Long ago, in a quiet village nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire, I found myself wed to a man I believed would always stand by meuntil the day he questioned whether our son was truly his. There I sat, upon our worn velvet settee, clutching our babe as my husband and his parents hurled accusations like stones.
It began with a glance. When my mother-in-law, Margaret, first laid eyes on little Henry in the birthing chamber, her lips pursed. Leaning close to my husband, Thomas, while I feigned sleep, she muttered, «Hes not a Whitmores likeness.» I made no sign of hearing, but her words stung worse than the midwifes needle.
At first, Thomas brushed it aside. We chuckled over how babes alter with time, how Henry had my fair hair and Thomass strong brow. But doubt had been sown, and Margaret nurtured it with every visit.
«Strange, isnt it?» shed muse, lifting Henry toward the window. «Thomass eyes were grey as mist. Henrys are near black as coal.»
One evening, when Henry was but three months old, Thomas returned late from the mill. I sat weary upon the settle, nursing the babe, my unbound hair tangled, exhaustion draped over me like a sodden cloak. He did not kiss my cheek. Only stood, arms folded.
«We must speak,» he said.
I knew what followed.
«Mother and Father insist… we ought to have the child tested. To lay matters to rest.»
«To rest?» My voice cracked. «You believe me unfaithful?»
Thomas shifted, uneasy. «Nay, Eleanor. Not that. But they fret. Id only ease their minds.»
My heart sank. For them. Not for me. Not for Henry.
«Very well,» I said at length, stiff-lipped. «You shall have your test. But Ill have my price.»
Thomas frowned. «What mean you?»
«If I endure this insult, you vowhere, before your parentsthat any who doubt me after shall be shut out. For good.»
Thomas hesitated. Behind him, Margaret drew herself up, arms akimbo, her gaze sharp as flint.
«And if I refuse?»
I met his eye, feeling Henrys gentle breath against my breast. «Then take your leave. All of you.»
The silence hung heavy. Margaret made to protest, but Thomas stayed her with a look. He knew I spoke true. He knew Id never strayed. Henry was his sonhis very image, had he but the sense to see past his mothers venom.
«Aye,» Thomas said at last, raking a hand through his hair. «Well do it. And if it proves as you say, thats an end to it.»
Margarets face soured. «Preposterous,» she spat. «If youve naught to hide»
«Naught to hide?» I cut in. «Tis you who hides malice beneath false concern. When this is done, it ends. Or youll never set eyes on your sonor grandsonagain.»
Thomas flinched but held his tongue.
Two days hence, the test was done. The apothecary took a scraping from Henrys tiny mouth as he whimpered in my arms. Thomas gave his own, face grim. That night, I held Henry close, rocking him, murmuring comforts he could not grasp.
I scarce slept. Thomas dozed by the hearth. I could not bear him in our bed whilst he doubted meand our child.
When the results came, Thomas read them first. He sank to his knees before me, the parchment trembling. «Eleanor… forgive me. I never should have»
«Beg pardon of Henry,» I said coldly, lifting the babe from his cradle. «And of yourself. For youve lost what may never be mended.»
But my fight was not done. The test was but the first stroke.
Thomas knelt there, clutching proof of what he ought to have known. His eyes were red-rimmed, but I felt naughtno warmth, no pity. Only hollow where trust had been.
Behind him, Margaret and my father-in-law, Albert, stood rooted. Margarets lips were pressed so thin they paled. She dared not meet my gaze. Good.
«You vowed,» I said softly, rocking Henry, who cooed, oblivious. «You said if the test proved true, those who doubted me would be cast out.»
Thomas swallowed. «Eleanor, pray. Shes my mother. She meant no harm»
«Harm?» I laughed, making Henry start. I kissed his downy head. «She turned you against your own wife and child. Named me false and faithlessall for spite, that she might rule your life still.»
Margaret stepped forth, voice quivering with wrath. «Eleanor, do not play the martyr. Any family would»
«Nay,» I broke in. «Good families trust. Good husbands do not make wives prove their babes are theirs. You sought proof? You have it. Now youll have your due.»
Thomas stared. «What mean you?»
I drew a breath, feeling Henrys heart against mine. «Ill have you all gone. Now.»
Margaret gasped. Albert choked. Thomas gaped. «What? Eleanor, you cannotthis is our home»
«Nay,» I said. «Tis Henrys home. Mine and his. And you three have shattered it. You shamed me, doubted us. Youll not raise my son where his mother is called liar.»
Thomas rose, anger displacing guilt. «Be reasonable»
«I was reasonable,» I snapped. «When I allowed that vile test. When I held my tongue as your mother slighted my kin, my housekeeping, my very blood. Reasonable, to suffer her presence at all.»
I stood, Henry clasped close. «But Ill be reasonable no more. Stay if you will. But your parents go. Today. Or you all go.»
Margarets voice turned shrill. «Thomas! Would you let her do this? Your own mother»
Thomas looked to me, to Henry, then the floor. For the first time in years, he seemed a boy in his own house. He turned to Margaret and Albert. «Mother. Father. Best you go.»
The silence broke Margarets composure. Her face twisted with rage. Albert laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off.
«This is your wifes doing,» she hissed at Thomas. «Expect no forgiveness.»
She turned to me, eyes like daggers. «Youll rue this. Think youve won, but youll weep when he comes crawling back.»
I smiled. «Farewell, Margaret.»
In moments, Albert fetched their cloaks, muttering apologies Thomas could not answer. Margaret left without a backward glance. When the door shut, the house seemed larger, emptieryet lighter.
Thomas sat upon the settles edge, staring at his hands. He looked up, voice scarce above a whisper. «Eleanor… forgive me. I shouldve defended youdefended us.»
I nodded. «Aye. You should have.»
He reached for my hand. I let him take it brieflythen drew away. «Thomas, I know not if I can pardon this. Youve broken my trust in themand in you.»
Tears brimmed in his eyes. «Tell me how to mend it. Ill do aught.»
I gazed down at Henry, who drowsed, tiny fingers curled about my shawl. «Begin by earning it. Be the father he merits. Be the husband I deserveif youd keep us. And if ever you let them near me or Henry without my leave, youll lose us. Do you understand?»
Thomas nodded, shoulders stooped. «I do.»
In the weeks that followed, much changed. Margaret sent letterspleading, raging. I did not reply. Nor did Thomas. He returned from the mill ere dusk each day, took Henry to the green so I might rest, even stirred the pot himself. He looked upon our son as if seeing him anewand perhaps, in truth, he was.
Trust, once shattered, mends slowly. Some nights I lie wakeful, wondering if Ill ever see Thomas as I once did. But each morn, when I find him breaking bread with Henry, making the babe laugh, I think perchancejust perchancewell mend.
Were not without flaw. But were ours. And that suffices.
