Author’s Note: So, after taking an impromptu break from writing and posting, I didn’t manage to make the stand-in cover art and categories for the newer serials yet. It was not the weekend I had planned, that was for sure. At least now I am writing again.

I had thought there wouldn’t be any way I could use the words from Three Word Wednesday in this story, not when I saw the words, but then my brain started working again, and I found a way, a pretty decent one, I think. At least… it’s kind of cute and possibly funny?

The words this week: crave, putrid, and shudder.

“Oh, take that putrid thing away from me,” Violet said, wishing she could back away from the food that her aunt had tried to feed her. She shuddered, feeling like she might vomit, and an unkind part of her cursed her condition. She knew that she should not do that, but she was so tired of being pregnant and being sick because she was pregnant. She hated this. She was not sure that she would have agreed to marry Winston if she’d known more about what pregnancy would be like.

Sometimes she thought that if more women had more knowledge, they would not agree to any of their expected roles. No one would want to be a mother or a wife. Some things simply did not seem worth it.

“You need to eat.”

“Not now that I’ve smelled that. Can’t you just leave me be until I’m craving something? I can’t stop eating then, but you forcing food on me is not working. What is that that smells so vile anyway? No, no, do not tell me. I do not want to know. I will be ill all over again.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

She had almost forgotten that Robbie was still present. Beatrice’s insistence on interrupting them had distracted her, knowing as she did the reasons for her aunt’s interference. Their refusal to agree to her—well, the only way that Violet could see it was as a demand—that they marry had made her cross with both of them, and if she felt that they were talking with too much intimacy, regardless of the subject they might be discussing or if they happened to touch, she was there to scowl with all the disapproval of a strict chaperone. Violet felt as though they had lost all hope of further progress on locating Winston due to her aunt’s interference, and while she did not want to fight the woman, she did not think that it was worth acting as a chaperone for them. She was already pregnant, and she rather thought she would never allow herself to be in this condition ever again.

“It does, actually,” Violet said, grimacing. He looked at her with something close to pity, and she lowered her head, not wanting to be pitied. She was aware that people reacted one of two ways to her—with pity or with scorn. They either thought her a victim or a fool, perhaps both. She felt herself a fool as well.

“I’m sorry. I know it can be difficult to keep eating when everything makes you feel as though you shouldn’t.”

Beatrice frowned, but Violet nodded, leaning back against the chair. “I suppose the things you saw in the war would take away any kind of appetite you might have had for most of the time you were fighting—and even after as well.”

“Yes.” He smiled at her, though the smile was more sad than anything else. “You have such comprehension of… I know that I never could talk to my father or my mother in the past. My friends… None of them were drafted—or if they were, their families bought them out of it so quietly that I didn’t even know that it had happened—so they have no way to understand what it was like. I still don’t… I am not sure why you are able to see what they do not, but I appreciate it more and more as we talk.”

“Well, now, you might just have a use for your ability to daydream,” Beatrice said, and Violet sighed. She had not been accused of that for a while, but that was what they’d blamed for her decision to marry Winston so quickly—her constant daydreams making her think that she was in love when she wasn’t, her time wasted dreaming away in the garden keeping her from understanding what life was like, but she had always felt that Beatrice made that accusation when she was jealous. She was not as much of a reader, and she could not make anything grow, nor did she seem to do well when faced with quiet contemplation or many of the domestic arts expected of a woman—she could not sew well or play any sort of instrument, had no talent for drawing or painting. Violet could do all those things, though with her name she was most known for her skills in the garden.

She was not a daydreamer, though. Not in her opinion.

“I doubt you could call such a thing a daydream, not when you understand the war. That could only be a nightmare.”

Violet shook her head. “I think I have found myself to be at war within my own mind and body, that’s all. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“It is a fine way to describe it. A perfect one, truth be told.”

She smiled at him, and her aunt snorted. He cast a dark look in the older woman’s direction, and Violet was tempted to laugh. For all that the woman claimed to want them to marry, she certainly did not like to see them getting along.

Her mother, on the other hand, she would be gloating right now if she had heard Robbie speak. She’d take his words as a sign that he was starting to feel something for Violet. She did not think that anyone should make such assumptions. They had an unpleasant circumstance at best, and they did try to make the best of it, but that did not mean that they would be anything more than they now were—awkward acquaintances.

She did not mind that, since she was not desperate enough to think she had to marry him. She did not want to, as nice as he’d been thus far. She would like to find Winston to have answers, to get some sort of explanation for what he’d done and why, but other than that, she did not know that she cared anymore. She would raise her child regardless of whether or not he was found, and that part of her life would not be changing unless something went very wrong in her pregnancy.

She grimaced, knowing the child would react to that thought. The way that happened, though, managed to surprise her. “I don’t believe this.”

Robbie frowned. “What?”

Violet put a hand over her stomach. “I’m hungry.”

He laughed.

Author’s Note: Robert had to answer that question. Really, he did.

“I suppose I will have to give you my military records and let you compare every scar, then, since I can offer you no other proof of my identity.”

His words caused her to flush, discomfited, and he should regret that, but he did not. Her words had made him angry. He was not lying. Why would he? Of what possible advantage could it be to steal the identity of a man who had abandoned his wife?

“You could ask my father. I suppose his evidence might be considered biased, but there are people who know him who would confirm his word and mine.”

She nodded. “I don’t—I never had any doubt of your honesty or your identity, not until I spoke just now. In retrospect, it seems foolish. I must be the most trusting fool on the planet.”

He shook his head. “I do not believe that. I want you to be right about trusting me, at least.”

She frowned. “Why would you want that?”

“I do not much like being called a liar. I don’t like being considered untrustworthy. I do, even though I have many faults and can hardly deny them, like to think of myself as an honorable man. I know that it might not seem that way, not with the way that we met or the way that I have reacted to all of these discoveries and the pressure that comes with it. I… I do not think myself ready for or capable of marrying anyone. I… suppose that sounds cowardly.”

