Chapter Text
December 25, 1813
Summer persisted well into October, when nature seemed to remember itself and set the countryside ablaze in an afternoon, a state in which it remained for scarcely a month before the first winds of winter came bitter and cold and, not one week after their return to Chatsworth, sent what little color still remained floating down the Derwent. The view from their bedroom window had remained much unchanged since then, that tenth of November, when the moors of Derbyshire had been covered in a blanket of snow that made ground indistinguishable from sky in the low light of morning and left only the river, whose waters had thus far resisted freezing, to stand out amongst the sea of grey.
This morning was no different. Hange watched from the comfort of the bed as a flock of robins, no doubt those that had greeted the dawn with her, took flight, sending snow tumbling from branches into the river where it churned its way downstream with the rest of the icy water.
She rolled over, sighing as her only source of entertainment faded into the distance, and pulled the blankets up to her nose, staring listlessly up at the canopy. Sleep would not reclaim her - she had resigned herself to that fact days ago, when it had become clear that a week of peace was not enough to break a routine that had been forged over two months of misery - but neither did she wish to abandon the warmth of the bed so soon. The clock in the hall still had yet to chime a reasonable hour and she had hoped that on this, their first Christmas married, they might steal a few quiet moments alone before they rose to face the chaos that family and festivities would bring.
She glanced at the man fast asleep beside her, curled up in a pile of blankets that slowly rose and fell with his breathing. But she did not wish to wake him to do so. With another sigh she wriggled deeper beneath the sheets, turning her attentions once more to frosted window panes and the stagnant landscape that lay beyond.
Winter was an odd beauty, cold and harsh and elegant, but a beauty nonetheless, and it was easy to see how countless poems had been wrought from sights such as these; verses that lauded the stillness of early morning, the transcendent calm of finding oneself alone in the world with nothing but the wind and the trees and the promise of sun. Hange could not say she had ever shared the poets’ sentiments, finding such quiet far more boring than serene, but she supposed these past months had forced upon her a sort of begrudging appreciation for such things. For this stillness had become her loyal companion, the anchor that had kept moored the last vestiges of her sanity when storms of dizzying nausea and violent heaving had roused her in the smallest hours of morning. It was still boring, of course, but in the aftermath of such tumult, boredom had a way of becoming more soothing than bothersome, a welcome chance to gather one’s thoughts, or perhaps forget them altogether. This morning, she wasn’t sure which she needed more.
Levi shifted beside her, drawing her from her thoughts with a start as he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close, his hair tickling her neck as he rested his head on her shoulder. She froze. She hadn’t expected him to stir so soon. He dropped his face to the crook of her neck with a long, drawn out groan, falling silent for just long enough that for one brief, hopeful moment she thought he might have fallen back asleep, but then he sighed, breath tickling her skin as he muttered a muffled “good morning” against her collarbone.
Her eyes remained fixed on the canopy, the meticulously stitched olive branches mocking her as she contemplated the likelihood of successfully feigning sleep. Abysmally low. And fairly pointless. She would be no more ready in an hour than she was now. Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach she took a deep breath and turned to press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Happy Christmas,” she whispered into his hair. “And happy birthday. You’re up early.”
His eyes blinked slowly open, squinting as the first light of morning reflected bright off the snow.
“No earlier than you,” he murmured, voice thick from sleep. “Are you alright?”
“I’m alright,” she reassured him with a wan smile, carding her fingers through his hair and brushing it out of his eyes. “You can go back to sleep, if you would like.”
He ignored her offer, tilting his face up toward hers. “You weren’t ill?”
She shook her head.
“How long is that now?”
“Just over a week,” she murmured. “I believe Dr. Rutledge was right, the worst has passed.”
“Good.” He nodded stiffly. “Good. I’m glad.” He frowned and rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to send for a different doctor?”
She snorted softly even as her heart began to hammer in her chest. Right to it then. “I’m sure. I have full confidence in Dr. Rutledge’s abilities.”
He pursed his lips. “I’m glad one of us does.”
“He was here nearly every day to check on me,” she reminded him, suppressing the amusement that bubbled up despite her nerves, “and there was truly nothing more he could have done.”
“So he says.”
“And he’s correct.”
Levi dropped his forehead to the mattress with a muffled groan. It was far from the first time they’d had this conversation, with it becoming an increasingly frequent topic in the weeks since she’d first fallen ill, but Levi had taken no comfort in her nor the doctor’s repeated assurances, only growing more insistent, more worried, as time went on. “How do you expect me to believe that when he couldn’t even tell us what was wrong?”
