm and stated airily, “That is for a wife to know and for others to wonder, even sisters who happen to be the wife’s best friend.” 

Looking slightly affronted for a moment, Anna soon lost Marco’s attention when James’s warm hand smoothed over hers. 

“You must be itching to play the piano and Grandmama has set herself up like a queen in that room,” he whispered into her ear.

“Well,” she said happily, “if that’s all.” 

Turning, she glanced apprehensively at George who gave her a tight smile, and then moved on into the house.

Elizabeth Bligh was exactly as she remembered her.  She was imposing, a force one wouldn’t wish to cross, and utterly the most striking woman Marco had ever seen in her many lives. 

Going up to her—and wasn’t it strange to think of her as a grandmother?—Marco placed a kiss on her cheek.  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Much better to see you, my dear,” she answered kindly, cupping Marco’s cheek.  “It does an old woman good to see her favorite darling back.”

Leaning forward, Marco whispered, “Hush!  That’s a secret.”

“Hardly,” Elizabeth Bligh answered.  “I’ve told James a hundred times if I’ve told him once, the most intelligent thing he did was to bring you into the family.  The other one was an utter mouse.  I am only sorry this child is giving you such difficulties.”

“Don’t worry,” (catching herself before she could say ‘Mother,’ Marco quickly amended) “Grandmama.  Trust in God.  I do.”

“I forget you were brought up Catholic sometimes,” she sighed.  “At least you’ll allow the children to be brought up in the Anglican Church.  It’s within your right not to, as Mother.”

Thinking of her own father, who had abandoned her family for the Catholic Church, she admitted: “No.  I am a member of the Bligh family and the Blighs are Anglican.”

Leaning in, Elizabeth told her quietly.  “I found out where that Adams woman has landed since I kicked her out of the cottage.  She is living in sin with Roy Briggs after a brief stint at Doris Collins’ boarding house.”

“Oh dear,” she admitted.  “I haven’t met Mr. Briggs, but I hope he is at least a kind man.  If one is going to live in sin, it is best to do it with a decent man who is kind to women and not the—other sort.”  Marco grimaced, thinking of the battered women she knew from her charity work.

James snorted.  “He’s a drunk.”

Turning to him, she grimaced again.  “Oh, dear.  Poor Nurse Adams.  What was wrong with Doris Collins?  She’s lovely if not a little effusive.”  She glanced around the room to see that the entire family was there—minus Olivia.  However, Olivia had never really been a part of the family, and she had taken Olivia’s place.

“I’m certain,” George Bligh stated, coming over to his mother and kissing her cheek, “that the situation is not as bad as that and the connection is entirely innocent.”

Forcing herself not to look at him in fondness, Marco thought that he had always been kind hearted and saw the best in people.  He had seen the best in her.  He had taken her out of a mental institution and had—in another life—married her.  Now, here, he had allowed his son to marry her.

“Well,” Elizabeth stated imperiously, “I did invite her to the fair, and she snubbed us by sitting with Mr. Briggs.  It’s as if she is too good for us!”

“Or not good enough,” James suggested, coming over and placing a hand on Marco’s shoulder.  “At least she was helpful at the hospital.”

“Yes,” she agreed, placing her hand over hers.  “And now I am dying to play your piano.  If I may, Grandmama.”

Indicating the piano with a movement of her hand, Elizabeth Bligh gave her permission. 

Marco stood from her perch and went over to the instrument before she took off her gloves, the diamonds glittering off her finger.  Thinking to herself, she began with Tchaikovsky and let her fingers slide over Swan Lake before filtering into Adolphe Adam and then fled into Stravinsky.  All the while James was standing behind her although she was playing from memory and didn’t need music.  He was ever present, and somehow soothing.  She knew she wasn’t in love with him.

She had been in love with Darcy, but that had died within the mental institution without her even realizing.  She had been devoted to George Bligh.  Now—how did she feel about his son?

James had insisted after her playing that she should probably rest before dinner. 

The problem was: Marco had no idea where her room was.  She went up into the family wing and walked around, opening up doors, and glancing inside.  Every room was pristine and impersonal, clothes put away, all personal effects spread out across the room but not visible from just glancing in from the door.

Taking a deep breath, she passed George Bligh’s room, only to hear his familiar voice ask, “You’re not going to check mine?”

She turned to see he had been following her.  Sighing, she crossed her arms.  “I’m a little turned around,” she admitted.  “It must be the exhaustion.”

“Or the fact you’ve been off of your medications for a week,” he murmured, coming up to her, but keeping a respectful distance.  George Bligh hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t.  “I’ve never asked—but do you love my son?”

Not appreciating the question, she stated, “Perhaps you should trust his judgment.  Will you please remind me which room is mine?”

When he didn’t answer, she moved to go around him and back downstairs to the rooms she remembered, but he placed a hand on her arm.  “Marciana,” he murmured.  It was strange, hearing him call her something other than ‘Miss Hightower’ or ‘Marco’.  “You’re torturing me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she responded carefully, hoping there was nothing she needed to know. 

He withdrew his hand as if burnt.  “No, of course not,” he agreed carefully before he moved down the hall to a door, which he opened for her. 

She took in its placement to the others and realized it seemed to be the only one on that wall.  Walking through, she saw a beautiful suite in greens and whites with a sitting area and a large bed off to the side.  The door was closed behind her and she turned to check that she was all alone.

Going up to the vanity she saw a set of brushes with the initials M.A.B.—Marciana Aurelia Bligh—but they were of a different design than the ones she’d had last time she had existed in 1952.  These were a dull blue-silver color, with purple edging and bristles. 

Then her reflection caught her attention.  It was a young face with the same thick Italian hair and black eyes.  However, it was the face of Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy not Mrs. George Bligh.  It seemed that, this time around, Principessa Marciana Bligh was older than her husband—by at least five years.  She was no longer a teenager but a woman in her perhaps late twenties, if she was lucky.  James, she knew, was not quite twenty-two.

