Francis - Written 21 Nov. 2019
Greshamsbury, Barsetshire, ENG – 30 June, 1833
The Lady Arabella Gresham huffed and sat heavily down on the settee. She thought herself round and plump, and she was correct in her thinking. But even women such as the Lady Arabella can be beautiful, and at this time in her life, as she awaited the birth of her first, she had on that metaphorical veil that thinly masked the expected and pretty glow of motherhood.
She thought nothing of this as she fanned herself and seriously pondered the thought of the child she carried. Whether it were a son or a daughter she knew Frank would be pleased; he thought nothing of what was important it seemed. Arabella, on the other hand, knew what was of import.
She held back a moan as another light wave of pain washed through her. Fillgrave had told her the child would be born within a fortnight; she was inclined to disbelieve him. This may have been her first confinement but hers was a woman’s body, whereas Fillgrave’s was not, and the Lady knew the time was drawing close.
The pain quieted and ceased for the moment. Arabella allowed herself a deep inhalation, a ghost of a sigh, as the feeling passed.
A son was needed, and she would birth a son. The matter was so simple to her that the oldest of mothers would have been surprised at her lack of nervousness and her presumptiveness in regards to her current confinement and all that it entailed.
The Lady Arabella was no ordinary woman, and she would let no one be forgetful of that fact.