She swallowed hard. That, too, had been a favorite question of his, one she had brushed aside for weeks by asking him to simply trust her judgment. Each time he had acquiesced and each time she felt the little ball of guilt in her chest grow alongside his dark circles, a reminder that while Dr. Rutledge may have advised her as such, it was ultimately her who withheld the information that might have soothed his fraying nerves. But no longer.
“Because,” she murmured cautiously, gently cupping his face and tilting it up to hers once more, “he might not have told you, but he told me.”
Something akin to hurt flashed across Levi’s face, quickly replaced by fear, and he bolted upright. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She lifted herself up to face him, working to keep her voice steady even as a pit formed in her stomach. “I wanted to, but Dr. Rutledge advised against it, until we were absolutely certain -”
“What?” Levi hissed before she could finish. “What kind of doctor -” He stopped and took a breath, reaching for her hand and softening his tone. “Just tell me. What is it? Are you going to be alright?”
“Yes! Yes. I’m alright. I’m going to be alright.” She grimaced. Best not to make promises she couldn’t keep. “Probably.”
“Probably?!”
“I-” She took a breath and squeezed his hand, trying for a wry smile. She wasn’t quite sure she managed it. “As natural a process as childbirth may be, it is not without its dangers. So yes, probably.”
His hand went slack in hers. “Did you say childbirth?”
She nodded and his eyes grew wide.
“You’re… you’re with child?”
“That is typically the state which one must be in to experience childbirth, yes.” One corner of her mouth lifted in a half-hearted smirk as she took his still-limp hand and laid it between her hip bones.
He barked a watery laugh of disbelief as he splayed his palm across the small bump that had begun to form there. “How long?”
“Since Weymouth I suspect.” A grin spread across his face, her own rising to mirror it as memories flooded back, making heat rise to her cheeks and settle deep in her gut even now; days full of swimming and sun and copious amounts of oysters that ended in their rooms with salty air on bare skin as they made love with windows thrown open to the sea. She was certain it was one of those nights that was to blame for her condition and all the miseries that had come with it.
“September?” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know myself for a while,” she rushed to explain. “And then I was told to wait to tell anyone, even you, until there could be no doubt.”
“And there’s… no doubt?”
She chewed on her lip as she nodded. “Just a few days ago. I felt her move.”
His eyes lit up, mouth falling open as he searched her face in mute wonder, and she felt a sense of acute relief when he cupped her cheek and crushed his lips against hers, clumsy and exuberant.
“Wait,” he murmured when he finally pulled away. “Her? How do you know?”
“I don’t really,” she admitted. “A guess.” Once she had grown used to the idea, it had felt wrong to refer to the child growing within her as an ‘it’, and the few married women on staff, who had recognized all too well the changes in both her habits and body, had been more than happy to offer their thoughts on the matter. The first born Ackerman is always male, been that way for centuries, Mrs. Taylor had confidently assured her one evening when Hange had ventured down to the kitchens for something to eat. Not this one, Mrs. Potter had argued. I ain’t seen a woman as sick as Your Grace since her late ladyship was expectin’ the young Lady Mikasa. This one’s a girl. Even Hannah, young as she was, had chimed in. Me mum ate salt like a horse to have each o’ me brothers. She’d pointed to the anchovies that Hange had come to crave . Don’ see why it won’ work for Your Grace too. Mrs. Potter, Hange had decided, seemed the most reasonable voice on the subject.
Levi nodded, staring down at the hand that caressed her abdomen for a moment before leaning down and replacing his hand with his lips. “Well, whatever you are,” he murmured against her belly, “you need to start being nicer to your mother.”
“Dr. Rutledge assured me my illness was a good sign,” she murmured, lips twitching even as her chest warmed. “It means she’s strong. And at any rate, it appears to have passed now.”
He sat back up, expression sobering. “What else did he say? Surely there are things you’re supposed to be doing. Should you be working as much as you have? You know Mrs. Taylor will be happy to take over the household management, she’s done it before-”
Hange snorted and held up a hand to halt his rapidly spiraling train of thought. “Levi, I am with child, not consumption. Dr. Rutledge advised me to simply continue on as normally as possible. I am to take short walks and cool baths and drink chamomile tea, but beyond that he has said little else. But I promise that I have been resting when I need to.”
“Right.” He gave a curt nod. “Alright. Good. That’s good.”
She searched his face, the gnawing in her stomach returning as she watched his brow furrow and his eyes begin to dart frantically back and forth across the bedspread. “You’re not upset?”
“Upset?” He glanced up, looking almost offended as he reached out to take her hands in his once more. “Why would I be upset? I’m thrilled, Hans.”
“B-because,” she sputtered, “I didn’t tell you for… for weeks. You were worried sick. I thought for sure you’d be cross with me.”