The light caught something and twinkled and she turned back to the top of the vanity.  A collection of jeweled hair clips and others that were made of just wrought bronze, gold and silver were lined up along the top edge.  Pulling out the drawers she found three pairs of day gloves, four evening gloves—two white, one black, another gold.  There were bracelets and earrings.  There was also the most exquisite double strand of pearls.

“You’re supposed to be resting, not looking at Mother’s pearls,” James murmured from behind her, and she turned to see her husband standing in the door. 

This made sense then.  She had inherited all of Mrs. George Bligh’s jewelry as her son’s bride.  Before her jewels had been purchased exclusively by her husband, and he had known she had been unused to such extravagances.

Touched by all these beautiful things and remembering her existence as Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Marco stood and—for the first time—initiated a kiss with her husband.  Suddenly, he was dear to her because he cared for her despite the fact that she was a slightly older woman.  Young men weren’t taken to pursuing women older than themselves except for political reasons, and if he had followed her from the hospital to a picnic with his father before he chose to pursue her himself, then clearly it wasn’t political. 

James met her lips with a smile, his arm going around her waist.  His other hand pressed between her shoulder blades so her breasts were smoothed against him.  He moaned into the kiss as he opened up his lips to her, which she (strangely) invited. 

The kiss was short-lived as he pulled back and kissed her forehead.  “You need to rest, darling, and if we continue I don’t know what I’ll do—and we both know we can do nothing.”

Marco could honestly say she was slightly confused.  Last time she had known him he was a homosexual, but here, now, he seemed to genuinely want her. 

Leading her to the bed, James took off her shoes when she obligingly sat.  She rested against the pillows and he brought a throw to place over her.  He ran a hand down her cheek.  “I’m afraid I love you, Marciana Bligh.”

“I had thought you’d forgotten,” she tried to tease, a little taken aback by his declaration and being unable to say it back.

He sat down next to her, pulling his legs up onto the bed.  “Honeycomb, I know I rushed you into marriage because I had a limited amount of time in England—”

She took his hand in hers, remembering her first time through, how quickly it had all happened and how her head had been in a whirl. 

“I did agree,” she seemed to remind him.

He smiled at her and she was caught by how handsome he was.  It was a boyish handsomeness unlike his father’s, but it was certainly still present.  His smile transformed his face, the mole on his left cheekbone wrinkling upward, his blue-gray eyes sparkling.  “It took me asking five times.”

Well, there was certainly a story behind that.  Maybe she’d be able to get him to tell her about it.

“Has Dad been bothering you?” he wondered, looking down at their joined hands.  “I know you said you could handle it—”

“I can handle it,” she promised him, hoping they weren’t talking about what they were talking about. 

He looked up at her desperately—

“I didn’t do wrong, marrying you,” he murmured in all but a whisper.  “I didn’t know my father was courting you.  You said he wasn’t, so I took you at your word.”

She opened her mouth to speak, though she honestly didn’t know what she would say.

Quickly reassuring her, he said, “I know you didn’t know he wanted to marry you.  Neither of us did until he confronted me the night before I graduated when I announced my intention and revealed that I had a special license.”

However did Marco get out of the mental institution to attend his graduation and go to Cambridge?  From the reality she remembered, she was only allowed out because George Bligh was such a prominent figure in Australia and they were on the point of marriage.  Part of her still couldn’t believe that had happened, although she had been a success story.

“Part of me thinks I shouldn’t have told you he was—is—in love with you, but you had a right to know.  In case he says anything or does anything, which is perplexing.”

“My entire life is perplexing, James,” she told him sincerely, “not just George Bligh.”

Then a peculiar thought hit Marco.  Quietly testing the waters, she half-asked, “That seat for parliament, who’s running for it again?”

“Not you as well,” he groaned.  “It’s all Sir Henry Swanson could apparently talk about when we arrived here in New South Wales, but Dad was too busy looking at you to notice!”

“Hmm…” she wondered.  “Ever think about going into politics?”  Her black eyes flashed.  “It’s just, after the baby is born, it might be good to get away from the confusing situation with your father.”  Marco certainly didn’t want a reminder of all the times she had gasped beneath him, of what it was like to carry his child—“Or do you prefer the idea of running an estate?”

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about politics,” James stated thoughtfully.  “I suppose I would be a Liberal.”

Marco bit her lip.  “Be a Liberal then,” she stated with surety, although she had always been rather conservative herself.  “You could perhaps do good.”  Offering a smile, she squeezed his hand before she decided to lay her head on his shoulder, a position she often had taken up when married to Darcy.  It took her several moments of squirming to get comfortable, but she eventually did.  “I think you’d be a wonderful orator.”

“Do you now?” he murmured, laying a kiss on the top of her head.  “James Bligh, M.P.”

“See how well that sounds,” she commented.  “You would also have the distinction of having an Italian Principessa to give your suarees.”  This was certainly a tease.  “Perhaps I should learn Italian.”

The seating arrangement at the dinner table was different than it had been.  Marco was no longer the wife of George Bligh, Master of Ash Park, and so did not sit opposite him.  That fell to Elizabeth Bligh.  Instead she sat next to James, who was on his father’s right, which placed her at Elizabeth’s left.  Anna sat opposite her.  A passing thought of Gino crossed Marco’s mind and she realized she’d have to probe her sister-in-law (how odd that sounded even in her head) about it.

She breathed out and waited for Elizabeth to pick up her utensils before she followed suit.

“Dad,” James opened as he took a sip of his wine, “my wife has had the most marvelous idea.”

George Bligh seemed immediately interested.  “And what is that?”  His eyes flicked to Marco where they continued to rest.

James glanced between his father and his wife before he placed a hand on top of hers.  “As I know you have no intention of running for parliament—”

“No,” he agreed.  “I’m happy to play agent for Sir Henry, but that’s about the extent of my political life.”

Marco and James shared a look.

Letting her mind move back to something Olivia had once said, about how Henry had written home about how he first noticed James Bligh during a debate on the essence of beauty in Philosophy, Marco prepared to do battle.  She supposed this was the start of James and Henry’s love story.  Olivia had mentioned that Henry believed that James was one of the most skilled debaters he had ever witnessed over the course of that and subsequent semesters.  Anna believed that James was just showing off as he had always enjoyed making speeches in school.

