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I gave up my reputation as an anti-monarchist. I gave up my job as a writer of scathing articles full of criticism. He gave up his title of prince, his position in his family, and all the status and privilege that come with it.
And what we gained? Well, it’s priceless. We gained a child, each other, and the promise of true happiness.
So, when I’m twenty weeks pregnant we move to a country estate not too far from the Velly watermill. When I stand in the small drawing room on the eastern side of the house, I can just see the big wheel poking over the trees, a reminder of where this journey started.
Two weeks after we move in, Silas greets me at the door when I get back from my daily visit to my mother at the nursing home. He slips his hand into mine and leads me down the hallway on the ground floor toward the back of the house.
My eyes widen when we cross the threshold into what can only be described as a self-contained apartment, complete with all the handrails and easy-access features that make independent movement for people with disabilities possible.
“I was thinking we could save you the trip into town every day and ask your mother if she’d like to live here,” he says softly, eyes on mine. “That is, if you think she’d be able to handle the move.”
My heart flips. I clasp my hands to my breast, eyes immediately full of tears. “When did you do this?”
“Before we moved in,” he admits. “I was just waiting on the bed to be delivered, but there were delays with the suppliers. That’s why I had to wait until now to show you.”
“This door was locked when we moved in,” I say, eyes wide, looking at the door leading out to the hallway. “You told me it was a closet. I knew there was a whole corner of the house I hadn’t seen.”
“White lie.” He grins. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
My heart inflates so much it’s hard to breathe. This is just one more piece of the puzzle that Silas waved away with a magic wand. I touch the chain at my neck as I try to get my whirling thoughts under control, looking at every thoughtful detail in the room that will be my mother’s. “She’ll love it.”
“We can wait to move her if you want. Let her get used to the idea of you being married.”
“She had a good day at the wedding,” I say, remembering the way my mother laughed, how there was no confusion or forgetfulness from her. “Maybe being out here will be good.”
Silas clears his throat, nudging his toe against the wooden floor. “I was thinking one thing that would make the transition easier is to have the same nurses take care of her. If you wouldn’t mind them living down here at least part of the time.”
I laugh, wrapping my arms around my husband. “Yes, yes I’d like that very much.”
“Good, because Rhea has already moved some of her things in.” He grins, touching his lips to mine before sliding his hand over my stomach. He drops to his knees and lays a soft kiss on my abdomen before resting his forehead against it.
I tangle my fingers into his hair and let out a long sigh, knowing my happiness is close to bubbling over.
The next few weeks are a whirlwind, but they’re surprisingly seamless. Mom moves in with us, along with Rhea and one of the other nurses.
I get an offer from the university in Stirling to be a lecturer on political science. I have no idea if Silas pulled any strings to get me that kind of job—one that offers stability and some flexibility while still being in a realm I’m interested in—but when I question him, he denies any involvement.
“You’re brilliant, Jazz. When are you going to realize that? You don’t need me to help you with any of that.” He wraps his arms around me, kissing me softly. “Congratulations.”
So, I accept the offer to lecture at the university in a year’s time. I’m grateful to have something to look forward to, but even more grateful that I can have time at home with Silas and our child.
We decide to wait until our baby born to name him—we wanted to wait to find out the sex, but the nurse let it slip by accident.
Silas’s eyes shine every time he looks at my rapidly-changing body. The first time he feels our son kick, we’re lying on the couch in my favorite sitting room, a room full of soft creams and comfortable, overstuffed furniture. I feel the baby start to move; his movements no longer feeling like little flutters or odd tickles, but real kicks now.
Taking Silas’s hand, I place it on the spot on my belly where I think the baby will kick. We sit there, holding our breath, waiting. I smile as Silas stares at my belly, eyes wide. The seconds stretch on, and on, and on.
“Little bugger stopped moving now,” I laugh. “He knew you were close.”
“Is he afraid of me?” Silas’s brows arch, his face so sad and worried that I can’t help but laugh.
“Of course not.” I tap my belly with a finger, gently, trying to get the baby to kick. Again, a few quick taps, moving around Silas’s hand as it rests on my stomach.
Then, it happens. Our son kicks—hard—right in the center of Silas’s palm. His eyes widen, mouth drops open, and a look of pure love and devotion crosses his face. Tears start filling his eyes, and that’s all I see. My eyes are blurry with my own tears, then, and all I can do is laugh and cry and kiss Silas with all the strength of my emotion.
We have many of those moments together. The baby seems to move a lot more at night, and Silas delights in lying in bed beside me, feeling our son kick and flutter and punch. I’d appreciate some more sleep while my son has a party in my uterus, but hey—a few less hours of sleep in exchange for these moments seems like a fair trade.
When the baby is finally born, it’s the most intense, painful, emotional moment I’ve ever experienced. Silas is there, allowing me to crush his hand while I scream and cry and then feel the most elated, potent emotion of my life.