He scoffed a laugh. “Frankly, I think I’m just relieved to hear you’re not on death’s door. And I do understand that there is a certain degree of… secrecy to these things. But ,” he added pointedly, eyes dancing even as he fixed her with a stern look, “next time you must tell me as soon as you suspect. Even if you’re wrong. I would rather that a hundred times over than ever be that scared again.”
She felt a grin spread across her face and she nudged him playfully. “Next time? Let me have this one first.”
He pursed his lips. “You know what I mean.”
“I know,” she murmured, bringing a hand up to cup his face. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I worried you.”
He grinned, sliding closer to lower his forehead to hers. “I suppose you’re forgiven.” His lips found hers again, slow and searching, as if waiting for her to pull away, but she didn’t. Despite her condition, her body seemed to ignite at his touch in a way it hadn’t in weeks, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with that now familiar desire to divest the both of them of the entirety of their clothes. She ran her hands down his chest, his arms, grasping the cloth of his shirt and trying to pull him closer, but he would not budge, his own hands moving gingerly, as if she were made of glass.
With an exasperated sigh she pulled away, ignoring the sudden draft of cold air that hit her skin as she threw back the blankets and slung a leg over his, settling into his lap.
He smirked up at her, hands cautiously coming to rest on her hips. “I thought you wanted to have this one first?”
“Yes, yes, you’re very clever,” she intoned with a wave of her hand, dipping her lips back down to his and beginning to tug at his shirt. “Now stop being difficult and indulge your wife.”
He pulled back. “Are you sure? Is it safe? Are you feeling well enough?”
She nodded. “I have not been warned against it.”
“But Rutledge did not explicitly say it was alright?” he prodded.
“Well,” she murmured, pausing her efforts to untie his collar to stare down at him, lips pursed. “I did not exactly think to ask.”
“Perhaps we should wait until his next visit then.”
“Levi,” she grumbled impatiently, “you have not touched me for two months because of a condition that, may I remind you, is entirely your fault, and I am going to lose my mind if you wait a moment longer.”
He shot her a cheeky grin. “I see no reason to take the risks of… congress If you are already with child.” She frowned. “ But ,” he continued on before she could protest, sliding his hands under to chemise to grasp at her bare thighs, “I do not suppose that means we cannot partake in other ways. If you are amenable.”
She smirked, dipping her head once more. “For you?” she murmured against his lips. “I’m always amenable.”
May 20, 1814
“I swear on all that is good and holy, you are never touching me again,” Hange bit out through gritted teeth and Levi’s heart stuttered as another scream echoed off the walls.
He wanted nothing more than to take Rutledge by the shoulders, to shake him and shout at him to do something, to help her goddammit, but he held his tongue, lest the man make good on his promise to remove disruptive husbands from the birthing chambers.
“Whatever you want, Hans,” he choked out instead.
Daylight spilled in from the open window, shining off the sweat that drenched Hange’s brow. It seemed an eternity ago now that he had watched the sun set from this very spot. Hange had been in good spirits then, animatedly detailing everything they might expect from the birth as she paced the room with her mother and taking only the occasional pause to brace herself against the furniture, a sign her labors were certain to be quick and easy.
Or so he’d thought. Within the hour she’d lost the ability to remain upright, taking deep hissing breaths from an evermoving rocking chair until, just after midnight, she’d found herself unable to do even that, and he’d helped her hobble to the birthing bed where he watched her slowly descend into a state of delirious agony that left her sprawled limply amongst the pillows and sheets.
Unwilling to leave her side, he’d watched her lay there half the night, too tired to do much more than whimper and in too much pain to truly sleep, managing brief moments of lucidity that came fewer and farther between as the hours passed until, just before dawn, her whimpers became near constant and the nurse sent Lady Braus to fetch the doctor from the guest chambers. Whimpers soon turned to miserable groans, punctuated by screams and curses, his mother-in-law trying to quell his panic by assuring him that this was entirely normal, that the pain meant it was almost over, but this seemed the furthest thing from normal. It seemed like torture.
Hange moaned once more, adjusting her grip on Levi’s hand as the nurse repositioned her knee further up against her chest.
“It’s alright, dearest. Just keep breathing.” Lady Braus wiped the sweat off her daughter’s forehead with a cool cloth and Levi watched Hange’s chest rise and fall deeply. “That’s it, just like that.”
Hange sucked in another breath and let out a low, guttural moan, squeezing his hand so hard his eyes began to water, but he only clenched his jaw against it. After an agonizing moment, her grip loosened, and she slumped against the back of the birthing bed, chest heaving, eyes still screwed shut.
Dr. Rutledge spoke up from the foot of the bed. “The head is out, Your Grace. Now I need one more strong push from you.”
Relief washed over him and he brought her fingers to her lips, kissing each of them one by one. “You hear that Hans? You’re nearly there.”