“James enjoys public speaking,” she stated simply, “he enjoys debates.  I thought he’d make a fine member for parliament—that is, if he wins—and if he has the support of this family.”

George was chewing on a piece of chicken and his bites became rhythmic and slower as if he was doing it without thinking.  His eyes were on Marco before he turned to his son.  “I didn’t know that about you.”

Her young husband, bless him, blushed.  “Marciana has the right of it,” he admitted, “even though I never told her.”  He looked at her lovingly.  “My favorite classes involved debating or giving presentations.  That’s where I really thrived.  I’d need to study up a bit but,” here he paused to take her hand, “I think this could be a good thing for us and the baby.”

 “You want to get away from us with your new wife,” Anna complained, though a smile graced her face.  “You know, some of us are attached to Marciana”

“I am aware, Anna,” he agreed.  “However, I never would have considered it without her blessing.”  James stared at his sister hard.  “It’s not as if I’ve won the election yet.”

“Well,” George decided.  “It’s lucky that I heard from Sir Henry Swanson and he and his family would like to visit.—What do you think of that, Anna?”

“I think,” she answered, cutting a bite of chicken and then popping it into her mouth, “that he would prefer to see the beautiful Principessa.”

Oh, no. It had happened like that all over again.  Andrew Swanson had fallen for her.  Or had become fascinated with her.  Something.  Anything.  She wished it were nothing at all. 

Breathing out of her nose, she took a bite of her carrots, deciding not to answer. 

The women retired to the sitting room where Anna and Marco, with the help of the maid, put Elizabeth Bligh back to bed in her settee.  The woman was unhappy about it, but Marco promised to play something quiet for her.  Deciding to stay with something traditional, she began to play the lighter of Mozart’s music, enjoying Popagano from The Magic Flute, as she began. 

She was sure her husband and his father (and wasn’t that still a strange dichotomy?) were drinking brandy somewhere.  They came through soon enough and James came and sat down next to her at the piano and she offered him a smile before returning her attention to the keys.

“Sometimes I think,” James murmured quietly beside her, “that you love your piano more than you do me.”

“Well,” she replied carefully, “I knew the piano long before I knew you.  We are dear and steadfast friends.  I remember the first note I played—I was just seven years old.  Tell me,” she murmured, “about how we got engaged.  I’ve found I enjoy hearing you tell it.”

He leaned over.  “I thought it was the baby, honeycomb,” he suggested.  A large smile split his face and she continued to play the piano.  “No,” he promised.  “It was the morning before my graduation.  I was supposed to be with Henry—my best friend—but I found my thoughts were full of you.  You had just had a massive blow out with Olivia.  You were so cool, so collected, and yet so angry.  I knew in that moment I couldn’t wait a moment longer so I came over to your Bed and Breakfast and found you eating honey on crumpets—”  (She smiled to herself; Marco had eaten that at Pemberley and it seemed she finally knew the origin of her pet name) “—and I just sat down at the table with all of you and asked you to marry me.”

She played a few notes and whispered, “What did I say?”

“You stared at me and mentioned that you thought I had a fiancée stashed away somewhere.  Then you went back to your tea.”

Adding a flourish, she smiled to herself, wishing she had lived this.  “However, I did agree.”

“I grabbed your hand and took you to a shop that specialized in wedding dresses.  You looked around pensively, murmuring something about the color blue, before buying a gown meant for the mother of the bride right off the rack.  I had to beg you to get it fitted and we found a white plume to go with it as you said you would look ridiculous in a veil.”

“But I did look the bride,” she murmured, turning to him with a smile as she remembered the wedding photograph.  “I just didn’t look like your typical English or Australian bride.”

“I remember I stayed up until four in the morning, trying to convince Henry to stay in Cambridge an extra day and be my best man.  You showed up with Anna and it was the four of us for the ceremony—and” (he leaned in) “only the four of us.”

No George Bligh then.  Perhaps that would have been for the best.

Her fingers lit on the last note and she lifted up her hands, smiling to herself.  He turned to her and kissed her lightly and she lost herself in the gentle press of his lips.

“Marciana Bligh,” he whispered, “I do believe you are the only woman I ever could love in the whole of the British Empire.”

“I’m not from the British Empire,” she told him conspiratorially.  “I hail from America.”

“I thought,” he murmured, laying another kiss on her lips, “you were an Italian Principessa.”

She tossed her head to the side in thought.  “According to some,” she agreed.  “I would much rather be Mrs.—” she paused and kissed him just to make it look like it was intentional “James Bligh.”

“You wouldn’t much rather be Nurse Hightower?” he asked sincerely.  “It was rather sudden.  A romance and a marriage within a fortnight.”

“I know,” she lied, “but I never liked being ‘Nurse Hightower’.”  Imagine having to keep up that pretense!  “I much prefer Inverness to London”—the little she knew of it in this time period.  “I much prefer being here—with you.”

That wonderful smile that had been absent the last time she had come here as Contessa Marcelle was back on his face.  She wondered why the change in titles here.  Her mother, Oria Hightower, had always told her that her grandfather had been a Count.  Now he was somehow a Prince!

It was as if he was truly happy, and she was the one who had made him that way.  Marco wondered at it.  It made absolutely no sense to her. 

“I love you,” he murmured into her ear, and she actually found herself blushing. 

“Are you sure you want to let Andrew Swanson come and romance your wife?” Anna asked, a cocktail in her hand, a singing quality to her voice.  “He’s wealthier than you are.”

James pulled away and looked at his sister indulgently.  “You exaggerate.  Our wealth is comparable.  And you forget something, dearest sister.”  He wrapped his arms gently around Marco’s waist.  “I’ve already conquered the lady.”

Anna laughed into her drink.  “You didn’t give the lady much choice.”

“She could have refused to say her vows!” he insisted.  “Principessa Marciana was an active participant in choosing her wedding dress.”

“I was,” she agreed, remembering the story.  “However, I would happily go again when it is your turn, Anna.”  Her eyes glittered.  “Whenever that may be.  We’re all curious as to the identity of the groom.”

