Chapter Eight

"Never," Ana murmuredas she leaned against the side of her house, "I never want children."

Izzy, perched atop a hay bale, her skirts neatly tucked around her, chuckled softly. A wisp of her hair caught in the sunlight as she shook her head. "Oh, Ana," she said, "you'll change your mind." There was assurance in her voice, born not from naivety but from a sister's intimate knowledge.

Rosie, sitting cross-legged on the ground, braiding stems of grass into intricate patterns, didn't look up. Her hands moved with practiced ease, and her voice held the practicality that grounded them all. "A dozen," she stated simply. "That's what I want. A dozen children."

Ana shuddered. "You didn't see a baby's birth. You have no idea of how impossible the whole situation is!"

Izzy shrugged. "Women do it all the time."

"That doesn't make it easier!" Ana said, shaking her head. "Anyway, I was hoping you two would help me make a meal for the Freeman family. She shouldn't ever have to walk again after what she's been through!"

When her sisters readily agreed, Ana led them into the house.

Ana's hands moved in quiet harmony with those of her sisters, the rhythm of chopping and stirring a soothing cadence amidst the clatter of pots and the hiss of the stove. The kitchen was warm, a sanctuary against the briskness of the early evening as they prepared a meal meant to comfort.

"More salt," Rosie murmured. She tended to the stew with a gentle stir, her movements unhurried.

Izzy hummed softly as she sliced bread with deft precision.

They bundled the meal with care, wrapping the bread in a cloth and ladling the stew into a pot that could keep the warmth inside. The Freemans' home was not far, but the sisters walked in purposeful silence, the weight of their offering a shared burden between them.

"Mrs. Freeman will be grateful for this," Izzy said as they reached the doorstep, her eyes reflecting the last glimmers of dusk.

"I'm sure she will," Ana replied.

They left the meal with soft words and softer smiles, retreating from the threshold of beginnings back into the night's embrace.

As they walked away, Ana couldn't stop thinking about how happy Mrs. Freeman had looked with her child in her arms. She didn't seem to be looking at the boy and thinking about the pain she'd gone through to get him. Maybe it was worth it for her.

"Remember when Mama would tell us about the day we were born?" Rosie asked, breaking the silence.

Izzy nodded. "Three little babies, all at once. She made it sound so...magical."

Ana's steps faltered momentarily, her heart tightening at the thought. "How did she do it?" she whispered, more to herself than to her sisters. "Three babies crying, needing, all at once..."

Rosie's hand found Ana's, a silent anchor in the night. "She had us," she said simply. "And Mother loved us in a way that is stronger than the pain she went through to have us."

"Today," Ana began, "I think I understood what Mama meant. What you said, Izzy. About magic." She folded herself into an armchair, the fabric whispering secrets of days past.

Izzy's eyes softened, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Rosie, seated on a worn rug by the fire, looked up, a question in her gaze.

"It was there, in Mrs. Freeman's eyes. Amidst the pain and fear...there was wonder." Ana's breath hitched. "Life, coming forth from another. It's a kind of enchantment, isn't it?" Her hands traced circles along the arms of the chair, seeking solace in the rhythm.

"So much magic," Izzy agreed, smiling.

Rosie nodded slowly. "Speaking of wonders," she said, "Charles kissed me today."

"Finally," Izzy exclaimed, a laugh lilting in her voice.

"Was it..." Ana hesitated, choosing her words with care, "...everything you hoped?"

"More," Rosie confessed, cheeks flushing with the admission. "There is a tenderness between us now. A fondness that feels like it's been growing, quiet and steady, just beneath our awareness."

"Like roots entwining beneath the soil," Ana mused softly.

"Exactly." Rosie's affirmation was a gentle exhalation, her smile warming the room.

The sun dipped low, casting a golden hue over the small kitchen as Ana set two plates on the worn table. William's footsteps echoed on the wooden porch outside before he pushed open the door, a gust of evening air swirling around him as he entered.

"Evening," he greeted with a tired smile, his medical bag landing with a soft thud by the door.

"Supper's ready," Ana said. She watched him wash up at the basin, his hands methodical and sure—a contrast to the storm of thoughts in her head.

As they sat down to a meal of stewed beef and fresh bread, the silence was comfortable. Ana broke it first, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin.

"I spoke to Izzy and Rosie today," she began.

"Ah?" William propped his elbows on the table, his attention fully on her now. "And how are they?"

"Rosie's glowing," Ana replied, a faint smile touching her lips. "She and Charles—well, they're finding their way to each other."

"Good, good." His nod was absentminded.

"And Izzy...she made light of it, but we talked about the birthing yesterday. It was..." Ana's voice faltered, the memory vivid in her mind. "It was difficult."

He reached across, covering her hand with his. "Childbirth can be. But you were there for Mrs. Freeman, and that's what matters."

Ana drew in a deep breath, the exhale shaky. "William, do you think less of me if I admit I'm scared of having children?"

"Scared?" The concern in his eyes was clear, unfeigned. "Ana, whatever is on your mind, you can tell me."

She met his gaze then. "I do want them—children, I mean. Someday." A sigh escaped her, carrying the weight of her confession. "But the idea of childbirth terrifies me. To be so out of control, the pain..."

"Ana." His voice was a balm, soothing the raw edges of her fears. "You don't have to decide anything now. And when the time comes, should you wish it, I'll be right there with you. You won't be alone."

After finishing the dishes, Ana joined William in his office. William sat ensconced behind his desk, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose as he pored over medical journals, their pages dense with knowledge that promised solace to the suffering.

Ana curled in a corner of the settee, her fingers tracing the well-worn spine of Little Women before flipping it open. The words of Louisa May Alcott, though familiar and comforting, struggled to hold her full attention. Her mind wandered through the prose, lost amidst the March sisters' trials and triumphs, seeking parallels in her own life.

Their mother had gotten a copy of the book when she and her sisters were younger, and it had become an instant favorite for her, Rosie, and Izzy. They'd read it over and over, and even acted out one of the plays Jo was always writing. Their mother had applauded madly.

As night deepened, the book fell gently from Ana's lap, and she glanced up to find William still immersed in his studies.

"Bedtime," she whispered, more to the room than to him.

In the privacy of their bedroom, the weight of the world slipped from their shoulders. His hands were tender, and knowledgeable, weaving a warmth that spread through her veins. She surrendered to the sensation, to the magic he conjured with each caress.

"William," she breathed, as the space between them vanished, "even if I didn't want children, I don't think I could stop...this...with you."

He responded not with words but with a kiss.

After, tendrils of William's breath fanned against Ana's skin. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, lulling her into a state of half-awareness. She lay still, listening to the sound of slumber that escaped him. The moonlight wove through the curtains, casting a pale glow over his features.

The room was steeped in tranquility, the world outside their door a distant memory. Here, time seemed to tread lightly, allowing moments to linger, thoughts to unfurl like the petals of a blooming rose. As the minutes trickled by, Ana felt a warmth spreading from her chest, an ember of emotion glowing brighter with each shared heartbeat.

A sigh escaped her, a whisper lost amidst the symphony of nighttime sounds. The realization settled within her like the final piece of a puzzle long left incomplete. She was falling in love with William Mercer, not out of necessity or convenience, but because he had become the compass point of her existence, the unexpected joy in a life she thought mapped by duty alone.

Yet as the certainty of her affection swelled, she worried that he had no feelings for her beyond those of lust. She suddenly wasn't sure if it was enough to keep them together.