Mothers

"Never did, nor never shall, lie at the proud foot of a conqueror."

August 11th

Miranda regretted her grandfather's death, but she was pregnant and it was the height of summer. It was too hot to wear black. She shouldn't have to wear black. And yet, by her mother's command, she was baking in the only black gown that still fit her. Nothing else she could squeeze into had an inch of black anywhere. If she ever fell pregnant again, Miranda would have a full compliment of mourning attire at the ready for the ill-timed death of another relative.

Miranda had mostly been on neutral ground with her grandfather. Only recently had they come to a better understanding, when he had gifted her a set of pendants that had once been her grandmother's. The crown jewel, by his account, was a very old iron piece. He had said he had been saving it for the one who proved she had her grandmother's strength. Miranda had worn it often since; she would have worn it to his funeral. The funeral had been an impossibility for her, however. Her mother barred her from attending. If she hadn't, Miranda would have refused to go, lest she become her mother's anchor in the Manor.

Still, Miranda regretted not being present to see her mother fume. Aside from the delightful complaints about her treatment, Goneril spewed many sharp words for the choice of officiant in the crypt. The bishop had said the service at the church, but it had been lowly Father Laurent who gave the final blessings. Miranda's mother had been more upset about that than the death itself. And yet, Miranda was sure that her cousins' primary reason for the choice was their ease, not gamesmanship. They found a familiar comfort with the priest.

Your recklessness... stop interfering... sins are not merely actions, they are intentions. What are you, my lady?

I am a Capulet. And if she meant to be the right kind of Capulet, Miranda couldn't interfere or let herself be used to interfere in her cousins' plans. If that meant hot, solitary days of worry and regret, then so it would be. None of that meant she couldn't sulk about it.

Miranda lifted a brow to see two of her siblings slip into the room. "Our mother or my husband?"

"Both," Hal and Desi grumbled in unison.

"Mother is letting Stephen ramble on with his ideas on how to take over the Manor." Desi hesitated. "She won't listen to him, will she?"

"Has she ever?" Miranda asked. "She knows he's a priggish idiot, just like our father - worse, maybe. I promise you, she already has all her plans in place." Prompted by a slight discomfort, Miranda rubbed her belly. "Save your worries for the thought of her succeeding."

Biting her lip, Desi ventured to ask Miranda to elaborate.

Hal shot his younger sister a look just for her questioning tone. "You can't be serious."

"Well, nobody tells me anything!" Desi snapped. "None of our cousins are my particular friend. The closest I come is Georgiana, who isn't a gossip and hasn't been in the family long enough to know anything anyway. And Mother isn't the worst leader, is she? Stupid Stephen shouldn't be in charge of a pig pen, and her bargain with Lord Norman almost ensures he remains powerless." After a glance at her pregnant sister, Desi quickly added, "Although it was extremely unfair to you."

Miranda frowned a bit. Desi wasn't wrong in her observations, not from what information she had. However, it was about time to fully open her eyes. "You aren't wrong. Only a new, legitimate son of Lord Norman's could inherit over mine."

"And that's not bloody likely," Hal scoffed. "He only has eyes for that bastard cousin Mother found for him."

While Desi chided Hal for language, Miranda filed away that woman's identity as a topic to contemplate later. It was curious to Miranda that her mother had cared to know anything about any illegitimate relations, much less to find a perfect mistress among them for Lord Norman at the exact right time. "And even if he was willing to marry her, he may not want to anger Mother after she bought up his debts. He was too anxious to contract a marriage for that. He didn't even care which daughter Mother offered."

Instantly, Desi blanched. "But... she wouldn't have."

"You really didn't know?" Miranda titled her head. "Mother said either I had to marry him, or I would be banished and you would inherit all my good fortune." For good measure, she patted her swollen belly.

Desi's wave of sobs and sniffles hit Miranda hard. Her cynical side protested that Desi ought to have known that she would be next. Miranda's smaller tender side allowed that her sister didn't disobey nearly enough to have much first-hand experience with their mother's darker qualities. If Miranda hadn't bothered to enlighten her, who would have? Sympathy won the day clearly. Miranda didn't even have the heart to point out that Desi had still only been fourteen when the betrothal took place. "There's nothing to cry about. You're safe from him forever. Even if the church didn't hate men marrying a dead wife's sister..."

"Miranda, don't say that!"