Sighing, Anna took a seat.  “Well, it’s not going to be Andrew Swanson.”

“Whyever not?” Marco wondered.  “He’s charming.  Perhaps he will charm you when he tries.  He can give you so much—wealth, society, position, clothes, jewels.”  She sighed at the thought.  “Those, of course, are just the trappings of life.  You can live without them.”  Marco certainly had in the mental institution with her simple gray dress, black knee socks, and black shoes that barely deserved the word.  “However, he could bring what really counts.  He could bring admiration, love, respect.  You two just haven’t given each other the chance yet.”

A pointed look was sent Marco’s way.  Ah, it seemed that Gino existed in this time.  She should have expected it.

The two sisters-in-law were the first to leave to go to their respective rooms.

“Why would you say that?” Anna begged, looking at her with her big blue eyes.  “I thought you were my friend—”

“I am your friend, and that’s why I said it,” Marco explained carefully.  “If—with—”  She glanced behind her.  “You’ll have nothing.  Your father will never accept it.  His sister is a maid in this house.  That should say it all.  Class does exist even though it is 1952.  It is only acceptable that I’m Italian because I am a member of the nobility.  Gino does not have that distinction, I’m afraid to say.—Think about it.  There’s no harm in giving a young man a few smiles and hearing what he has to say.”  She placed her hand on Anna’s arm in friendship.  “I do, however, want to know if there are any developments in your romantic area—with whomever you choose.”

Anna gave her a soft smile and then turned into a door that must have led to her room.

Marco had to remind herself exactly where she was going.  When she found her room with James, she opened it with a sigh and immediately sat down at the vanity and looked over all her new possessions.  She hadn’t changed for dinner, at James’s insistence, and so she took out her simple braid and began to brush out her thick Italian hair. 

The door opened up behind her and she saw James’s reflection in the mirror.  Taking her by the shoulders, he kissed the side of her head.  “Why don’t you get dressed in something comfortable?” he whispered, “and then I can brush your hair for you?”

“It’s so unbearably hot,” she admitted, standing and turning toward him, looking into his blue-gray eyes.  “I’ll just see if I can find something.”  Taking a gambit that this bedroom was set up like her old one, she managed to find a silk nightgown that went down to her thighs will little pantaloons.  She supposed they were actually—no, they weren’t pajamas.  It was definitely a nightgown. 

James was on the other side of the room, unbuttoning his shirt.  He was much broader than his father and somehow, just like the medications she snuck down the toilet every day, her feelings for George were slipping away.  A definite fondness was sinking into her stomach as she looked at this young man. 

As she stripped off her dress and hose before putting on her little night set and a sheer robe, she murmured, “Tell me, James, do you usually find nurses attractive or just the strange ones that go on picnics with your father?”

He turned to her, buttoning up his pajamas, and smiled.  “You’ve been rather sentimental this past week.”

Searching for a reason, she tried: “I almost lost our child.  I want you to tell him all our stories.”

“Honeycomb,” he breathed, coming up to her and kissing her lightly.  “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.  I’m not losing you or our baby.”

She smiled against his lips and then turned to sit back down at the vanity.  “Tell me, James.  Tell me of your horror when you saw me with your father.”

“Well,” he admitted, picking up her blue-silver brush and running it through her hair.  “You were certainly young and beautiful.  You were in that simple brown dress, as I’ve said, which really shouldn’t work on a woman, but did on you.  I’ve always thought that brown was better for men’s suits.”

Trying to hide a smile, she turned her head and murmured, “Do you think often of men’s fashion, James Bligh?”

He paused in the midst of a stroke and then continued.  “At Cambridge, I first wanted to make a good impression—then I wanted to get in with a good set—”

“Henry Bowes-Lyon,” she murmured, “your best friend.”

“Yes,” he agreed carefully.  “I did everything to appear the well-mannered, aristocratic Australian landowner.  He’s cousin to the queen, grew up in a castle, his uncle is an Earl—”

“And I take it he cuts quite the figure,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.  “Not that you don’t, James.  I like seeing you in your hats.”  Marco smiled up at him.  Silence fell between them and finally she prodded, “You saw me with your father.”

“He was there in one of his better suits, avidly speaking to you, but you were reticent.  Still, I was so angry.  I thought—you know what I thought.  I pulled him away from you and down toward a bench where I started accusing him.  Dad denied absolutely nothing.  He just seemed self-satisfied.—Then you appeared, so beautiful, a cup of lemonade in your hand, and just stated that you were not contemplating marriage and surely ‘Mr. George Bligh’ was aware of that.”  He chuckled.  “Then you spoke about the report for the hospital.”

This caused her to smile.

“I followed you back to the hospital.  You and Dad had some kind of heated argument at the back entrance when he let you out of the car, and he kissed you.—You slapped him and shouted loud enough for me to hear you that you never wanted to see him again.”  Putting down the hairbrush, he picked up her hair and began to expertly plait it.  “I had followed in a cab and parked round the corner, and was in the shadows so I could see you both.

“You entered and he just stared after you for a good long moment before leaving.  I then—”  James blushed at this.  “I ran into the door, past the security guard who was shouting after me, and found you talking to another nurse in front of a door.  I came up to you and begged to know your name, but you were suddenly cold and silent.  I knew you were ‘Hightower’—but I wanted to know your Christian name, my darling.”

“And then?” she murmured.

He paused for a moment, clearly remembering.  “The other nurse, whoever she was, responded that you were Marciana Hightower—but only after I introduced myself.” 

She stood and walked over to the bed and got into it, waiting for him to go to the other side. 

“You had the most astonished look on your face, I still don’t know why.”

Thinking up a name, she whispered, “Helen had never called me ‘Marciana’ before.  To be honest, your family is the only one who does.  I knew it was hopeless when you discovered my heritage to be called by a nickname—Still, it separates this life here in Australia from what came before.” 

Marciana.  Mar-shee-AHN-ah.  It was a strange form of Marco, Marcelle, Mark. 

He snuggled into the covers, turned toward her, and his eyes shone in the darkness.  “What nickname?”