She bit her lip. “Robbie, I do think you are rather inclined to call yourself a coward when you have no reason to do so. I do not know what you did in the war or why you think that you must treat yourself that way, but this situation is not… Why should anyone feel they are ready for a marriage that is being forced upon them? Why should we feel that is acceptable and that we are the ones in the wrong for shying away from the prospect? You do not know me, I do not know you, and there is a child involved. Were they in this position, would they be so quick to take action? Perhaps, but I do not think they would do so without considerable regrets.”

He nodded. He could not disagree with that. He thought the only thing rushing into that decision would get them was regret. If there was only obligation and fear motivating the marriage, it was sure to sour quickly. All that would exist was resentment, and that would mean a lifetime of bitterness. No one should want that. A slow, informed decision made by both parties was for the best of all concerned.

“I do not think that we should make any sort of decisions or judgments just yet.”

“Me, either.” She gave him a smile, and he found himself smiling back. He did not know why she always seemed to coax that out of him. She had a sweetness to her, and even with her strength that he admired so much, she had a bit of vulnerability to her that was just as appealing.

He stopped, cursing himself for the thought. He would not and did not think she was appealing. He was not going to let himself start complicating things or give in to the ideas that the others were trying to force upon them. She was not his wife, she did not have to be his wife, and he would not trick himself into caring for her when he shouldn’t. He would not force either of them to act that way, no matter what her family or neighbors might think.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Something from the war?”

He thought about agreeing with her, even though it was a lie, but he had just spoken with her about trust and wanting to be worthy of hers. He did not—could not—lie. “No. I was just thinking, but it was not about the war. Do not worry about it. I am just… I am still very confused by all of this, and sorting out how I feel and what should be done is not easy. I do not know how to find this man, though a part of me thinks that I should be able to, since he is not the stranger I would have thought he was. He did more than pick a name at random. He picked mine on purpose, and he knew enough about me to where he might have fooled people who know of me. That is what bothers me. The connection. There must be one, yet I can think of none.”

She ran a hand over her stomach, and he wondered if the baby was kicking again. He was tempted to touch her again, but he would not. That line would not be crossed a second time. “Is there anyone from the earlier part of the war who was injured and sent home? Or disciplined and expelled from your unit? Someone perhaps not close to you yet aware of enough to give some pretense, someone who might have thought that you had a better life than he did or… Or even was so shell-shocked that he took your name in order to escape who he was? Is that absurd?”

Robert shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s actually a very intriguing theory. I do not remember anyone, but I can ask for the records on my unit and see. Perhaps if we could distribute that picture to other men in my unit, they might know him when I do not.”

She smiled. “That sounds almost like we have a plan.”

“It does. Thank you for suggesting it.”

“Oh, it is not my plan—”

“You were the one that theorized that he was from my unit. Therefore, we owe this bit of a plan to you. Do not argue with me. You deserve the credit.”

She laughed. “Very well, if you insist, though I hardly want the blame if it is not what we expect it to be in the end.”

“If I promise not to blame you?”

“Then I accept.”

Author’s Note: So I’m just going to cave and keep both serials. It’s not fair otherwise. I should have known better. And since the site’s overhaul isn’t done (and won’t be for a while at this rate with all the interference) I will just continue posting as I have been. I’m going to move this and the other story into their own category and get them organized as a serial should be, but I’ll have more fic in the meantime.

Since this is Three Word Wednesday, I found a way to slip in endure, destruction, and trust.

“After yesterday, I am surprised to find you willing to endure my company.”

Violet placed her hands on her stomach. She would have put them in her lap if she didn’t have the distended belly to contend with, and she had found that one of the many little nuisances about being pregnant that made her regret every having come in contact with the fake Robert Winston. Of course, she had far more than a few minor aches and discomforts to give her regrets about meeting that man. She hoped that she did not reach a point where she regretted meeting the real Robert Winston.

Robbie—for she had decided, after debating all night in her room, to use that name to keep him apart from the imposter—had been, for the most part, very kind and polite, a true gentleman, though there were times that things became quite awkward between them because of the situation they found themselves in and the assumptions that everyone made—assumptions that she had worsened by her own actions yesterday. She should never have had him touch her stomach when the baby kicked. That was more than inappropriate or improper. She could not believe she’d done that, and she did not know why she had.

Was a part of her desperate enough to hope that he’d want to marry her if he became attached to the child? Was that why she’d done it? She hoped not, but she had no reason to give in place of that one.

“It is not such a hardship to speak to you. I think it is much easier than it should be,” she said, trying to smile with the words. “I am sorry that I was not more helpful yesterday. It was a much longer morning than I anticipated, and while I do not agree that I must spend all my time in bed, I had been up and moving a bit too much for my current condition. I have heard of women who work horrible hours while carrying a child and yet they both survive the pregnancy, but I fear if you ask me to do more than walk up and down the stairs I am almost utterly useless.”

“Then I suppose I should not have asked you to come downstairs at all.”

She closed her eyes. “How could you not ask me? We have yet to discuss the man I knew, the one who stole your name and… Well, we have not discussed him, and if you are to have any hope of locating him, I suppose we must.”

“I know this is a painful subject for you. I do not want to—you shouldn’t have to suffer for my curiosity or even the remote chance that I might find him.”

She almost laughed. “I think that no amount of discomfort now could discourage me from even the slightest chance that you will succeed in your search. That man seems not to care about anyone or anything, pays no mind to the destruction he leaves behind, and while we may not be able to have him locked away in jail, I should very much like to slap him. It is the least I can do after what he did to me, and I do not want to be denied that opportunity.”

