We Scarce Thought Us Blest

"And all the clouds that loured upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried."

September 30th

Cornwall never expected the nursery to become a sanctuary.

The first time he had entered the room was a month earlier, a command performance by order of his wife. Regan had wanted to be congratulated on the completion of the nursery. For his own part, Cornwall hadn't seen what was so interesting about a nursery. It was a room for the baby to sleep in. Rather than stir up controversy, he had kept this opinion to himself and praised whatever Regan looked at. He told her it was a fine nursery, and Regan had gone so far as to gracefully accept the compliment. 

Although he knew the cradle was empty, he felt obliged to look. The white cloth lining it was exactly as it had been a month ago - fresh and unused. The baby had never laid in the cradle or even been in this room. It had lived its entire life in Regan's bedroom.

Regan. Her pains started three days ago, almost exactly on the midwife's schedule. The labor went on for an entire day. In twenty-three years of marriage, Cornwall had never heard her scream so much. Kent had all but pulled his own hair out. That display had irritated Consort, already irritated by his infirmities and well-disguised concern for his daughter, and instigated a second layer of screaming. A third chorus started up from various ladies - Goneril, Regan's nieces, the midwife. The disagreements endured nearly as long as Regan's laboring.

As he sat, he realized Regan's room and the nursery weren't too different. They were both lined with the same rich wood panels. The cradle was surrounded by white draperies, not red, but there was red on the nurse's bed and on the banner Regan had commissioned. She said it was very similar to the Capulet banner hanging in the Governors' chamber, a Verona emblem on a field of Capulet red. The only difference was the blue border, an unexpected nod to Cornwall on the edge of its existence.

Where I belong, no more a father than a husband. 

"Regan?"

With her hair brushed out and wearing a very fine nightgown, Regan looked much better than she had when Cornwall saw her last. The circles under her eyes still made her look tired but no longer unhealthy. "For God's sake, Cornwall, I came in here to be alone."

"So did I." He stood and offered her the chair, which she refused. "Regan, should you be out of bed?"

"I can't stand lying in that room anymore. God in Heaven, I thought I would be the one mothering afterward, but it's Goneril and those insufferable midwives mothering me. But, if you insist on joining in, at least take Tessa." Regan held the baby out slightly. When Cornwall hesitated, she rolled her eyes and sighed. "She survived being squeezed out of my womb, didn't she? She'll survive you holding her a minute."

"I've never held a baby."

"It's not a science."

Cornwall made one last false start before successfully taking his daughter from Regan. Cradling her low felt unsafe immediately. He brought her up to his shoulder and tried to recreate what he had just seen Regan do. After only one warning about the baby's head, he found a secure position. "God, she's so small." 

"Say that after she's been feasting on your breast for two days," Regan replied dryly.

"What happened to the nurse?"

Regan narrowed her eyes at the very word. "Goneril told me after the birth that I must nurse Tessa myself until the first milk stops and the regular milk comes in."

Cornwall didn't know anything about milk. He knew a great deal about his wife's relationship with her sister, and that knowledge told him he was about to be wrong. He spoke up anyway. "If you don't want to-"

"Of course I don't want to, but Goneril said that she and our mother and Cordelia all did it this way. I won't give Tessa any less, no matter how I tired I am."

If he had any doubt that he was the only parent unsure if the birth had affected him, Cornwall lost it now. Regan had already added their daughter to the tiny list of people toward whom she could be loving. Cornwall's list had been empty since breaking ties with Kent. In last few weeks, Cornwall had wondered if the baby would repopulate his list. As he held Tessa, Cornwall questioned if thinking he loved her was enough if he didn't quite feel it. He would give up his life to save hers, surely, but perhaps that had more to do with his life not being worth much. This tiny infant had more purpose than he did. Sacrificing himself for her would only be logical. "Maybe I ought to put her in her crib."

"If you like." 

Regan turned to watch Cornwall put Tessa down. Before giving birth, she had dismissed Cornwall's lack of interest as irrelevant. Their daughter would be hers to raise and love, and very little of Cornwall would ever be required. Childbirth had been a fresh reminder of her own mortality. If Regan died, Tessa would need a parent. She knew Goneril would do everything she could for the child, but Goneril had her own children. Tessa deserved a singularly devoted parent for all the things even a supremely generous aunt couldn't provide. If that couldn't be Regan, it unfortunately had to be Cornwall. His current attitude was not very good, but he was careful with Tessa. There was some hope of him becoming a sufficient second parent.

"Regan," he asked, "will you answer one question for me?

"Possibly." 

His blue eyes locked onto hers. His rumpled hair and heavy stubble frequently obscured his expressions. It was very often only those eyes, two neat orbs shining through the mess, that revealed his feelings. They looked weary. "Why?"

"Why what?" 

"Why did you want her?"

Playing on her post-labor exhaustion, Regan shrugged the question off. "I already told you." She watched him to see if he would take that as an answer. When he didn't, she relented out of grudging respect. She was weary, too. "Everything I told you was true. But, to tell the entire truth, I was also at a political disadvantage without an heiress. The magistrates are always reluctant to settle an inheritance issue in a way that will create another problem for the next generation. If I was twenty, children could be presumed. I needed a flesh and blood daughter."

"Politics." He looked away from Regan and shook his head. "I should have known."

Regan laughed bitterly. "Yes, politics! The future of his family - our daughter's family, Cornwall - relies on power staying where it belongs. It belongs with Goneril, but if that becomes impossible, we need a safe alternative. And before you ask, if, God forbid, we are defeated, I will still love her." A strange half-smile lingered on her face. "You should be happy, Cornwall."

"Should I?" 

"We have a healthy daughter who inherited, dare I say, our best features - my eyes, for example. We can honor our mothers-"

Cornwall raised a brow. "Our mothers?"

"Yes," she replied sharply, "our mothers. Contessa Tobea Capulet has a lovely sound to it, wouldn't you say?" When Cornwall nodded, she smiled again. "We can honor our mothers, God rest them both, have a legacy, and never have to sleep together again. We can lead our separate lives. God knows I'll be happy to." Feeling the effects of the walk from her bedroom, Regan moved toward the bed. It was there for the nurse to use. Aside from owning the bed, Regan was currently Tessa's nurse and therefore entitled to use it.

Heavy with his own thoughts, Cornwall let Regan ease herself onto the bed unassisted. If Regan was satisfied and Tessa was safe, maybe he had earned a few liberties. Maybe he deserved an indulgence. Maybe Kent would still have him, after all he said and did. "Are there any rules to these separate lives?"

"We can't have a divorce, if that's what you're thinking."

"Not at all."

"Then you know the rules. It will be as it was before - live up to your duties to the family and to me and you can carry on with whomever you like. Just don't embarrass us. And, if you please, start out low, in case that Fae potion is still lingering. I don't want to hear you've put a bastard into a woman we can't be rid of easily." 

"Naturally."

Anne. He hadn't thought of her in a week, at least. Before that, it had been infrequently for a while. He knew nothing but secondhand idle chatter about poor Lady Constance and the repentant daughter nursing her through a fresh air cure. There wasn't much point in thinking about her at all, but he did it. Thinking was the only consideration he could give the poor woman and the child that he would likely never meet. Until he heard secondhand that Anne's mother was recovered, he wouldn't forget about her again.

Kent would have to wait a little longer. Cornwall didn't know what he would say about Anne, and he didn't intend to find out.

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