“Ah,” she murmured, returning her husband’s gaze.  “That’s for me to know and for you to wonder, isn’t it?”

He smiled at her indulgently before he drew her close to him so that she was pressed up against him.  His hand fell down to her stomach, to the slight bump there, and she sighed in contentment.  She could feel the love and acceptance falling off of him, and it still slightly confused her. 

“Tell me of Boston,” he whispered and she opened her eyes to glance up at him.  “You’ve said so little about it.”

“I was born in a hospital,” she told him carefully, “long before the war.  My mother was Mrs. Robert Hightower, the local bishop, but she was met with great suspicion because she had been born an Italian Catholic and everyone saw her conversion as contrived.”

He held her tighter and she snuggled into his shoulder.

“And it was contrived.  She secretly practiced.  As soon as Daddy died I went to a parochial school in New York, I had my first communion, my baptism obviously.  I went off to college—”

“And when did you meet him?” James asked carefully, stroking her hair away from her face.  “You told me on the ship that you had once loved another.”

“I was in my twenties,” she admitted, thinking of Darcy.  “In England.  I had come over, quite unexpectedly, and he met me when I was playing the piano of all things.”

James pulled her closer.  “I didn’t hear you play the piano until the morning of our graduation.  We were in that Bed and Breakfast and you played the one in the drawing room that had a braided rug over it.  Somehow you got permission.  I think it was a little out of tune.”

Going with the lie, Marco agreed, “It was.  However, it was nice to play the piano.  I didn’t have an opportunity again, really, until we came to Australia.—Tell me, would it be good for the family if Anna married Andrew Swanson?”

“Ever the overprotective sister,” he teased lightly.  “I want Anna to have what we have, how could I not want that, but I don’t want her to leave.”

“Sydney’s not too far—and right now it’s not even a possibility,” she murmured.  “He hasn’t proposed, she hasn’t answered.”  Feeling sleep come over her, she realized she hadn’t felt the touch of a man in over a week, and it was strange given her constant lovemaking to George Bligh in the third reality of her life.

The first.  Boston as the White Rose.

The second.  Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.

The third. Contessa Marcelle Bligh, wife of George Bligh of Ash Park, Australia.

The fourth.  That moment as the White Rose again when her father was alive.

The fifth.  Principessa Marciana Bligh, wife of James Bligh of Ash Park, Australia.

She’d write it all down in a book if she could be certain that no one would find it.  Now she just had to discover her age.  Whatever that was.  Breathing in intensely, she forced herself to relax. 

“Where is my passport?  I wanted to look at the stamp for coming into Australia.”  Marco didn’t dare to look at James as she asked the question.  It would certainly tell her the age she was now.  “Maybe I could look at the stamps in yours, too.”  That would be one way to discover his birthday.

“I’ll get them for you in the morning with breakfast in bed,” he promised.  “I don’t want you to move unless you have to.”

“I’m not on bed rest,” she grumbled.  “It’s not so bad as Grandmama’s heart condition.”

James shifted and she looked up at him in confusion.  “Why are you calling her that?  It’s only—”

A stricken look passed over Marco’s face.  “Forgive me, James.  Mrs. Bligh, of course.  I didn’t mean to take liberties.  I must have been feeling sentimental with the baby.”

“That’s not it,” he soothed.  “It’s just—she asked you to call her ‘Mother’ because she lost Aunt Carolyn when she was a teenager—”

Instantly relaxing, she clung onto James tighter.  “I thought that was a weird dream I had at the hospital.  It didn’t quite make sense,” she instantly lied.  “Of course.  I’ll apologize to Mother.”  She paused.  “Promise me one thing, though,” her mind flitted to Elizabeth Bennet.  “Let’s not call our child ‘Elizabeth’ if she’s a girl—or after your father either, come to think of it.”

“No,” he agreed quietly, kissing her forehead.  “I thought we agreed Roman and Italian names.”

“Just making sure,” she murmured.  “I still favor ‘Roman’.”

“And Lavinia,” he agreed.  “Now, go to sleep, my love.”

His hand continued to stroke her hair for over ten minutes before it slowed and it fell onto her shoulder.  It was strange listening to him breathe.  She had become used to it in the hospital, but now Marco could hear the very beating of his heart. 

Three lives outside of Boston.  Three husbands.  Why had the doors brought her back to Australia—to a life without George but with his son?  The thoughts were swirling around her mind when she finally succumbed to sleep.

The bed was all wrong when she woke.  However, the sheets were familiar.  They were too smooth for the mental hospital.  She let her hand slide over them, her face falling into the soft pillow, and she breathed in the scent of aftershave and something she couldn’t quite identify.

Letting her legs slide under the covers, she turned over onto her back and sighed.  Slowly, she opened her eyes and saw a room with pale green paper with white vines etched into it. 

Marco immediately sat up and looked over the suite and rushed to the window to see Ash Park lying before her, but from a different angle than she was used to.  Then her eyes fell to the vanity, the brush set in blue-silver, inscribed M.A.B. and the matching wedding and engagement rings.  Carefully, she picked them up and slipped them onto her left ring finger, wondering what it would have been like to have James place them there.

After getting dressed, she decided to avoid the family dining room, as she hadn’t checked the clock to see what time it was, and made it up to the living room.

Elizabeth Bligh was sitting in her chaise, holding court of a room of ghosts, reading a book.

“Mother,” she greeted, as she came in.  “What time is it?”

A warm smile spread over Elizabeth’s face.  “Ah, I see you’ve recalled my name.  James told me not to worry as the baby’s life was weighing on your mind.”

“I am sorry,” she murmured, coming up to the woman.  “Everything was a bundle of confusion in my mind, and I was second-guessing everything I knew.”  She came and sat down in a large plush arm chair, picking up a pitcher of orange juice and a spare glass next to it. 

“I hope you’re not second-guessing James,” Elizabeth clucked.

Yes, yes, she was, but she wasn’t going to admit it.  “Never,” Marco disagreed.  “Why would I do that?—Now, I was thinking ‘Roman Lucianus’—”

“Not ‘Roman Amerigo’ after your uncle, the prince?” Elizabeth checked, taking out the list that Marco certainly recognized.