Robbie reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I will do what I can to ensure that you have that moment. He deserves that and so much more. So very much more.”

She nodded. She had directed thoughts toward her “husband” that no lady should have, but after what he’d done, she could not help it. She would gladly see the bastard dead, and that was not something she would ever have thought she’d think, especially not about a man that she’d been hopelessly in love with only seven months before.

That was, she’d thought she was in love with him, but since what she’d loved was all an act, she hadn’t loved him at all. She’d had to accept that as well.

“It’s almost funny,” Robbie said, and she looked over at him, blinking, not sure if he’d been speaking for a while without her paying attention or not. “When I was younger, my father used to give me endless lectures on how I would learn to appreciate my name someday. I’d be proud of the fact that I was Robert Winston the third, and I’d feel that name was not only a blessing but the most important thing in the world to me. I used to say I’d never be proud to be his son or share his name, but I have learned the value of my name now.”

She stared at him. “Was… Was anyone else present for these lectures? Did they happen often and in public?”

He frowned. “Why are you asking me that?”

She put a hand on her back, wincing. “It’s… When he was here, he… He told me a story almost exactly like that. Of course, he had not had his name stolen to learn to appreciate it—he said he still hadn’t, but he said what you did about your father’s words. I remember the part about the blessing. It was not easy to forget, nor was the part about never being proud to be his son or share his name.”

Robbie’s brow creased, his frown deepening, and he shook his head. “I do not understand. This… It is like this man must have known me, but he is a stranger to me. I do not recognize him at all, not from that photograph you sent. Do you have any others? Perhaps a different angle would give me a better sense of who he might be.”

“I am afraid I don’t. He didn’t want any others taken—he only had that one done at Aunt Beatrice’s insistence.”

He rose, starting to pace the parlor. “This is absurd. For a man to say these things and know so much as well as imitate my handwriting so as to forge my signature, I must know him. There seems to be no way that I could not know him.”

She studied her hands, not wanting to voice the terrible thought that had come to her, and yet the words spilled from her mouth. She did not know why she wanted to trust him, since she knew so much less of him and more of Winston, but then, the other man had abandoned her. “Unless, of course, he was not the one lying and you are.”

Author’s Note: So when I saw the Carry On Tuesday prompt of “the show must go on,” I thought of pretenses and stoicism and masks. Each of the possible serials have them, since both the queen and Violet have their acts, their ways of concealing their thoughts and emotions. The story and the shows always go on, though.

Maybe they shouldn’t, but then again… where would I be if the stories didn’t go on?

“I think I had better lie down again.”

Robert felt her draw away from him, struggling to compose herself as she did. She wiped at her eyes, and he grimaced as he saw her do it. He did not like seeing her hurting, and she would not want to acknowledge that he was seeing it. He did think she managed an admirable act—though not all of it was a pretense, some of it was just who she was—of pretending that she was not agonizing over everything. With everything that had happened to her after the imposter left, learning she was pregnant, facing the gossip and insinuations not only about how he left but also about her child, to learn that the man she’d married was not only the sort of blackguard who abandoned his family, he was also one who had married her under a false name. That left her as good as unmarried, bearing a child people would call a bastard, but she did not give in to the sort of behavior anyone would expect.

She wasn’t crying constantly. She hadn’t become bitter like her aunt. She didn’t blame anyone else for her condition, not even the man who had deceived her. Robert had nothing but admiration for her poise, her decorum and dignity. He could not find enough words to describe what and who she was, this strength that shone through her actions. She would not betray a weakness, not even when she had every reason to let herself feel them, perhaps even to wallow in them. That would have been permissible in her situation, her condition.

He did not understand how she managed it. She was a woman trapped in a most unpleasant position, and she bore it better than he did. He should not think being a man somehow made it easier for him—he did not think that war could ever be called easy—or that being a woman somehow made her less than him and therefore incapable of coping, but he knew what was expected of him and not of her. He had to be in control, always strong, never weak, and he could not allow his injuries or his memories to enfeeble him. That was not permitted.

He could hear his father’s voice in his head, and he almost yelled in response, but then she would think that he was a lunatic, as any man with shell-shock might be called if they had not already labeled him a coward.

She frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, forgive me. I did not mean to start woolgathering. Here, let me walk you back into the house.”

“Mr. Winston—Robbie—I did not—I am not assuming anything about your promise.”

He blinked, and then he almost cursed again when he remembered what he’d said. That had sounded rather like something it wasn’t—like a proposal. He swallowed. “Mrs. Winston—”

“Violet,” she said, and then she blushed. “I—That is, after all that has passed today, it seems rather foolish to stand on formalities, even if my aunt will make assumptions that she shouldn’t.”

“Violet,” he repeated, not sure which name he liked less. Calling her Mrs. Winston was awkward since on paper she would appear to be his wife. Violet, though, that was a name that burned her into a person’s mind—her scent, her voice, and her face. He did not want that, could not. He was not supposed to admire her. She was not his. She was the victim of the man who stole his name, his identity. He had come here to help her, yes, but that was all. Helping her did not mean that he would do what her aunt suggested. “I… Yet again I did not pay enough attention to my words.”

“I told you before that I do not expect you to marry me, nor do I think that you meant them as any sort of proposal. I do appreciate—Oh.” She stopped, her hand on her back again. “Oh, that is…”

“What? Are you feeling unwell? Should I—”

“No, no, I am fine,” she said, and he frowned, and she reached for his hand. He continued to frown as she guided it over to her stomach. He almost pulled away, but then he felt the strangest sensation underneath his palm, and he could only stare down at his hand. “I’m told that’s quite normal. All babies kick. It doesn’t feel normal, and it does seem like I ought to be covered all over in dark bruises, but it never leaves a mark.”

