Author’s Note: Robert had a long night. He might not have been thinking clearly. I might not have been, either.

“How are you feeling?”

“I think I feel better than you look,” Violet said, rubbing her back and wondering what left him in such a state. He appeared so haggard that she would have thought he’d spent the night drinking, though that would be difficult in a dry town, but then again, a man determined to drink would find a way—and it was not that far to their sister city where alcohol had never been banned. “What happened?”

“Oh, I thought… I thought, that’s what I did. Over and over, all night through, didn’t do anything but think. That left me rather lacking in sleep, and so I suppose I must seem rather… unkempt despite my best efforts to be presentable.”

She shook her head. “Your clothes are in order. You just look as though you are ailing somehow.”

“I rather feel it,” he said, letting out a breath as he sat down. “I’ve been trying to determine what I should do at this point, and I can’t seem to make a decision that I stick to for more than a few minutes. I thought I’d stay and ask others about the man who stole my name, but I am not certain there is much point. If he told them the same stories as the ones he told you, then all I end up doing is repeating what I already know. If I don’t ask them, there’s asking you, but that has been causing you a great deal of grief lately, and I do not want to do that again. I should probably go home. I think there is very little I can do here.”

“Oh.”

She fidgeted, not certain that she liked that idea much, even with the way she’d struggled with every time he claimed one of the stories as his own instead of Winston’s. She didn’t want him to go, but she was also wondering if that might not be for the best. She didn’t know. She was still very confused. She didn’t like this sort of confusion, either. She was sick at heart, sick to her stomach thanks to her child, and she could hardly think, so she felt even worse than she had during the most terrible time of her pregnancy so far.

Oh, she did not think she would survive to see the child born, not with all this strain.

“Violet?”

She looked up, biting her lip. “I am sorry. I did not mean to become distracted. I have been trying to find… Did you put the inn as your address on those letters you sent? Or did you have them sent to your home?”

He frowned. “I… I think I wrote down the inn since I was still expecting to be here, and I didn’t want to send them to my home just to have someone interfere with them. I would not trust my father with them, not with the way he had opened other letters of yours and thought this matter could be ignored. Any response I got might never reach me if I had it sent home first.”

“So then you have to wait here to get it? Or can you have them send it on to you when you are back home?”

“That is another delay on the information that has already taken long enough to acquire.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I cannot leave immediately, though I might have been tempted.”

She let out a breath, not sure that she dared be relieved by the idea of him staying. She shouldn’t be. She should be bothered by it, shouldn’t she? She did not know anymore. “The cook wasn’t fooled by the tomatoes, was she?”

He laughed. “Well, she shouldn’t have been, but there was a commotion that day because of the rat—that had nothing to do with me, I swear—and so by the time she got to baking the pie, she didn’t know her right hand from her left. That poor woman. She hated me so much… I remember I ran off to find some strawberries to replace the ones that I’d switched with tomatoes and—”

“Oh, this must be worse than the rest of it. What did you find? A poisonous plant?”

He smiled. “No, I didn’t. I did know what most of those were, at least. No, I went all the way into town, went to the market, bought as many of those beautiful little strawberries I could find and come to find out later that they are raspberries and that I am allergic to them. Oh, the cook liked that, I can assure you. She became a true master at baking anything and everything with raspberries in it.”

Violet found herself laughing. She shouldn’t find this so amusing, but she did. “What about the tomato pie?”

“You should have seen my father’s face. I wish I’d had a camera just then, but then you’re supposed to hold still for that, and he’d never have allowed such a violation of his dignity. He doesn’t much care for cameras. Mother adapted to that better than he did. She’s the one who insists on having them instead of painted likenesses of us all. I think my father would like to burn them all someday, but he is too vain to destroy his own face.”

“It’s not much of a face.”

Robert frowned. “You haven’t seen my father.”

She grimaced. “I… Winston showed me a picture of his father once. I suppose I don’t know if that man was even his father. I don’t know anything about him. He wasn’t your father, though, and I don’t know why I said that. I know better.”

“Sometimes it must be very hard to tell us apart.”

She lowered her head. “Yes, it is. It has been so much harder than I thought it would ever be. You do not look that much alike or sound that much alike, but with those stories he stole from you… I don’t know what to do.”

“I can go. I had come only to tell you that I was going—”

“You’re not, though. You decided not to go.”

“I… Yes, I suppose I am staying, but that doesn’t mean I have to stay here bothering you.”

“You are not bothering me.”

“I’m not?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Author’s Note: So, in thinking of Sunday Scribblings’ prompt of “resistant,” I thought about Violet’s struggles with her emotions, with what she fears and what she needs to know even if it is not what she wants to hear, and how she continues to resist the urge to give in and give up. I thought this fit it with that as well, since she keeps forcing herself to face what she wants to avoid.