“No,” she disagreed.  “I’ve never met my—uncle,” she swallowed the lie.  “I don’t want to be reminded of him every time I look at my little boy.”

“Then what other name for a girl?” Elizabeth checked.  “I know James wants ‘Lavinia’.  We could name her after you—”

“Or after James,” Marco put in without thinking.  Her daughter in another time—Aurelia—had been named for her.  Marco, after all, had been born ‘Marco Aurelia’.  ‘Oria’ was the Italian form of the Latin ‘Aurelia’ and also the name of her mother.

Elizabeth paused in thought.  “It’s not exactly Latin but the French ‘Jacqueline.’  There is ‘Jacquetta’, of course—or ‘Jocasta’ which is technically Greek and not quite James, but close enough.”

“Lavinia Jocasta,” Marco tried out on her tongue.  “Lavinia Jacquette.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth agreed, seeing the light in Marco’s eyes at the second name.  “I’ll write it down.”  Dutifully, she made a note with her pen.  “It’s decided then.  We have our names for the next generation.”

“All with little input from the opposite gender,” Marco sighed happily. 

A maid came in, certainly Italian, and Marco realized this must be Gino’s sister.  Smiling at her, she asked, “Could I have some light breakfast?  No coffee.  I’m not drinking coffee anymore.”  Glancing at Elizabeth Bligh, she admitted, “Old Wives Tale from America and being with child.”

“I will never fault your Old Wives Tales,” Elizabeth agreed.  “They often have a great deal of truth to them.  Do you want your tonic, my dear?”

“After breakfast,” she decided, turning back to the maid.  “Maybe just an egg?”

“Scrambled, your highness?” she asked with a slight smile.

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth decided for her.  “Definitely scrambled.  We must keep up her strength.—Would you like some Canadian bacon, my dear?”

“Hmm,” Marco thought.  “I’m not quite that hungry.  Maybe later, not that I want to put anyone out.”

Elizabeth huffed.  “You’re with child, my dear.  You’re not putting anyone out at all.”

“Where’s my husband?” she asked the servant.  “Anna?”

“Miss Anna is out riding,” Marco was informed quickly.  “I believe Mr. George and Mr. James are out surveying the estate.”

“Of course,” she agreed, taking another sip of her juice.  It made perfect sense.  They had been gone for months.  When the girl was gone, she turned to Elizabeth, “What do you make of Nurse Adams?”

“The fact that your father-in-law danced with her on the ship and takes an unusual notice of her when he’s not gazing longingly at you?” she murmured slyly.  “Yes, I’ve had words with him—about both.”  The great lady fussed a little and then asked, carefully, “You’ve never told me how you two met, Marciana.  Neither has he.”

Settling into herself, she waited a moment as the girl came back with her scrambled eggs and she settled down with her tea at the table.  After her first few bites, she mentioned, “You know he was writing a report on St. Dympna?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed.  “He was particularly interested in the case of a young woman who believed she was the character in one of Jane Austen’s novels.  ‘Marco’.  I’ve been reading it—The Pianoforte.  Have you read it, my dear?”

“I have,” Marco admitted uncomfortably, “from a very young age.  I was always quite startled how Marco is only ever ‘Marco’.  She never has a family name.  She is just his ward—‘Miss Marco.’”

“Quite,” she agreed.  “However, as soon as he met this ‘Miss Marco,’ he stopped speaking about the place, but his visits became quite regular.  It certainly aroused my interests, not only James’s, though he was certainly proactive.”

Taking another bite of her eggs, Marco admitted—“Well, I was one of Marco’s nurses.  Mr. Bligh applied for information about her, without breaking doctor/patient confidentiality, and I was selected.  I must admit I found it—bizarre at first.  He did me little favors and didn’t want to talk about Marco.  He found me a beautiful piano to play on.  He took me to lunch and as a defunct Italian princess, you can imagine what a luxury that was.  Soon my clothes were unsuitable for the restaurants he wanted to take me to to ‘discuss’ Marco, so he supplied dresses in my size and small pieces of jewelry.  I was utterly baffled.  I didn’t know up from down, but the doctors just encouraged it.  This one nurse, Nurse Monroe, kept on giving me looks, I recollect, as if I were the simplest creature on the planet.  Perhaps I was.  I thought I was helping with the report and I kept telling your son I didn’t need anything—and then James happened.”  Not certain if she could continue the story, because the rest she only knew from her husband, Marco turned back to her eggs. 

“I’m afraid I see the way of it.  With his deception, my son lost what he sought to keep—you’ve never had a man court you before, have you, dear one?”

Thinking of Darcy, Marco lied, “No, Mother.  You must admit I am foreign looking.  It’s not necessarily desirable in England even seven years after the war.”

“Would you have married George?” Elizabeth asked carefully.  “If things had been different—if he had made his intentions known—”

Marco had wondered that many times as she had lain in the hospital bed over the past week.  Setting down her fork, she asked quietly, “Do you think me mismatched to your grandson?”  Her haunted black eyes turned to Elizabeth Bligh, who immediately reached out to her.

“No, darling,” she murmured.  “You’re the dutiful daughter I wish I had had all those decades ago.  You’re exactly what this family needs.  I just wish that George weren’t so—persistent in his joint admiration of you and Nurse Adams.”

“Tell me about Carolyn,” she begged as she sat down on the settee, holding Elizabeth’s hands in her own.  “I know so little about her.”

“Well,” Elizabeth contended, “she’s certainly a fashionable woman.  She runs with a fast crowd in Sydney.”

“A fast crowd,” Marco murmured in amusement.  “I’ve never been one for trail blazers myself.”

“No, dear,” Elizabeth agreed.  “I can see that in you.  You’re a good Catholic girl—in the positive sense of the term.  I’m going to make certain that James takes you to Christmas Mass in Sydney if you’re well enough to go.  I’ve even thought of discussing with the both of you the possibility of having the priest come and serve you—it’s the Holy Sacrament, isn’t it?—once a month, while in your confinement.  You’re an Italian Principessa.  We must make allowances.  If you’ll allow your children to be Anglican—”  (There was a question in her voice, and Marco squeezed her hand in agreement) “—then we can make allowances.”