He nodded. “It is very… odd. Not unpleasant, just different.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. Then they popped open and she stepped back, breaking contact. “I don’t know why I did that. It was inappropriate enough the way we were sitting, but to put your hand on me that way… Oh, hell fire.”

She should not have been able to run, not in her state, and in truth, she did not manage to move with much of any grace, but she still fled from him, hiding behind the hedge. He let out a breath. He hadn’t thought of the impropriety of the moment, either, just the wonder of it. She’d shared something with him that he would never have thought he could have.

“Damn it.”

“Mr. Winston?”

He turned toward her. Her face was still red, but she held herself straight, her posture stiff but her whole being as composed as always.

“I… I will go in and lie down now. Please excuse me,” she said, about to walk away, and then she stopped. “I will attempt to answer your questions tomorrow, if that is acceptable.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

She gave him a very slight smile and walked away with as much dignity as a lady in her condition could manage. Either she was the strongest woman he’d ever met, or she should have been an actress. She put on one hell of a show.

Author’s Note: Well, I sat down to do a Sunday Scribbling for this story, too, as part of the pick-a-serial, and it got kind of… long.

I suppose there are parts where it could be broken up, but I like it all together, so here it is. I won’t apologize for it. 😛

Yes, I’m trying to be funny since the prompt was the apology. And, of course, I go to title it and can’t escape from hearing Nirvana’s “All Apologies.” Oops?

“I am sorry,” Violet said as she tried to settle on the bench, disconcerted by having him arrange the cushions for her. He’d taken all the ones from the other chairs and attempted to prop up her back and her feet, and she did not know how to react to his fussing.

Would it have been like this for her if her “husband” had been true and was at her side now? Would he do such things for her and care for her through the trials of this pregnancy, or would he have ignored it all and joined the others in the opinion that she should not rise from bed at all?

“Sorry?”

“Yes. I have to apologize for the behavior of my aunt and even my mother. I told you—I am not your responsibility, the child is not yours, and the burden does not belong to you. I would not ask you to… You do not have to marry me, no matter what they said, and do not think that we are alone here so that we may… court. That may be what my mother is trying to arrange, but it is not what I expect.”

He gave her a smile, adjusting a pillow for her back. “I know. You were quite clear, and I think it is more incumbent upon me to apologize, not you.”

“Why?”

He sat down in the chair across from her, rubbing at his left arm. “It was extremely foolish of me to come here thinking that I could ‘fix’ everything, to assume that I could find the man who had stolen my name and right every wrong, and then not think that everyone would expect that fix in my marriage to you. I went on and on about the situation that you were in without once thinking of what everyone would assume the obvious solution to be. Then when it was discussed, I did not behave as a gentleman should—more like a startled jackrabbit with extremely poor manners. I must have insulted you with my refusal, and that was not my intent.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I am not offended. A part of me is quite relieved.”

“And the other part of you?”

“Is terrified and thinks I should marry you just to save myself,” she admitted, and her hand flew to her mouth. Horrified, she felt her cheeks burn with shame, not sure why she’d been so foolish as to give voice to all that. It was not proper, and she had not wanted to tell him it.

“I cannot blame you for thinking that, though I doubt I qualify as any kind of salvation.” He looked down at his arm, and she shook her head.

“I think that you are allowing your injury to poison your mind towards yourself. You are not crippled, not as badly as some, and even with your difficulties, you are not useless. Do not think of yourself that way.”

He looked up at her. “You are so strong. How did he ever betray you like this?”

She lowered her head. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I did not mean to make you feel ashamed. It was not meant as any kind of censure toward you. I find you quite admirable.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Not so long ago, they would have condemned me as a coward,” he said, his hand on his arm. “The things I saw, the things I did… They… I am far more useless than you think.”

She sat up, putting her feet on the ground. “Shell-shock. You have shell-shock?”

“If you want to call it that. I think cowardice fits it better. Even my dreams terrify me.”

“I do not think that we are meant to go to war, to see and do the things that you have done. Why should it be such a thing that you are expected to be courageous about? We are told not to kill, are we not? So then why should we push for war? Why should we say that the people we send to fight in such conflicts should feel nothing when they are forced to take a life? That is the most illogical thing I have ever heard. Fighting for one’s country does not mean that one immediately becomes able to accept the death all around them as… nothing. Even if the enemy is trying to kill you, a part of you must be aware that they are a person. The men dying around you are human whether they are comrades or the aggressors. How is not feeling something for those lives lost right?”

“I think I am starting to understand why he would have taken this ruse with you as far as he did.”

She blinked. “What?”

“The man you thought you married, the one who stole my name, I do believe I see what he must have seen in you.”

She flushed. “Why—No. You are not attracted to me, not as he must have been to push for marriage even with the sort of deception that he was employing, and when I think of what he did… No, you are not like him. It is… You do not treat me like a flower.”

“A flower?”

She nodded, gesturing to the garden. “It may surprise you because of my current condition, but this is my work. This is where he met me, and he used to say my name suited me because I was so close to the flowers, always planting and pruning… There were times when I thought he saw me as some kind of… sprite or something.”

“Then I was wrong. He did not see you at all. Your name suggests something delicate, but you are are stronger than that, no flower to be crushed by the elements or by him. Your words express a greater comprehension of the world and things that no one else has even tried to speak of with me than I would have thought, and that is more valuable than he could have known.”

“I do not think it wise for you to flatter me.”

Mr. Winston frowned. “Forgive me. I did not mean to flirt or seem insincere.”

That, she thought, was the dangerous part. He was altogether too sincere, and after her poor choices before, she was afraid of what that might mean for her. “It—I am sorry. You had questions about him, and we have not spoken of it at all. That is my fault, having taken the conversation in the wrong direction. Please, ask me what you will about him and I will attempt to answer.”

Mr. Winston rose. “I think that I should go. I came in uninvited, and I have overstayed my welcome. Please excuse me.”