“I… I am glad that you wanted to see me this morning,” Robert said, his throat tight as he did. He did not know how to fix what had happened yesterday, could not go back and lie to her, though he had considered it. If he told her that his story was not the same as the one her “husband” had told her, then she would not be so upset, but he could not do it. He could not lie about it. That was his story. He had not slept, not when his mind could not stop searching for the answer to why that man had stolen his name and stories from his childhood. He had tried to go through each and every boy he’d known when he was younger, but he knew of no one that resembled the photograph, nor did they look at all like him so as to pass for him to someone not well acquainted with him.

He did not understand, but he knew that he had to keep searching, and if he was going to do that, he hoped to have more assistance from her. The more he knew of what that other man had told her, the more he would have to narrow down all the possibilities. They had not yet heard from his father’s lawyer or anyone from his regiment—that would take time, time that he knew neither of them felt that they had.

She did not have much longer in her pregnancy, after all, and that would change things a great deal for her, for everyone.

“I am not so certain that you should be pleased,” Violet said, not looking up from her hands. She twisted them over her stomach, her voice betraying her anxiety as much as those small movements did. “I… I know I said that I did not want to know all the things that he had lied about, all that he had stolen from you, all those stories, but then I was thinking… I think I must know what was him and what was not. I need to know how much he stole from you as much as you do.”

“I… This will not be easy for you, and I do not want you to think that you have to. I should never have pushed you for so many details—”

“It would seem undeniable that he knows you somehow. If he does, if all we find agrees with that assumption, then you will be able to find him because you will have to know how he learned all these things of you. You will have to know.”

Robert frowned. “As much as I want to believe that, I have not been able to think of anyone near my age who would have been close enough to know these intimate details of my family—no friends, no relatives, and no neighbors. I cannot find any reason why a stranger would know these things, though.”

She let out a breath. “I suppose there are other possibilities. Perhaps it was a coincidence, since we did not discuss all the details of what you did to the beehive or what he did. Perhaps if you did tell that tale, then we might know whether or not it was something he learned of you or something he did or simply something he decided made a good story.”

“Very true,” Robert said, going over to kneel down next to her. “This is hurting you too much already. You do not have to do this.”

Her head lifted, and her eyes met his. “No, I do, because the other possibility… That is that you are lying, and I need to know that you are not.”

Robert cursed. She flinched when he did, and he sighed. “I am sorry. I should not have said that, but it is very unpleasant to have you voice those doubts again. I do not care for being mistrusted, especially since I am one of those who were wronged by this man. In some ways, he has stolen more from me than I had ever thought I could lose. I cannot say he wronged me more than he did you, but I did not… Hearing how many details of my life he used for himself is more… I have this strange fear that I am—what if I lose all that is me? What if those memories I thought were mine are not mine? Perhaps the war has had more of an effect on me than I thought it did. Perhaps I am the one who is—”

“I did not mean to make you start doubting yourself. You… He is the liar, not you.”

“How do you know that?”

She lowered her head. “I suppose I don’t, and the more I hear of what he did take from you, the more I know that I never knew him, but at the same time, Robbie… He took your stories and your memories… That is the part I thought I knew, the part I trusted, and while it is foolish, it is still what I believe. That boy with the beehive was a bit spoiled and foolish, but he is not a bad man.”

Robert placed his hand over hers. “I wish I felt worthy of that kind of sentiment.”

She closed her eyes. “The apples and the horses…”

“Stole a barrel from the kitchen, fed them as many as I could, but was caught because they rotted in my room.”

“The pie.”

“Blueberry or apple? Oh, there was that thing with the strawberry one that—”

“I think I need you to stop again,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “Those… They are all your stories, not his, and I cannot stand to hear them from you right now. I’m sorry. I wish I was stronger, but I am not. I cannot do this.”

He nodded. He admired her for being willing to see him this morning, for talking about this as much as she had, even when it was clear that she did not want to. Truthfully, neither of them wanted to talk about it anymore. He did not want to lose more of his own identity, nor did he want to cause her further pain by taking all the memories she would have held onto, the “good” parts of her courtship and marriage before the man proved false.

“I will go. I do not have to come back—”

“No, we…” She drew a breath, rising, using the strength she didn’t think she had as she faced him. “We can try and talk again, it’s just… I will need more time.”

“Of course. You will have as much time as you need, I promise.”

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “A part of me wishes you were not so nice a man. It makes this that much harder.”

“Violet—”

“Please excuse me, Mr. Winston. I do not feel well.”

Author’s Note: This seemed to flow rather well after the flashback with how Violet met Winston.

“Is something wrong?”

She sighed, looking up from her hands. She did not remember much of walking back to her bench in the garden, and if she’d been lost in her thoughts all that time, she was certain to have worried her companion. That had not been her intention, but her mind had been on Winston a lot over the past few days. He was an impossible subject to avoid. Everything had come about because of his arrival in her life, and even though he was gone, he had left too many marks behind to say he’d been there.