“That would mean so much to me, Mother.”  She leaned forward and kissed her cheek.  “You know, I had this dream when I was in the hospital.”

“What was it, dearest?”

“I was in London—with child—back at my old—flat—and my father came to see me.”

“But he’s dead,” Elizabeth stated in confusion.

“That’s just it.  He wasn’t.  He had defected to the Roman Catholic Church.  He’d essentially abandoned me and Mom and had risen to the rank of Cardinal.  We fought, of course.  I woke to cramps before the conversation could really finish, but it made me think.  Is my father out there somewhere—uncertain where I am, that I am married, that I am with child, that after thinking about it for several days, I would forgive him if that’s what happened?”

“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth Bligh sighed.  “I’m sure he knows.  You’re his daughter.  He loved you more than life itself.  I’m a mother.  I know.  You will understand in a few short months’ time.”

Marco reached down and touched the slight swell in her stomach.  “Roman Lucianus,” she murmured.  “I’m hoping it’s a little boy.”

“If not,” Elizabeth promised, “there’s next time.  Hopefully that little one won’t give you so much trouble.”

It seemed, this time around, her first pregnancy was a secret.  George was somehow not telling anyone anything—not even that she was Marco.  Perhaps he was the one who renamed her “Marciana.”

When she heard the men returning, she slipped up to George’s room and sat in one of the comfortable chairs, facing away from the door so she could hide in case he wasn’t alone.  Marco only had a quarter of an hour to wait before he came in, tossing off his hat and throwing it directly in her lap.

“This reminds me of Humphrey Bogart,” she greeted, picking it up and looking at it.

He immediately turned to her in shock.  “How can you possibly know about Bogart?”

“There are three answers to that question.  The first is that I was born in 1986 and so had ample time to watch his movies and I know that in 1954 he will star in Sabrina with Audrey Hepburn and William Holden.  The second is that I’ve heard people talking about it and just used the information.  The third is that I really am Principessa Marciana and grew up in Boston during the war, went to medical school, and then moved to London where I met you and your son.  I must have had some free time to watch movies.”  She flipped the hat in her hands and then passed it back.  “Why are you helping me, George Bligh?”

“Because I believe you are cured, Marco Hightower,” he told her simply, coming into the room.  “I believe that my son adores you.  When you’re a mother, you will discover that there is very little you won’t give your children—including the woman you yourself love.  I gave you a choice, and you chose.”

She paused and looked up into his kind but desperate face.  “I never meant to hurt you, George.  But can you answer me something, where did the name ‘Marciana’ come from?”

At this, he honestly looked confused.  “You didn’t tell James it was your name?”

“If I did, someone told it to me first,” she refuted pointedly.  “I—I find it quite peculiar.  I understand why I cannot be ‘Marco’.  I understand why I will never be referred to as ‘Marco’.  I understand why I can never name my children ‘Marco’.  But ‘Marciana’?  It’s certainly Italian.”  She shrugged.  “I’m worried about you, George.”

At this, his head whipped up.  He had been examining his hat.  “You always call me ‘Mr. Bligh’.”

“Shouldn’t we change that?” she asked.  “I’m your daughter-in-law.  You know secrets about me that, while incorrect, are the secrets that are officially on the mark.  You’re my friend—I hope.”  She searched his gray gaze.  “George, please.  I’m worried about you.”

He took a seat across from her and tossed his hat on the bed.  “What worries you?”

“Doris Collins was talking about Nurse Adams performing what sounded like a cleansing rite associated with Yom Kippur.”  She looked at him pointedly.  “I know I’m not supposed to know what that means—but do we know where she was during the war?  I don’t know where I was during the war!”

“I thought you were at nursing school,” he teased.

She smiled at him fondly, remembering the many evenings they had spent with each other.  “I was,” she agreed, “in America.—I suppose I transferred to the front near the end.”

“I suppose you did.  As we don’t have to create a resume, it doesn’t really matter, though, does it, Marciana?”

Hearing him say that name was a little startling, but Marco forced herself not to react.  “No, I suppose not.  I suppose I could say that I worked in hospitals in America—for the wounded who were brought home.  That way I can be as vague as possible.”

“Perhaps that is best,” he agreed.  “However, Nurse Adams and Yom Kippur.”

Leaning forward, she whispered, “We both know I am only acceptable as your son’s wife because I am an Italian Princess.  Because I bring you a title that was greater than Olivia Bowes-Lyon.  As—anyone else’s bride, I would have been an eccentricity before the title was found out.  This is more than an eccentricity, George.  I worry.  I don’t want to see you alone.  I’m not cruel.  However, I don’t think you should, upon suffering heartbreak, immediately latch onto the next pretty face you come across.—And, I’m sorry, George, I have selfish reasons.”

At this he seemed genuinely perplexed.  “You never gave any indication that you returned my feelings, Marciana—”

Knowing that she did still care for him although she was learning not to, she lied, “That’s not it.  We both know that Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy gave birth before and had the exact same pregnancy signs that I do.  We both know that the vitamins in my room are not vitamins and I don’t want a nurse ever finding them.  We both know that if a nurse starts speaking to me casually about medicine, I can only answer her as a patient.  My knowledge of the world comes from being a concert pianist—and you know, George Bligh, that I can play better than any record you’ve ever heard—and as a hostess.”

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you as a hostess for months,” he admitted, “ever since you described your first Lady Anne’s Ball.”

“It was a triumph,” she agreed with a small smile.  “George, will you think about what I’ve said?”

“If you tell me why you searched every room on this hall except mine when you were told to rest,” he bargained plainly, taking her in with his gray eyes.

“You’ll take me to the doctor,” she argued warily.

“Marciana—” he warned.