She thought of asking him to stay, but after all that had happened since he arrived this morning, she did not think it wise. “I am sorry. I should not have assumed—you are not unwelcome, though has been quite awkward since my aunt voiced her opinion, and that will hang over us for some time, I think.”

He nodded. “Yes, I imagine that there will be no avoiding the knowledge that nearly everyone expects to marry. Perhaps we should continue our discussions through correspondence from now on.”

“You are leaving?”

“I do not know. It might be best.”

“For you. You can leave and be free of all entanglements and gossip, and you are not pregnant and abandoned, and if you never find the man who stole your name, your life will be little altered, but mine will never be what it was. I should have more sympathy for you after the things we spoke of, because of the war, but this—this is cowardice on your part, and I will not apologize for thinking that.”

He met her gaze, and she rather thought she understood some of the horrors of shell-shock in the darkness that he betrayed in the look. “You are very bold.”

“I have already fallen about as far as I can. My reputation is gone. I cannot get it back, so why should I stick to things that decorum demands? I shall be talked about whether I am good or I am bad, and though I made a poor choice, I thought I had done the right thing. I should be married now. That’s what I thought I was until your letter. Now I am not. I am pregnant, and it has been a difficult pregnancy by anyone’s standards. You say I am strong when all of these things terrify me, and I am not because I want to hate you for suggesting that you go and leave me alone again.”

He came over and sat down next to her. “No one has given you a chance to express your true feelings over any of this, have they? All the fear and anger… You have it all inside you still.”

She lowered her head. “I couldn’t cry when they expected me to weep—when he left—and I am not sure I want to cry now, but I never know what I feel anymore. Between the baby and this whole disaster, I have become completely lost.”

He drew her close to him, letting her rest against his shoulder, and despite the impropriety of the moment, she did not pull away from him. She couldn’t.

“I’m sorry. I do not envy you that at all. I felt that way all through the war, and even now that it is over… There seems to be no place for us veterans—none for cowards or cripples, not even in our own homes. Why would anyone steal my name when my life is not hardly worth living?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why he did this to either of us.”

Robbie—the inappropriate name fit the inappropriate situation—took her hand, covering it with his bad one. “I swear I will not make you feel alone again.”

Author’s Note: The whole pick-a-serial deal will continue until at least Tuesday, which is when I’d like to have the new look to the site complete, but we’ll see how that goes. It may take longer.

Meanwhile, there’s more of each story again today.

Violet was relieved to have their conversation come to some sort of an end before her aunt returned. She was not as hungry as she had said she was, but she did not think that she or Mr. Winston—Robbie—could stand Beatrice’s presence for a moment longer. She had not wanted to discuss the idea of marriage around anyone else—it was not the sort of thing that should be discussed in public until it had been settled between the couple, and she did not think that either of them was ready for that conversation when her aunt had forced it upon them. Violet had said what she must, thought there was a part deep within her that was frightened by her own words, wanting to say she had been wrong, repent of all of them and beg him to marry her and restore all she’d lost when her “husband” proved false.

She turned her hand in circles over her stomach. She did not need to be rescued. She did not deserve to be rescued. She had made a poor choice, and like dozens of other women who’d made similar ones, she had to accept the consequences, not expect some random stranger to fix them all for her. Marriage was not the solution that everyone would claim it to be. He had referenced his own finances more than once, and each time, he had spoken of his uncomfortable position—having no real income of his own. He was not in a state to provide for a family. That alone should caution anyone against the idea of them marrying.

“Well, it would seem we are once more the subjects of the most obnoxious and in some cases, rather vile, gossip,” her mother said, walking into the room. She removed her hat and crossed to the other chair. “I do think I should avoid the marketplace again. I cannot be anything but glad that Beatrice was not with me. She would be livid and yet… I do not know if she would disagree with the sentiment that some of the nicer ones expressed.”

Violet sighed. She knew what her mother was trying not to say, but she didn’t need to avoid it. Aunt Beatrice had already made things awkward. “If you refer to her idea that we should marry, she has already been quite vocal about it. It was rather humiliating. I know my reputation will never be the same, but it is not right for anyone to try and force that on either of us.”

“Of course not,” her mother said. “I do apologize—we can hardly assume that you would be willing or even able to marry Violet and accept the child as yours. No, no, my sister presumes too much, and I would hate to do the same.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Mr. Winston nodded to her. “Yes, I do appreciate your forbearance. I had not considered that when I came, though it was foolish of me not to. I did not—I know it must seem a simple solution to everyone else, but for us, it is not.”

Violet smiled at him. She did like his manners and way of speaking. They were not the same as the man she’d married, though that was for the best. If he were charming, she’d be a fool all over again. She did not want or need that. “No, it is not.”

“I do think that we could find some way to make such an arrangement work, if it were necessary,” he said, coughing as he did, not looking at her. “Still, if we were to marry, I would hope that it was not because of any pressure brought to bear on us, but rather because of… mutual affection. I would hope that any marriage I entered into would have that, and unfortunately, we are strangers.”

“You could change that.”

“Mother!”

Robbie—for when he smiled, the name did suit him—laughed. “I expect there is no way to avoid such a change, since we will learn more of each other as we try to resolve this situation for the best and to the benefit of all of us. I need to ask you more about the man you married—when you feel up to it, of course.”

“Perhaps, if the weather holds, you might go out to the garden. There is a bench where Violet can sit, and another chair as well.”

“Mother—”

“I assume you wish to go over those details in private, and the garden is the best compromise, as you well know. That way your aunt can see you from the window and know you are not being inappropriate, but she does not have to hear, as you would no doubt prefer it.”

