The Sixth Wife by Suzannah Dunn

evening, conversation had to be minimal.
    On Kate’s other side was Thomas; she separated us. When she and I had arrived in the hall, Thomas – his jacket of cloth-of-gold – had taken her by the hand, laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. He did something similar with his smile, kept it to his eyes so that they sparkled full of it. All he said was, ‘You.’
    And she just smiled, an easier smile.
    To me he said, ‘You’ve already done her the world of good. I knew you would.’
    Kate retired early; she wasn’t long gone when Thomas came up behind me to ask if he could have a word. In private, was the implication. ‘Library,’ he suggested. ‘Follow me,’ and I did so, in silence, anxious not only as to what the problem might be, but also at the prospect of being alone with him, of there being no one else to fill any awkward silences. The library had been prepared for us, or he’d not long ago been in there: there were candles and a fire lit, and a jug of sweet, spiced wine stood with two glasses on a fireside table. He offered me a drink, which I declined, having had enough. He poured himself a glass – his cuffs of lawn so fine as to be mere clouds around his wrists – and we took chairs on either side of the fire.
    ‘So,’ he began, ‘I’m to be a father.’ His face softened but stopped just above a smile, his eyes on mine as if for confirmation.
    A jolt, a burn. ‘She told you.’ No longer our little secret, Kate’s and mine. His smile said, Of course she did . Yes, of course. Of course she did. She was married to him; he was the father of the coming baby. I tended to forget all that.‘It’s early days,’ I warned. Had to. Men don’t understand. Oh, they claim they do – make a show of it, frowning and nodding – but they don’t.
    ‘Yes.’ He seemed keen to defer to me. ‘Yes.’ Then, ‘You weren’t scared, were you?’
    ‘Scared?’
    ‘When you had the boys.’
    Very direct. Which took me by surprise. I’d been braced for silliness. Directness, though: I like it, I can respond to it. This was easy. I said, ‘I was a child, Thomas.’ Meaning that I hadn’t known what it was to be scared. Hadn’t known what there was to be scared of.
    This he warmed to. ‘You were, weren’t you. It’s funny to see you all together: you’re so friendly with them; you could be their sister.’
    ‘Oh’ – don’t worry – ‘I’m very much their mother.’ I added, ‘Boys seem to need a mother so much more than girls do.’
    A breezy, ‘Boy or girl, mine will have the very best.’
    ‘I don’t doubt it.’
    We both smiled, careful. Why, I was wondering, was I here? Was this it? Did he just want to talk to someone about impending fatherhood? ‘You know, come to think of it, I was Elizabeth’s age,’ I said. His smile dissolved in his eyes; he was puzzled, so I had to explain. ‘When I had the boys: Elizabeth’s age, I was.’ Incredible to think it. The same age as that girlish girl who was playing at being grown-up, trying it on for size. She’d rise to it, though, if she had to. ‘And – you see? – Elizabeth’s not scared, is she.’
    ‘Of?’
    ‘Of anything. Is she.’
    He opened his mouth, then closed it.
    ‘Comes later, doesn’t it,’ I said, ‘being scared.’
    ‘Oh, you’re never scared,’ he teased.
    Gone, that directness. He was falling back on an idea of me, a simple one, the usual one. It bores me. I answered him back: ‘Oh, yes, I am. I am scared, sometimes.’
    ‘Not you,’ he tried again, tiresomely.
    ‘I’m scared for those I love.’Thank God, then, that there are so few of them.
    ‘Scared of?’
    I shrugged. ‘Of what could happen to them.’
    He lowered his eyes; he couldn’t argue with that; there was so much that could happen. Then he said, ‘But you’d fight for them.’ For a moment, I thought he’d said ‘pray’: You’d pray for them .
    Which is what anyone else would have said, piously. He was right, though: I’d fight; that’s