She shrugged. "As I was going to say, I think you'll be safe with Lady Iden's brother soon enough." Miranda hadn't spent too much time herself with Frederick Iden, but she hadn't heard a bad word about him, either. More importantly, from what she had seen, Miranda thought he liked Desi very much. Those two things were reason enough to take the chance of getting out from under their mother's rule.

"Do you think so, truly? Just, it would so much easier to tell if he could come around properly." Desi wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "He's so nice to everyone, it's hard to tell, and he'll be going back to school soon..."

The irresistible, natural urge to taunt his sister overcame Hal. "Desi's in love! Desi's in-"

Desi shoved her elbow into her brother's side, her tears momentarily forgotten. "Stop it! I could say the same about you, you know. I know that much." Frustrated when Hal only grinned and shrugged, she turned back to Miranda. "But if Lady Iden doesn't help Mother, I might never see him again. If she really doesn't care, like you say..."

"From what I've heard of Lady Iden, she'll turn that around on Mother without a thought," Miranda said. "There may not be time to be married before this all blows up, but there's time for a contract or to submit the betrothal to the church. Even Mother couldn't find her way out of that, no matter how things turn out in court. And she wants them to turn out well for her. That's why she brought you into it."

Though the words were meant as a strange sort of compliment, Desi frowned and sighed. "Does she really care that little about us? Do you think so, truly, Miranda?"

"In her way, she does care about us - love us, even. But she cares more about the family as a whole, as an entity, and not the people who comprise it. We're a name and a reputation, and she wants that to reflect her greatness like a mirror. That's one reason some of us want to see a change made. As it is now, we're all either a pawn to be used or a liability." More quietly, Miranda continued, "And, considering how Grandmother left things, I think she kne- ooh! Oh, God!"

"Miranda?"

"Are you all right, sis?"

She waved off her siblings' concern, though she was wincing too hard to look at them. Just as the midwife had warned, she had endured bouts of pains for a little while now. Recalling that they tended to go away if she moved, Miranda hauled herself up.

The pain didn't go away.

"Should I send for Mother?" Desi fretted. The natural person to send for would have been Hermia, but everyone knew she was not currently welcome in their home. "Is it time?"

"Maybe," Miranda sighed, "I don't know yet. Hal, help me upstairs?"

"Walk or carry?"

"Walk, I can walk." As the pain momentarily subsided, Miranda exhaled deeply. "Desi, send for the midwife. Have someone tell Mother you did that, and then come upstairs and keep me company."

Desi did as she was asked, but she didn't last long as a companion. Once it was decided that Miranda's labor had begun in earnest, her mother made herself a fixture in the birthing room. The morning's revelations were still weighing heavily on Desi, and the combination of her mother's presence and Miranda's cries overwhelmed her. She was grateful to be sent out to act as lady of the house instead.

---

Goneril frowned as Father Laurent entered the room. His presence was only playing into Miranda's dramatics. The midwife had judged the situation excellent so far for mother and child. Nonetheless, Miranda wallowed in her own mortality, swearing she would give up on the labor if she could not make a confession. There was a priest already in the house; family tradition called for it. Of course, rather than fetching someone appropriate to the occasion, Goneril's son had brought back this lowly priest so beloved by all the traitors in their family. She had no desire to leave her daughter alone with him. 

"Well, here he is, Miranda," Goneril announced. "Say what you need to."

"Not until you all clear out!"

Father Laurent added, more diplomatically, that the requested sacrament did require privacy. 

"My daughter is not in a condition to be left alone."

"Then you can rip this baby out of my cold, dead body!" Miranda snapped. "You're the one who insisted on its existence, but I have to do all the work. The least you can do is let me clear off my soul if I die obeying your commands!" She gloated silently when the midwife timidly informed Goneril that it would be harmless to grant the favor at this stage of the birth. 

Goneril conceded, and directed everyone toward the door. "But when you are finished, I'll hear no more talk of dying, Miranda." 

Father Laurent settled at the bedside, at a distance suitable for whispering. Lady Capulet was surely not far from the door. "What relief can I offer you, my child?"

"I just needed a break, a friendly face." Miranda exhaled painfully. It was indistinguishable from the many such she had made in the name of laboring. "Thanks to my mother, you are the closest thing I have to a friend in this house." When the priest immediately offered to intercede with her mother and implore that Hermia be fetched, Miranda rolled her eyes. "You're lower than dirt in her eyes. You couldn't convince Mother that water is wet. And regardless," she added, more somberly, "Hermia is safest with guards and walls and gates between her family and mine." 