“Make it stop,” she murmured, near unintelligibly. Glassy eyes struggled to stay open, staring up at nothing in particular as if her pleas were meant to be heard by God and God alone. “Please. I cannot - I cannot keep going.”
Her mother leaned over her, wiping away the hair plastered to her neck as she spoke into her daughter’s ear. “You can. You must. It is almost over darling, I promise.”
Hange gave no indication that she had heard, eyes fluttering shut. They didn’t open. He counted his heartbeats, one, two, ten times, but still she did not stir. Ice flooded his veins.
Just as he opened his mouth to shout, to scream, to do something , her fingers regained their vice-like grip on his, her face scrunching in pain as she let out another horrible groan. He could have cried, hardly aware of the pain in his hand as she slumped back against the pillows, eyes tired but open. Alive.
A cry split the air and he blinked, looking to the foot of the bed where Rutledge sat, holding a scrunched, purple infant, covered in blood and God only knew what else. His whole body sagged, a noise that was half laugh and half sob escaping his lips as he held Hange’s hand to his forehead.
“You have a daughter, Your Grace.”
He looked up in time to watch the nurse lay a small bundle in Hange’s arms. She looked near tears, pulling her hand from his to cradle it - her - against her chest, and he leaned over to watch as she pulled the top of the blanket away, revealing a tiny, red, wrinkled thing with fuzzy black hair all over her head.
His throat tightened and he lifted his head, finding Hange’s eyes watering alongside his own. Cupping her face, he brushed away the tear that escaped down her cheek and pressed his forehead to hers.
“You did it, Hans,” he breathed, though it felt wholly inadequate. “You were brilliant.”
She barked out a watery laugh. “I hope I broke at least one of your fingers.”
He grinned. “I think you might have.”
The word ‘good’ was barely past her lips when she began to violently tremble, teeth chattering as if the summer breeze blowing in from the windows had turned suddenly frigid, and he pulled back, looking to Rutledge with wide eyes and pounding heart.
“This is completely normal, Your Grace,” Rutledge assured him as he rummaged about his bag. “Nothing to fear.”
A hand on his shoulder made him turn, looking up with a start to find Lady Braus standing over him with a sympathetic smile before leaning down to speak to her daughter in a low voice he could just barely hear. “Hand her to Levi, darling. You must let us take care of you now.”
Hange gave a hesitant nod and pressed a kiss to the babe’s forehead before allowing her mother to scoop her off her chest, Lady Braus turning to Levi and fixing his arms so that he might hold her securely against him.
The room was suddenly filled with the fluttering of linens and loud whispers as Lady Braus and the nurse fussed over Hange, but he hardly heard what they were saying. He could only sit here, transfixed, for fear that if he so much as flinched he might drop this fragile little thing that Hange had somehow formed within her.
Tiny eyes fluttered open, staring up at him in almost wonder, and something inside of him shattered, his throat constricting as hot tears rose to his eyes. This was their daughter. His daughter. A tiny, helpless thing that he would protect with his life for as long as he lived.
“The duchess is doing just fine, Your Grace.” Levi’s head shot up as Rutledge addressed him. “We must of course wait for the afterbirth but I see no sign for concern.”
He could only nod dumbly, hardly comprehending what had been said. Rutledge was so calm. Could he not feel it? The way the world had shifted on its axis? Lady Braus certainly did, the corners of her eyes watering as she gingerly brushed the hair away from his eyes and gestured to the stool he sat upon. “Why don’t you take this little one for her first turn about the room? Let me tend to my daughter.”
He glanced at Hange who still trembled ever so slightly. “You… you’ll be alright?”
She bit her lip but gave a tentative nod. “Just… stay where I can see you. Both of you.”
He nodded, leaning over to press a kiss to her lips. “Of course, love.”
Holding his daughter close to his chest, he began to move slowly across the floor. He could hear his mother-in-law speaking in hushed tones to Hange, hear the splashes of water from the basin as they began to bathe her, but he did not look up for fear of making one misstep. Cautiously he lowered himself into one of the chairs near the windows, selecting one far enough away that his visions of dropping his newborn daughter into the bushes were quelled, and turned toward Hange just in time for her to shoot him a grin over the back of the birthing bed before her mother gestured for her to lay back down and she disappeared once more.
He held the tiny bundle in his arms tighter against his chest as he turned his body to face the window, carefully shifting her upwards so she might see what he did - the sprawling grounds, green and lush, spotted with the colorful blooms of columbine and buttercup, all covered in morning dew and sparkling in the morning sun.
“Look Abigail,” he whispered, throat suddenly quite tight. “This is your home. One day, it will be yours as it is mine. And you’ll do a wonderful job.”