“Yes,” Violet said, letting out a breath. She did not want to discuss anything to do with her “husband,” but if she had to, she’d rather do it where she did not have to see her aunt scowling at her with every word she spoke. Perhaps if she did speak of things in front of Beatrice, she’d know what she missed, what she should have seen in Winston’s actions, but she did not want to know. She would only torment herself with every little moment where she should have chosen differently, and that she did not need. She would not do that to herself.

“Won’t your aunt be mad that you did not eat the food you sent her for?”

“My sister should have known that was a ruse,” Violet’s mother said, laughing as she rose. “I’ll let you see Violet to the garden, Mr. Winston.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carpenter.”

She stopped in the doorway, giving him a rather pointed smile, and Violet tried not to grimace. “I should hope that soon we will be thanking you.”

Author’s Note: I find this one a bit of an interesting conundrum. That makes it kind of fun, if rather awkward for everyone concerned.

It makes for an interesting debate over which serial should stay on the site, too.

“I expect that he will send for an expert, and they must look for this man as a forger. Perhaps he is already known for that crime,” Violet said, rubbing at her back and wishing that her child was not as disagreeable as its father. She should like to have a few moments of peace. She did not need to be plagued constantly with this sort of pain. She had made a horrible mistake, and she had paid for it. This seemed excessive, despite what she’d told the true Mr. Winston yesterday.

“An expert? To contest the license and shame you in front of everyone. Oh, yes, girl, that is a fine idea indeed,” Beatrice said, and Violet sighed.

“It will soon be known everywhere that my marriage was not legitimate. I did not know any better, and I do regret how this has happened, but please do not act as though I shall be stoned the moment that it is known to all. I did not—I believed I was married and acted in good faith.”

“Your niece is the victim here, and I do not think she should be made to feel as though she was the one who did wrong. She did not know that he was not who he said he was, did not know that he was marrying her under a false name and therefore invalidating the marriage, so she is not at fault in any way. If you wish to censure her for trusting the wrong person, I suppose that is your prerogative, but I think it is unjust and unwise. She is suffering enough already.”

Violet forced a smile. “You have, I fear, missed my aunt’s point entirely, sir. I do believe she thinks that you should do the ‘honorable’ thing and marry me because of this whole misunderstanding. That way the child and I are not exposed to the harsh realities of an unwed mother and fatherless child.”

Winston stilled. He blinked, and she had to sit up before he had some kind of fit. “Please understand that I do not expect you to do any such thing. It was not you who seduced me, and it is I who must face the consequences of my actions. True, the child will be punished, and I cannot like it, but it is not to be covered over by some hasty decision made by your sense of obligation or anyone’s opinion. I did believe the man I met was single and honorable. I married him too soon, and it may well be my ruin, but I did have every reason to believe the marriage was valid at the time when I entered into it. That is what I must cling to whatever else may come.”

He swallowed. “It is an admirable sentiment, but I do not know that I—”

“If you asked me now, I would refuse you. Your conscience may be quite clear on the matter.”

“Violet!”

She shook her head. “I am sorry, Aunt Beatrice, but having married once disastrously, I cannot think of doing so again. Mr. Winston is a stranger to me, more so than the last one, and while all may assume it is his duty to pick up the pieces of my honor, it is not. I cannot go through with a second marriage, even if the first was never real.”

“Think of the child.”

“I am not dismissing the effect it will have on my child, but I cannot think that it is somehow better to force both of us into a marriage that should sour and is made only of obligation. Forcing Mr. Winston to accept a child that was sired by a man who stole his name is not any more right than what some ignorant fools would say about the baby. If the imposter was to be found, it would be his duty to marry me properly and claim his child as his own, but I confess, I do not want that, either. I would rather be unmarried and bearing a child than have such a man back in my life as I can see only more hurt down that path. There are decent men who can overlook a woman having had a child previously, and perhaps one of them might come into our lives later. You do not know that it will not happen, and I think that we should not discuss the matter further. I have stated my opinion, and you will not change it. I cannot agree to marry Mr. Winston even if he should ask, and he has not asked.”

He rose, rubbing a hand over his left arm, shaking his head. “I admit that I did not give much consideration to the idea of… presenting myself in the stead of the man who had betrayed you. I have little more than a name to offer, and it is not a good one, not now.”

Beatrice snorted. “A name. It would seem all this nonsense is about a name anyway.”

“I think it is a great deal more than that,” he said, turning around to face her. “It is a reputation and honor and far more than that. I consider what he did to your niece a crime even if no one else does. True, they will only put him in prison if he managed to steal something they consider valuable with his forgery, but in my opinion, he stole a great deal without ever touching any money. I can see why your niece would not want me for a husband, and there are more reasons for that than the ones that she voiced. To be honest, I do believe my father would forbid the match, and I am a cripple with no independent means. Would you prefer that for her?”

Violet looked at his arm, frowning. She’d seen him use it, though he had told her it was next to useless. She did not remember him calling himself a cripple at any time previous, though. Perhaps it hurt his pride too much to admit the extent of his weakness or to accept that word as applying to him.

Beatrice grunted, sitting down. “What good would it do to prove the license a forgery? You get your reputation back at the cost of hers, and whatever you might be, that is not just, either.”

“I do not know. I had intended to ask if he had created debts in my name that must be repaid, and if so, I needed to deal with them. I had not expected the innkeeper to confront me with that signature that is so like my own. I know I was not the one who did it, but it is possible that no one else will see it that way. That paper might be, in some way, binding if it is not proved a forgery.”

Violet frowned. “How can that be? You were over fighting in the war at the time, weren’t you?”

He shook his head. “I’d been invalided out by the date on this paper. I didn’t think that it was the case, but I must have been in that hospital for longer than I thought. It may be possible to prove I was there or in the private clinic my father had me moved to, but I do not know yet.”

Beatrice’s mouth set in a grim line. “In that case, I say you marry her anyway.”