Although he did it silently, Father Laurent had to agree. The temptation of her rival's sister may have been too great for Lady Capulet. 

Groaning under a sudden weight, the door lurched in its frame. A general noise rose up beyond. Hal's voice won out, nearest to the door and loudest. He angrily ordered someone to sit down once more. That someone was not at all pleased. 

"You see? That's my point! I'm not going to be in the goddamn room, so what does it matter where I am? She'll never know the difference! Until she pops my son out, leave me the hell alone, you little shit!"

After a few hesitant moments, Father Laurent's conscience burst forth. "My lady, I must beg your pardon." He frowned when Miranda asked he stay, clearly misunderstanding him. "It is not a figure of speech. I am begging your pardon."

"My pardon? You?"

"When you sought out forgiveness through me, I refused. I made it a point of principle."

"You weren't wrong," she muttered.

"I was. I offered the coldest of comforts and let you go on your way when you were in need. God grants us all forgiveness, imperfect and undeserving as we are. I officiated your marriage, though it was clearly not godly. I demanded more of you than I did of myself, harping on the dust in your eye instead of the splinter in my own. I thank God that He has seen it fit to guide you after I failed. And I hope, unworthy as I am for my transgressions," he continued after a glance toward the door, "that you would believe you have a friend in me at all times, whether you can trust me as a confessor or not." 

Miranda wiped her eyes, prepared as she was to denounce the moisture as sweat until her dying day. A sad little laugh escaped before words could form. "Who else could I tell?" She had to portion out her secrets to the right audience. Nobody could know everything about her. Not even Pan. Her heart twitched at the thought of him. The baby did her the great favor of overwhelming that with a painful reminder of its arrival. Miranda endured it the best she could, even squeezing the life out of Father Laurent's hand when it was offered. "They won't stay out for much longer," she sighed as the pain subsided. "And if I do die of this, I'd like not to pass from one hell into another. I've committed a great many sins, as you and God both know. If I must say the words again to confess, tell me now."

Form dictated that she did; Father Laurent said that she did not. If the good Lord was offended that a laboring mother did not confess aloud in earshot of her family, He could take it up with him. God knew the secrets of all hearts, as was His right. That right did not also belong to Lady Capulet or anyone else increasing the unrest outside the door. Father Laurent hurried his way through the sacrament, slurring the final word into the start of a common prayer for laboring mothers as the door was breached. 

"... ease her labor and bring her to a safe delivery. Open the treasury of Your mercies and Your compassion to her, and let her give birth to a fruitful vine to be a cause of joy to her all the days of her life."

A few hours later, just as Miranda was swearing by Heaven to strangle the midwife if she made one more positive remark about her excruciating ordeal, a new wail joined the world.

While the baby was cut free and cleaned and swaddled, Miranda squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to know. Months of anxiety, which she had convinced even herself didn't exist, boiled up in her gut. Just one encounter with her husband could have been enough. For all she knew, Pan couldn't even father children! If so, there was never a chance at all of succeeding. Miranda had little hope about her prospects as a mother. How could she even begin to make up for the baby having Stephen's blood? How could she even be sure she could love it? 

What if it grows up to be like him? 

That was one mountain too far for Miranda. 

But, as she so often did, her mother eliminated the alternatives. "Your daughter, Miranda. Your heiress. Look at her and see if you can tell me she wasn't worth the trouble."

Ivy green?

"'Her blood and my blood are mixed now. Isn't that right, baby?'"

It is.

---

Once Miranda was rested and cleaned up, the family (save for Ariel, who had been sent to bed) was invited up to see the newest addition. Miranda observed them while they were forming first impressions of the baby, who was resting in a tiny cradle beside the bed. Miranda's father regarded his first granddaughter as nothing more than another annoyance in the house. Stephen was notably unenthusiastic, surely smarting to know he would have to wait a while yet to add a son to the proof of his masculinity. Anything worse than that was kept in line by Hal, who surprised Miranda with this moment of brotherly concern. Desi's outpouring of affection for her tiny niece almost made Miranda jealous. She didn't think she could be a doting mother - but, if she tried, perhaps she could be a responsible one.

"Miranda, she's so sweet!" Desi cooed. "Look at her pretty face. Oh, I hope she has your hair. You've always had the prettiest hair of all of us."

Idly, she brushed the tips of the waves falling down her chest. Her hair was undoubtedly her best feature. "I suppose she ought to have something of mine; God forbid she inherit my face."