“I’m sorry. My mind went to… I was thinking about the first time that I met Winston.”

“Oh.”

She heard the edge to Robbie’s voice, a sort of sharpness that made her feel worse about her mind’s wanderings. She must seem very rude, perhaps even pathetic, dwelling on memories that had to with the man who’d betrayed them both. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bother you with my recollections or worry you with how they make me feel.”

“It’s…” He let out a breath, shaking his head, and she realized that his disgust was directed at himself. “I almost made a snide comment, actually, and that was not right. You do not deserve that kind of treatment.”

She frowned. What treatment did he mean? Was he thinking the same thoughts as the towns’ gossips? Was that it? “What?”

“A cruel remark about you foolishly thinking it was love the moment you saw him,” he said, wincing as he looked at her face. “I know. That isn’t fair. It was wrong of me to think it.”

She shook her head. “I do not think it was wrong. Given how quickly our courtship progressed, many people thought it must be that way, that we loved each other on sight alone. I did not think that was true—certainly it was inaccurate for our first meeting. I could not hardly see him because of the sun, and I rather made a fool of myself. It would seem that was all I ever did with him.”

Robbie frowned. “Surely your next encounter was not as… the first, or you would not have been willing to see him again.”

She almost laughed. He was right about that much. She would never forget the way that Winston had returned, the way he’d stepped in with a flourish, revealing the bouquet, and how sweet he’d been as he explained his offering. “Oh, no, the next time, he was all smiles and apologies and charm. He brought me flowers to replace those I’d dropped, and… Other than his habit of comparing me to nymphs or sprites, he was quite charming. I liked to hear him speak; he was a fine storyteller. Perhaps that should have warned me, how much I loved his tales. He would tell me of places he’d traveled, but I liked hearing of his childhood best. That is what fooled me into thinking I knew him, how well I could picture his upbringing. It was as though I’d been there to see each moment, sharing it with him as he spoke.”

Robbie gave her a slight smile. “He must have had some great stories if he impressed you. I rather think I should not have managed it. I would be surprised to hear you liked him if he told you the beehive story.”

That one made her smile. She’d laughed the entire time, even if it was not proper. “That, as mother said, was simply a boy being a little boy.”

Robbie stiffened. He rose, moving toward the back of the garden. “That was not how my father saw it. He was very displeased, and I was never allowed honey again because I cost them so much. Not for breakfast, not in tea, never.”

“No,” she whispered, not wanting to believe it. He could not know that tale. That was Winston’s. It had to be. It was not Robbie’s, not again. How could Winston have known something like that, anyway? There was no way, was there? “Tell me that the beehive is not one of your stories, too.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. It is.”

“Was… Did you knock that down with one of your friends, perhaps? Is that it? He said he was alone, but if you weren’t, if you were with another boy, and he saw or helped and—Please. This does not make sense.”

Robbie shook his head. “No. I did it alone, thought it must have become known to all around us when the neighbors learned of our honey shortage. I do not understand, either. My mind must be more damaged than I thought if I cannot remember who he is, if I cannot recognize him. He has such intimate knowledge of my life, so how is it that I know nothing of his?”

She swallowed. “I do not know. I cannot think of any sort of explanation for that. This almost seems like proof of your conviction that he knows you, doesn’t it?”

Robbie came back to her side. “What other tales did he tell? What about the snake? Did he talk about the snake and the minister and—”

“Please stop. I do not want to hear how many more of those stories belong to you and not to him.”

“Violet—”

“No,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. “I am… I cannot do this. I cannot sit here and examine every instance of how I did not know him at all. I should be stronger, but I am not. I cannot bear hearing how I gave my life and my love away to a man that I knew nothing of. I cannot. Do not ask me to do so.”

“Oh, Violet,” Robbie said, reaching up to touch her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about what that meant for you. I was so determined to learn how he could have known these things that I didn’t stop to think of you.”

She closed her eyes, wishing that she’d shut out the tears as well. “I think I shall lie down. Perhaps you can ask your family more of this man, but I… I do not think I can help you again. It… This hurts too much.”

“I understand,” he said, letting his hand drop back to his side. He shifted his feet, looking at her with such guilt that she wanted to tell him it was all her doing, not his, but she couldn’t change how this made her feel. She could not help him again, not now. Perhaps later, but she could not bear it at the moment. “Would you rather that I didn’t come back at all?”

“I… No… That is… Oh, I do not know.”

“I will send a message, then, and if you do not wish to see me, simply say no in reply. I will finish what I can here, and if you change your mind before then, we may meet, but otherwise, I shall most likely return home in the next day or so.”

