Teddy Wakefield has been buried. So, too, has Cordelia, and if the villagers wonder how I found them, they only whisper about the new lady of the manor putting the spirits to rest, and they’re pleased with me for it. It provides them with fresh stories and legends, which are always welcome.
I spend my days lost in a pit of rage and grief and despair. I devote what energy I have to caring for Enigma. Otherwise, I half-heartedly tread water just enough to keep my head above the surface. Eat just enough. Bathe just enough. Leave the house just enough. Even that’s mostly for Del and Freya so they won’t make good on their threats to summon the doctor. And it’s for William, too. He lives for another forty-five years. I need to keep taking his notes from under that floorboard for just as long if I can.
Five weeks after the stitch broke, I wake, pivot straight for the floorboard . . . and vomit all over my bedside carpet.
I’m sick half the day, and then it clears, and I declare it food poisoning only to wake vomiting the next morning. Freya comes early and catches me with my head in the toilet, Enigma helpfully leading her to me. Over my protests, Freya summons the doctor.
“Could you be pregnant?” That’s the first thing the young woman asks, and I laugh because I remember being her age and hearing those words at every doctor’s appointment.
My throat’s been sore for a week now.
Could you be pregnant?
I twisted my foot, and it’s throbbing and tender.
Could you be pregnant?
There’s this odd rash on my arm . . .
Could you be pregnant?
Michael and I had made a joke of it. That’s what happens when you’re a woman in her twenties—you’re a walking pair of ovaries waiting to be seeded.
I haven’t been asked that question in years. Now, though, when I start to laugh at it, I stop.
Could you be pregnant?
Oh.
I have spent five weeks in this pit, and it takes only two lines on a small white stick to make me leap—no, vault out of it. This body I’m neglecting is no longer mine alone to abuse. It houses the beginnings of a child.
William’s child.
Five weeks ago, I fell into William’s bed with no thoughts of protection from pregnancy or disease. He would have presumed I was a sensible and responsible adult, who’d taken care of that with my twenty-first-century medical magic. I didn’t, and I’ve never, in my life, been so thrilled about making a mistake.
After Michael’s death, I wanted his child even more than ever. I longed to discover he’d secretly bequeathed me that gift in a test tube somewhere. Of course, he hadn’t because he would have considered that wrong and selfish, leaving me with a child when he wasn’t there to help raise them.
Now, I carry William’s baby, and I don’t care whether I’ll be a single parent. I’m joyful the way I thought nothing on earth could make me again. When our child is born, I’ll find a way to let William know. I can give him that, and I can give him the gift of a daughter or son who’ll be loved as fiercely as any parent ever loved a child. And I’ll keep trying to cross over—I’ll never stop trying.
I soldier through the morning sickness, and I mend my body and my mind. I commit myself to making a place here, not only in this house but in the community. Our child will spend their summers here, and I suspect High Thornesbury will be more their home than my Toronto neighborhood. So, I lay the foundation for both of us as I take a role in village life, volunteering at the library and visiting the pub for stories and gossip and non-alcoholic refreshments.
I have a standing pub date every Thursday late in the evening when Freya holds her “witching hour,” regaling locals and visitors with folklore tales. That particular Thursday, I’m volunteering at the library until nearly eight, but there’s enough of a gap before the pub night that I motor home for a late dinner.
I’m heading for the house in twilight when I catch a glimpse of a distant figure. It’s Harold Shaw with his spade. I’ve spotted him many times since that last day, and I presume I’m still seeing a vision from the past—like Eliza in the moors—rather than his ghost. But that evening, he stands leaning on his spade, very clearly watching me. We