Author’s Note: After yesterday’s day off from posting new bits to the possible serials, (I was feeling rather down and fighting writer’s block on all my projects. It was snowing, and it felt like a day to do… nothing. That’s not what I ended up doing, of course,) I used Three Word Wednesday‘s prompts to get me back on track with both of them.

Today there’s little trace of the blizzard except the lingering snow, but there’s fic, so I suppose that’s an improvement.

Detailed information on the whole pick a serial idea here. Three words for today: bask, grief, and raise.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Winston. I was hoping to catch you before you left, since I had a few things to ask before you departed for the day.”

Robert turned away from the wall, guilty at having been caught staring at the small shrine dedicated to a son that must have died in the same war he’d survived. He did not know how to address the innkeeper, not now. He should say something, but words failed him where the war was concerned. He could not talk of its horrors or the rare bright moments with his comrades. He thought they were all dead now, him having escaped that fate because of his arm and being shipped home early.

He did not deserve to be standing here, and there was nothing he could say in the face of this family’s obvious grief.

“Oh. I—I must be mistaken. You can’t be Mr. Winston.”

“I am, actually,” Robert said. He studied the innkeeper, wondering if the name alone had caused the man to think he was the one who had come before, the one who’d impersonated him. He’d seen the photograph. They did share a bit of a likeness. “I’m sure that must be confusing.”

“More than a little, sir,” the innkeeper said. He swallowed, his hand going to his cuffs, fiddling with them as he grew more nervous. “You see, I had been on the verge of asking the impertinent question of why you were not staying with your wife and her family now that you’d returned, but I am confused. You are Robert Winston? The third? And yet… you can’t be. I met the fellow, and you are not him. Close, perhaps, but not close enough.”

Robert grimaced. “I am, in fact, the man who was born Robert Winston the third. It would seem that someone else has taken my name and made a mockery of it and Mrs. Winston in the process. I am here to do what I can about that situation.”

“Dear heaven,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head. “Oh, that poor girl. Never had no father, and now you say her husband’s done her wrong? And her with child, too. Such a terrible thing. Who could do something like that?”

“I’ve no idea, but I hope to find him.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Of course, of course. You must, if what you’re saying is true.”

“I know that you met the other Winston first and might be inclined to assume that I am the liar, but I can assure you that it has always been my name, and if you do not believe me, perhaps I should have my commanding officer speak to it, since I was overseas fighting while this blackguard stole my name and betrayed you all.”

“That’s not all he stole, sir.”

Robert frowned, thinking the man spoke of Mrs. Winston’s condition, but the innkeeper moved to the desk, lifting out his registry. “You had better see this. I was not present when you came in, but when my clerk told me someone had checked in, I looked and made the assumption I did.”

“I did use my full name, yes, and that would lead to some confusion—”

The innkeeper raised the book to where it was almost right in Robert’s face. “This is your signature last night. Here, though, is the one from before.”

Robert found himself staring at the page. That signature was the same as his. An exact copy. He didn’t understand. He would have sworn he’d never met the man, but how could that bastard have known the precise way he signed his name? It only looked that way when he used the whole thing, included “the third,” so how did the man know? How had he known that when he came here? Even his letters to Mrs. Winston had not included that. He did not sign that way unless he had to, and he’d thought that this stay was one such occasion, given that his imposter had likely not used the whole name. He was wrong.

That looked like he had signed it.

“Are they all like this? Did he sign it like this every time he checked in or out?”

“Yes, sir.”

Robert shook his head. “I don’t understand. It would seem he’s an expert forger, too, but how did he get hold of my signature to forge? I don’t write my name like that often. Hardly at all, in fact.”

“I cannot tell you, sir.”

“I have to go. Please excuse me,” Robert said, turning away from the accusing mark on the line and heading toward the door. He pushed it open with his good arm, needing to see Mrs. Winston as soon as he could. This was an alarming prospect at best. He’d need to wire back to his father and have a handwriting expert check, but those signatures looked so alike that he thought he’d have a hard time proving that they weren’t his.

He turned at the corner, going down the block toward the quiet house he’d visited the day before. This town was small, rather picturesque, all things considered, and the day was fine, the sort of spring that made one want to bask in the fine weather and surroundings, but he could ill-afford that just now. He had a terrible suspicion about what he’d see when he asked Mrs. Winston for a certain document, and it was going to complicate their situation a great deal.

He hurried up the steps, knocking on the door, impatience getting the better of him. The maid opened it, and he almost shoved her out of the way, as agitated as he was.

“You are here rather early, Mr. Winston. I fear we are not quite in a state to receive guests,” Mrs. Winston said, her hand on the rail as another woman assisted her down the stairs. “You do not look well, either. Please, sit down in the parlor. I will be along shortly.”

“Before I do—Were you the one to retain your marriage license? Do you have it?”

“I do, yes. Winston—that is to say, the man I knew as Winston—left it behind when he left. Why is the matter so urgent that it causes you this kind of distress?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Do you have pen and paper that I might use?”

“Of course, but you are confusing me a great deal at the moment,” she said, her hand on her back as she crossed toward him. “Will you not explain what you mean by all this? You’re going to make my aunt so cross she’ll bar you from the house.”

“Violet, kindly do not speak for me. That is not your place.”

Robert took the younger woman’s arm, helping her the rest of the way into the parlor, to the couch she had used the day before. She gave him a slight smile as she sat, trying to make herself comfortable. He imagined that was rather difficult for her these days, as large as her stomach had grown. “Thank you. The license is—Oh. Aunt Beatrice has got your paper.”

He accepted the items, aware that the older woman was frowning at him. He set them upon the table and scrawled his name to the page. Done, he passed it to Mrs. Winston. “Does that look familiar?”