Sighing, she leaned back and put her hand on her stomach, rubbing it for comfort.  “I came through the door to 1948 London.  I lived through the mental institution and then you came to call on me.  However, I wasn’t Principessa Marciana.  I was Contessa Marcelle and I was just nineteen years old.  And it came out when we had arrived in Sydney and we were having tea and cocktails at Sir Henry Swanson’s.  I came to Ash Park as a bride, with child, and I was having tea with Nurse Adams when I began hemorrhaging.  I had a different room here.  I had a different—it wasn’t James, George.”  Her dark eyes begged him to understand.  “I had a different engagement ring that was given to me before we went down to Cambridge, an actual wedding dress with veil that Anna and Mother helped me pick out, a simple gold band for my wedding band.  I was present at James and Olivia’s wedding.  I was there—I was there when James tried to commit suicide because he couldn’t bear his marriage and I suggested an annulment because the marriage was never consummated.”  She reached forward and touched his hand.  “Nurse Adams took me to the hospital and I walked through a door—and I was wearing a white satin dress with a white rose in my hair and I was in a dressing room.  My manager was there and it was 2005.  My father arrived and he was a Catholic Cardinal—he had never died, but had reconverted and he had left me behind.  I ran from him and went through a door and found blood running down my legs and I was being called ‘principessa’ and was being placed in a bed—and when my husband came it was James.  I’ve had him telling me our story as if he were speaking to our baby.—I knew this room, George, because it was mine.  But it’s not anymore.  I have different rings on my finger and I have jewelry that belonged to Elaine Bligh.  I’m trying to figure out how much is the same and how much is different other than the obvious and, George.”  Her eyes begged him.  “I do not want you to be hurt.  I was Marcelle Bligh once, and I still care, even if I’m another man’s wife.”

For a long moment there was nothing but silence.  George Bligh looked at her uncomprehendingly, as if she were some combination of a dream and a nightmare.  Then he was on his knees and had laid his head in her lap and was silently crying.

“Don’t—” she begged, choking back a sob.  “You wanted to know the truth and I’ve told you the truth as I know it—”  Marco was beside herself and bit the back of her hand so that she wouldn’t have to focus on the feeling of the man she had once adored in her embrace.

“You were always meant to be my wife,” he whispered brokenly. 

“Not here—” she told him firmly, looking away toward the door.  “Not now.  Tell me what you’re doing with Nurse Adams.  I’m worried.”

“You think you have a right to hand me your heart, only to snatch it away, and then demand that you order what I do with mine when you are absent from my life?” George demanded as he clutched to her.  “You are a cruel mistress.”

“I am not,” she promised him.  “I am not the making of this fate.  Both times you did not declare your intentions—the only difference was that Anna declared them for you the first time and I was so desperate to get away from St. Dympna that I agreed.  The second time, well, it seemed I just thought the idea was preposterous.”

He looked up at her and reached up to cup her face in his hands—“But how is this possible?  How were you present when you—yourself—are not aware of what came to pass?  You do not remember meeting any of us?  You do not recall the creation of your child?”

“And yet I know all your names,” she whispered brokenly.  “I have seen Mother’s list before—I knew that James wanted the name ‘Lavinia’ because he wanted it the first time—but how am I a ‘principessa’?  I don’t understand.  My grandfather was Conte Amerigo Napolitani and he was injured fighting in the Second World War in Italy.  Conte, George.  How is it different, here?—Have I—is it in my file that I’ve had a child before?”

At this he looked at her imploringly, and stroked her cheek with his thumb.  However, she quickly pulled her face away although she remained seated in the arm chair.

“No, sweetheart,” George admitted.  “I did not know that you’d had a child before—except from what I’ve read in that book.”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “You knew last time.  There was medical evidence.  You thought that it had occurred when I was about twelve—that someone had taken advantage of me.  My first husband and I had a daughter.  I died of childbed fever, which is how I came to London, to St. Dympna, the first time.”  She looked at the ceiling desperately.  “It’s happening the same again.  The near miscarriages.  My aversions to smells but not to foods.  The fact that I’m not quite gaining weight.  I’ll be thin as a rail by the end of this with just a protruding stomach, not even remotely attractive.”  She smiled self-deprecatingly to herself.  “Not even Darcy could convince me that I was beautiful near the end.”

Turning back to him, she saw George staring at her longingly.

“It’s nice not lying to at least one person.”  She reached out to touch him, but drew away at the last moment.  “Forgive me.  That was unkind of me.”

“You are the love of my life,” he swore.  “Not Elaine.  Not Sarah.”  (She looked at him in confusion.)  “Nurse Adams,” he clarified.

“I have had many lives,” she replied quietly, looking down at her hands.  “I don’t know how many I will have after this one—not that you believe me.”

“Oh, Marciana,” he breathed out, catching a tear on his thumb.  “I have believed you for a very long time.  I just never told you because I couldn’t risk the information getting back to your doctors.  Why do you think I’ve never once enforced you taking your medication?”  His gray eyes were so sorrowful, so sad.  “Tell me you love my son.”

“It’s been a week,” she argued.  “How does a woman love a man in a week?”

“I loved you in a moment,” he refuted.  “Are you certain the child is my son’s?”

She looked at him in complete confusion.  “Whatever do you mean, George Bligh?” she asked dangerously. 

“What I mean,” he told her carefully, “I caught my son with Henry Bowes-Lyon.  It’s why I begged you not—”  He bit his lip and looked away from her.  “You don’t know.  You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?” she begged.

“He didn’t try to commit suicide because he was married to Olivia,” he told her plainly.  “He tried to kill himself because he is a homosexual.  I told him that I would only remain in England for appearances’ sake but that I wished he weren’t my son—”

Revulsion filled her, and Marco pushed his hands from her face.  “He’s your son!  How can you say such things?”

George looked at her for a long moment.  “You know.  Or you suspected.—Are you certain that child is his?”  His gray eyes were imploring, hopeful, and she saw all her hopes and desires begin to fall apart around her. 

The End

Author’s Note: Okay, I wrote one partial after this. I was on a role in January 2019. I can’t believe that was more than six years ago. Six! Can you believe that? The partial goes to an entirely different fandom. We abandon Pride&Prejudice, we abandon A Place to Call Home (I never actually finished watching that series because the final season wasn’t out in January 2019-wow!), and we go… well, you’ll see. It’s up tomorrow. -cen