A Twist of Fate

Perhaps there would be some who would wonder why she, pregnant, would go to London to have her child alone. And yet, it was a thing few would wonder on long and none would voice their wonder aloud, knowing her will. Given time enough, they would forget her strange whim-especially if they looked at the child. He was gorgeous, and his eyes seemed something taken from heaven, flashes of Promethean flame. They would think nothing so strange then, she thought, as she looked down fondly on the child who wasn't hers.

It was the strangest twist of fate that when Catherine found herself most alone, she should find this gift. It was her hope to leave Aberdeen, the better to hide her loss, to mourn it in private. She had lost the child before it had even wrought those happy changes on her form, and yet the changes it had wrought upon her senses were most keenly felt. Unkindest of all, with the loss of the child, she knew she would lose even further the affections of the man who even now was probably carousing away her fortune in France-or wherever in the world he would be when not in her arms. Better she not be discovered, unchanging, needing to admit to her unhappiness-better she be able to tell them of her loss in her own time, and on her own terms.

And now, it would seem she need not tell anyone at all-a child was expected, and so, she produces one, and that would be the end of that. Why would anyone suppose this child born of anyone but herself? Unless it were that he were too perfect-a perfectly lovely child.

Very few things in this world were perfect, she mused, brushing her hand against the fuzzy head of the sleeping child. Perhaps the dreams of a sleeping babe were perfect-sleep was a world apart from the world in which she lived. Her man, once thought to be perfect, was not. His life adrift, he refused to let her be his anchor-and now she herself felt pulled and tossed about in his wake. For all he took from her, he gave so little-even the child he gave was taken-

The child stirred-so plump and healthy! Even when she first picked him up from the basket in which he'd lain, he struggled against her touch, as if she held him too firmly. He would surely be an independent lad. Indeed, he'd seemed so robust she thought it a glamour at first-how could there be such spirit in an abandoned child? Anxiously, she'd watched the face of that doctor who looked him over at her insistence, wondering what he saw that she did not (surely there was something in that face-she knew the look of a man who was not telling all he knew!). He pronounced the boy fine-better than fine, but still she was not sure. At her further insistence, he became more rude and even ordered her out! The very nerve! Surely she'd never find a use for that man again-Adams, Atkins, whatever his name was.

She felt the warmth from the baby's body in her fingertips as she once again surveyed him. Strong-even though so small, fragile and helpless now. Soon enough he would be a man. Soon enough he would leave her. Oh, but not for now. Right now, her foundling needed her-but something wasn't right. She needed a child-she found this tiny, pretty creature. Was it not too perfect?

Her hand ran down the boy's leg, and the child woke and squalled. The sound stirred her, paralyzing her. What was it a mother heard in her own child's cries? Was there not a secret there-a language between the two? And yet the sound of this child's wail only made her heart pound. It was terrible, and incomprehensible, and all she could hear was pain. If it were the pain of his loneliness and abandonment, perhaps that much she could understand, for in his tiny wizened baby's face he already seemed an old man, even as she herself felt old inside.

And yet he cried out just as her hand had touched his leg-his little foot. Why would he cry out then? Unless, perhaps there were some defect there-something the doctor had not detected? (Or was there something there the doctor had?) She gripped the small extremity in her hand, firmly, even as the child's weak kicks attempted to loosen her grasp-and then she did hear a wail of pain. Her fingers probed, even as her face went white and a thousand mad musings occurred to her, and then she drew her hand away. She stared, unsure of what she'd done, or what she'd seen, and then it was made clear.

It was misshapen, that was all-misfortunate, she told herself. Perhaps it was slight enough that it could have been overlooked. Yes, that was why the doctor never noticed. The deformity only waited for her hand to uncover it-and whose hand was better? Was she not his mother after all?

The child wailed louder still, and then she thought to comfort the child, lifting him to her chest. How terrible it was that nothing was ever perfect! But oh, how he would need her vigilance and strength, now! She held the squirming child fast, and placed her lips against his silky curls, whispering to him. Singing. Of course she would seek out the best care for him-the very best.

It was, after all, such a lucky twist of fate that they had found each other, was it not?

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