She nodded. A part of her wanted to beg him to stay, but she would not. She did not know what she was thinking or feeling now, so mixed up and confused and wishing she was anyone but herself. She needed to be somewhere where she could attempt to end this turmoil within her.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning back toward the house, not able to look at him as she left.

Author’s Note: I’ve been meaning to include the first meeting between Violet and her “husband” for a while now. It didn’t end up fitting in before, but I’m going to get it in now.

“You are quite the… nymph, aren’t you?”

Violet looked up at the man who had spoken, shielding her eyes from the sun. She could not make out much more than a silhouette, but she did not need more than that to know that he did not belong here, not for any sort of delivery, nor were they expecting guests. She frowned, not certain how he had managed to get in here in the first place. She could have sworn that she had shut the gate earlier. She was tired of Beatrice lecturing her about it. “Excuse me?”

Mortified, Violet dropped her flowers and rushed into the house, shutting the door behind her as she struggled to compose herself. She didn’t know which was worse—that he might have heard what she’d said or that she’d run away from him. She closed her eyes and waited for the humiliation to fade.

Author’s Note: So I didn’t have this ready before I had to leave today. Now that I’m finally able to sit down with my computer with internet again, I can post this.

“Are there any more of those little sandwiches?”

Robert frowned. She had not been lying when she said that she could eat when she was craving things. He swore she’d been through enough food to feed three people already, and she did not seem close to stopping. He had never seen any woman eat so much, and he should, he thought, be repulsed by it, but instead he found it rather fascinating. His mother had never had any other children, never tried, at least not that he could tell from his parents’ cold and indifferent manners toward each other when they were not hosting some sort of social function. When they were alone, they were worse than strangers—they were the sort of people that he did not want to become, the reason he would not rush to give Violet and the child his name and the “protection” of marriage. He had seen what such arrangements led to, and he did not want to be a part of one. Still, since he lacked any sort of experience with pregnant women—no sister or aunts to educate him in those matters—he found himself paying more attention to everything that Violet did. He could not help the curiosity.

“You ate them all,” her mother said, though she sounded rather pleased. “I will see about getting more, though. Do you need anything, Mr. Winston?”

Robert shook his head. “Oh, no, I ate plenty, and if I forgot to thank the cook, do send her my compliments, but I think it best that I see these letters to the post office now that they are complete.”

“Do you think anything will come of your inquiries?”

“I do not know, Mrs. Carpenter, but I do hope so, since I would like to find the man who stole my name and see to it that there is some sort of repercussion for his actions. I keep thinking that I should know him, and yet he is still a stranger to me. I can think of no one who would extend this kind of malice toward me. I am not perfect, and yet he chose me to malign, and I do not know why. I should, but I do not.”

“Were it not for the way his stories coincide with yours, there would be no reason to think that he knew you at all,” Violet said, turning her hand in circles on her stomach. “He could have picked you at random. Indeed, all he would need is some kind of social register, and he could have your name and those of your family. He would not need to know much more than that since no one here knew you or anyone connected to you. The distance between your home and my was no doubt a reason for his successful deceit. Without it, it might never have worked.”

“Yes, but why pick me? Why go so far as to marry you? Unless…”

Violet sat up, frowning at him. “Unless what, Robbie? What is it that put that look upon your face and made you stop speaking?”

He grimaced. He did not much like the thought, but he supposed he owed her the honesty of voicing it. Concealing it would only lead to trouble and hurt feelings. “I could not help wondering if perhaps the reason for taking my name had to do with… with his social position. If he were from a lower class, if he had no money or connections of his own, he would want to use the name of someone who had both—or so they would assume, since few people realize how little I have of my own or my dependence on my father.”

“And you think that without such a pretense he could not have married me?” Violet shifted in her seat, shaking her head. “I know that it would gall most people, but I had no interest in making any sort of… advantageous marriage. I have only a modest inheritance from my father, and it is nothing to boast over, not the sort that someone should hope to steal. Yet… your idea suggests the possibility that he left before his ruse was uncovered.”

“By whom? I was still across the country, and you said no one here knew him—or me—or anyone by my name, I suppose is the best way to say it.” Robert shook his head. “If that was all he wanted, I do not think he would have left. He stood a greater chance of the deception never being known had he stayed. The only reason that you and are in contact now is because he left you. Otherwise I might never have known that he took my name.”

Violet sighed. “It is a bit foolish to hope that he left for that reason, isn’t it?”

Robert looked at her. He had a suspicion that she still retained some affection for the man despite her words and all her bravery. Perhaps she needed to believe that she had not been completely betrayed. “I would not call it foolish.”

She let out a breath. “I do not know what else you can call it. Oh, Mother, do not bother with the sandwiches. I have lost my appetite again.”

Robert cleared his throat. “I… Would it be better if we adjourned to the garden for a while? Perhaps the fresh air would help.”

“Yes, I think I would like that, actually.”

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.