21 | To the River

                                    

                                          
Lorraine
MY HUSBAND IS wrapped in a peaceful sleep, his heavy arm draped around my slight shoulders, securing me in the crook of his arm, his large hand placed upon my swollen belly like a shield.
His eyelids are fixed shut, his wide chest rising and falling with every calm breath. Delicately etched lines travel across his face, underneath his eyes, tugging at the corners of his noble-looking nose.
A slight movement in the heavy velvet curtains prompted by the wind produces a glimmer of light, traversing across my husband's face. 
All at once, I want to take him in my arms and kiss him, but am repulsed by the malignant secret that lies beneath his soft, now shut, caramel brown eyes. 
Even though we have been married now for months, I still find it strange, living with a man I hadn't met just a year ago. 
Though when we were first wed, I had not known the pleasure of marriage, now our beings have combined to become one: our souls and lives tangling to serve one grand purpose.
Persistent sleep pools in my own weary eyes, but my racing thoughts refuse to allow me the liberty of succumbing to the sweetness of slumber. 
The letter I discovered has been nagging at my mind, a painful reminder of my fears and insecurities about Emma and Michel. 
I have attempted to detangle the pain woven into the flesh of my stomach with prayer, but to no avail. 
To make matters worse, it appears the worry has gnawed at my body, causing decay and aches in my bones and unparalleled discomfort. 
Should I not trust him? Michel told me he loved me, that I should not worry about his deceased wife. 
My husband is so easy to trust when he is asleep, his beautiful, soft face as still and serene as a newborn baby.
What if Emma isn't dead at all? What if Michel has been lying to me this entire time? And, if she is alive, where is she now?
I clench my hands on the woven patchwork quilt, burying my hair in my lap as I muffle my unspoken cries. 
Perhaps I am delusional to have believed that Michel could love me, a young beggar girl, while he is a Doctor from one of the wealthiest families in Paris. He is educated, and deliberate in his actions, whereas I am none of these things. He has never known the groan of an empty stomach or the skeleton-thin, gaping walls of a Paris tenement. He has never known the fear of childbirth that now pesters me like a curse in the dim of the morning and the still of the night.
I cannot fathom the possibility of my husband, the man to whom I have given my whole being, my entire soul, is hiding something important from me, his wife, and the expectant mother of his child. 
Regardless of whether I am a suitable wife, he has married me, and so he owes me his steadfast loyalty.
I squirm from Michel's brawny arms, prying myself from him.I bristle at the upheaval of his warmth, which had been permeating my flesh as I pretended to sleep. 
I step into my riding cloak and boots, throwing my long golden hair back and massaging the nagging exhaustion from my weary, sleepless eyes and sore temples. 
Though Michel had Abigail make the riding cloak for me, it still falls down past my ankles. 
I clutch a hand to my belly, gazing at my reflection in the mirror. 
A swollen, rounded bulge has spread beneath the linen fabric, evidence of the child growing within me. 
When Michel informed me of my pregnancy, I had been enthralled with joy.