“That is—I fear you must get the license, Aunt Beatrice—but that looks like the way Winston signed everything, including the few notes we exchanged during our courtship. He did tell me he preferred Winston as the name he wanted me to call him, but that was the way all his letters looked before. I had thought perhaps your way of signing it was intentional, a means of furthering the lie I thought it was at first.”

Robert shook his head. “In most of my correspondence, I sign my letters the way I did the ones I wrote to you. For bank drafts and other more important documents, I sign with my full name, as you see it there.”

Her aunt gave him the paper, and he sighed as he saw it. “Damn.”

“Mr. Winston!”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, taking the paper back from Mrs. Winston and holding both of them out to her aunt. “Still, I fear you must agree that it looks very much like I signed that license.”

“So it does,” the older woman agreed. “What are you going to do about it, then?”

Author’s Note: I was dwelling a bit on the word for Sunday Scribblings, sharp, thinking I could use it for both of my possible serials. I thought it fit rather well with each of them, but perhaps more so with the fantasy than this historical fiction. It still works, though.

Since the website’s remodel is not yet complete, there’s still time for people to pick one or both of these serials as a permanent one on the site. There’s more information here.

Robert kept the woman braced against him, wishing that he had been able to make their first meeting easier, if only for her sake. He had seen some of what he admired so much about her letters—a frankness and forthrightness as well as a strength that surprised him under her present circumstances. She should be in bed, that seemed undeniable, but she had been able to meet him and had spoken with him with candor, not shying away from the unpleasant or awkwardness of their conversation. She had been all sorts of things that he thought should serve her well and see her through her current crisis. If he had thought he needed to come in as some sort of hero in a novel, rescuing a damsel in distress, he would have no one to rescue.

True, her circumstances were far from ideal, but she seemed to have all of that under control at present, and that control was considerable from someone so small—well, that stomach of hers was far from small—but overall she was rather petite. Her scent matched her name, like a gentle summer breeze carrying the hint of a garden, of violets and more, and he wondered if she’d done that on purpose.

“I know I asked you before, but do you need a doctor?”

She grimaced. “Please do not say that so loudly. My mother would take you up upon it in an instant, and I do not want to be fussed over further. It is true that I feel poorly, but I have ever since my condition presented itself. It is as if it cannot stand acting as though it were not my conscience, stabbing me over with many sharp pains.”

He looked at her. “I don’t understand. The man did present himself as single and honorable, and he did marry you. What have you done that is so terrible?”

“I was a fool, wasn’t I?” She asked, opening her door. She pushed it open and hesitated in the doorway. “Thank you very much for your assistance. I do believe I shall make it to my bed alone, and I would—that is—I do not feel comfortable letting you into my bedroom, even if I cannot possibly be… Well, I am not appealing in this state, nor would I think that you—oh, heaven. Listen to me being so ridiculous.”

“I do not know that you can consider it ridiculous. You know very little of me, and I do believe I may have misspoken when I said that you are… That is, he did use my name, and there might be others who would think that… entitled them to something from you.”

She nodded, reaching to place a hand on her back. “I do hope you maintain that opinion. I do not want to create any difficulties between us—and I rather hope there is something that can be done if you do find Winston. I did not want to hear of him doing this to any other woman. Imagine if he went about ‘marrying’ all of them with a false name. That is… horrible.”

“He should be the one getting the sharp pains.”

“I doubt his conscience troubles him any.”

Robert nodded. Any man that could steal another’s name and use it to defraud everyone, including one woman to the point of marriage, to impregnating her and abandoning her, that sort of man could not have a conscience. If he had, he would never have done any of it. “You are right.”

“I wish I had not been so… blind. That I had seen what he was and not fallen for his charm. He seemed so sweet—not cunning or cruel—but how can he not have been all those things?”

“I do not know,” Robert told her. He did not think that he could explain it as anything other than a malicious act. “There is some possibility that this Winston of yours was genuinely in love with you, that he did not intend to leave you, but that seems unlikely.”

She closed her eyes. “That is what cuts the deepest, you know. It is not so much that I am in this condition or that I have been betrayed, but the idea that he came here always intending to do so… That I let myself be a part of that, that I was so stupid and foolish, that I lost all practical sense…”

Robert wished that he had some kind of comfort to give her, but he could summon no words of wisdom, could find nothing to help her. Her pain was raw and visible, all over her face and her posture, and he was more helpless now than he had been when he was dragged to the field hospital. “I think you should lie down now. That was the idea behind getting you up these stairs after all.”

She looked at him. “Yes, of course it was. Thank you again.”

He forced a smile, backing away so that she could take those final steps by herself. “I… I have no right to ask this, but did… did you love him?”

She stopped, leaning against the bedpost. “I thought I did. It is strange how quickly love can sour under the circumstances. Had he stayed, perhaps the illusion would have lasted longer. Since he left me, it has faded into nothing more than another one of my many pains. Time, I think, will continue to dull that one, though I fear I cannot ever be allowed to forget.”

The child would be a living reminder of everything when it came. Robert nodded. “I am sorry.”

“For what? None of this was your doing.”

“I keep thinking there was a reason why he used my name among all of those that he could have chosen, and if that is true, then I must in some way be responsible for it. Even just the use of my name in such a way…”

“You are not him. You proved that when you walked in the door.”

He smiled at her words, but he could not take comfort in them. She had her pains, and he had his. He would not be able to deny the way he felt any more than she did, and he could not escape the feeling that nagged at him, the one that told him that he should have been able to prevent this somehow, that he could have spared her if only he had stopped this man before he got to her. He had tried to explain it, but the more that he thought about it, the more he thought that someone had done this to punish him, not her, and she was caught in the middle of a horrible game that she didn’t even know she was in. He should know, should be able to say who hated him that much, but he did not know.

He would find out, though. That was the only way to satisfy the sharp pangs of his conscience.