Stephen stood silently by, unaware that most of the room was staring at him in expectation of a polite counter to Miranda's self-depreciation. He cried out in surprise when Hal elbowed him in the gut. "Goddamn it, what?"

"If I have to tell you, you'll never know," Hal muttered. His mother wanted Stephen kept in line and Miranda had never needed anyone's protection, but he still felt guilty now that he had never broken the idiot's nose. Some day, a day that wasn't his niece's birthday, Hal would. "You both look beautiful, sis." He jabbed Stephen once last time. "Don't they?"

"Yes, fine!" Stephen moved toward the crib, if only to get away from his punchy brother-in-law. As he drew closer to his daughter on feet weighed down by too much alcohol, he grew more thoughtful. He hadn't looked at her too closely yet. A daughter was never of much consequence to her father. In Stephen's case, he couldn't even hope to make a useful alliance with her someday. "She's pretty enough, for a baby."

"Charming," Miranda sneered. 

He huffed. "What more is there to say? Babies all look alike anyway. Although..." He leaned in toward the crib and squinted. "What color are those eyes?"

"Her eyes are green, clearly." Goneril extended her arm and pushed Stephen back, legitimately concerned he would lurch forward and crush the baby. Rather than retreat herself, she pulled the chair nearer the crib and sat down to hold court beside the two generations she hoped would follow in her footsteps. "My father's mother, God rest them both, has a pair of eyes just that color in a portrait. They were once a defining trait of the Thebe bloodline. Perhaps her name should honor that connection."

And perhaps you are grasping for a means to name my daughter after your favorite sister. The late Lady Thebe, the lady with the green eyes, had been Regan's namesake. Or to add to the pageant of mourning. Born early in the aftermath of her aunt's death, Ariel's second name was Cordelia. Goneril's cool relationship with her youngest sister had died with Cordelia, who was now a martyr in the history of their family. To Miranda's mother, naming the baby 'Regan' would seem to kill two birds with one stone. 

"Considering my mother is dead," Stephen interjected, "shouldn't she be the one honored?"

Miranda hated Stephen. She hated his arrogant attitude and the supreme ignorance that convinced him it was justified. She hated how content he was as a pawn in her mother's schemes. She hated that he thought he ought to be the superior in their marriage, in spite of her family's traditions and even common sense. She had no hatred for his mother. Lady Norman had never done anything to deserve a false grandchild claiming her name.

Goneril tersely reminded her son-in-law that the baby was, "a Capulet, not a Norman."

In her heart of hearts, Miranda believed this to be true in the best sense. If the Capulet eyes didn't assert themselves, what were the chances that a baby with a Norman father and two Norman grandfathers would turn up with eyes foreign to that bloodline? Logic dictated (most mercifully) that the eyes were the Thebe eyes, competing against more diverse blood, or that they came directly from the blood family Pan couldn't remember. If logic ever failed, then Miranda's intuition would bolster her faith. The baby pulled on her heartstrings in a way a Norman never could. This sweet child had to be Pan's. 

Just as Miranda's attention drifted back to those present, Goneril reminded the family that Miranda had only just finished a great ordeal. "There is no call to be hasty in naming a future Lady Capulet."

I won't let that happen to you, baby.

"Her name is Miralene," Miranda announced, "if anyone happens to care." Come time for the baptism, it would be Miralene Hermia, but Miranda couldn't fight that battle just yet. 

"Don't I get a say in this naming business? She's my daughter," he protested. 

The hell she is. But may you go to your grave - soon - believing that. "I carried Mira, I birthed her, and she's my heiress." Miranda pushed for all the imperiousness she could muster - which wasn't much after the ordeal of childbirth. "God grant her my wits as well, since you clearly never paid attention to your lessons. Miralene was an Empress Regent for eighteen years at the height of the Old Empire's glory. Surely my own name entered my family line in her honor." Cocking her head to one side, she added, "Or does our daughter not deserve a regal name?"

Goneril answered for her tongue-tied son-in-law. "Nothing less would do, naturally."  

Miranda thanked God that the warlords and her mother alike had an affinity for grand Imperial names. A bit of research had provided good pedigrees for several of Pan's adoptive siblings' names, though none quite so exalted as Miralene. With any luck, Miranda's womb would dry up before she used all of the remaining possibilities. "Then it's settled." Her gaze turned toward her husband, who looked as defeated as she felt triumphant - but the look was deceiving. It was impossible, utterly impossible, that Stephen felt a tenth as bruised as Miranda felt victorious.

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