Work Text:
January 1790
It was a long day, made even longer by her husband’s absence. Rosalie sat at the window, staring out the dusty thing into the street as she rocked François. She recognized a few people who passed below—neighbors, mostly—but made no move to open the window to call out to them.
The company would be nice, but not worth the cold air in the house with a baby not even three months old.
Besides, she reasoned with herself, Bernard would be home soon enough, and then she’d have her hands full looking after him. It was something of a ritual between them already, anyway: a way to show some care and consideration amidst the chaos of a chaotic world—or at least a chaotic France.
She hadn’t left the house much since giving birth. Surely Bernard would let her if she asked, but truth be told she was afraid to take François out onto a busy public street. She could probably leave him with a neighbor to do the shopping, but the idea made her uncomfortable. The neighbor women laughed at her for it—said she’d get over it soon, or at least by baby number three—but Rosalie was quite sure her hesitation was only natural.
François was young, yet, and still so new to the world; he needed sheltered.
A part of her missed going out for food, but Bernard said tensions were still high, and poverty and hunger far worse than what she could see from the window. It would kill her to face it now, he’d said just a few weeks ago as snow fell softly outside.
As if she had not once been one of the hungry few, herself. As if she had not brushed knees with homelessness.
But she had been lucky. The de Jarjayes had been kind to her despite the fact that she had done nothing to deserve it; for a decade she had lived a life that was not her own.
She missed it, sometimes, in little ways: the comfort of a good meal every evening, with plenty for everyone; Nanny’s strong embrace; a warm fire all winter long. And her old friends, of course, dead and buried six months already.
But that life was behind her, now, a fairytale she felt certain few would ever believe even from her own mouth.
No one else had known her good fortune. The hungry and dying—there were too many now to know where to even begin. Summer and autumn had been difficult for everyone, but winter was its own execution.
Bernard was right; it would hurt to see them and know there was nothing she could reasonably do to help. The three of them were lucky, comparatively. It was rare that they had extra food, but that they had enough of it each week was better than many others had.
And it made her worry, a little, when Bernard was gone. She didn’t know why; he’d navigated Paris with ease all his life. Still, she knew better than anyone how fragile a life was and how easily it might be lost; some part of her feared that he might leave the house and never return, lose his life in exchange for what little he carried in his purse and that she would sit by the window for hours and hours just waiting.
She made herself leave her chair and paced the floor with François in her arms instead, talking to him idly about anything she could think of to pass the time. The weather, a book she read years ago, a color she thought might suit him when he grew old enough for such things to matter.
Then she started on supper, balancing him in one arm when she could, and settling him safely at the back of Bernard’s armchair when she needed both hands. The worst part of motherhood wasn’t the nauseating first weeks, the discomfort toward the end, the labor, or even the long and troublesome recovery—but this: balancing a baby and chores with all of the worries that kept trying to crowd her mind.
But it was sinful to complain when she had hot food and a table to eat it at. Chairs, a decent bed, a roof over her head. Lord, there were people in the streets freezing to death and starving, and her biggest, most realistic concern was that little François would wiggle too much in his father’s armchair and fall out!
She was lucky.
And François, swaddled so tidily, hardly moved from his place in the chair while she lit the fire and started the meal.
It was another soup again, something that could simmer all day. She could eat a little for lunch and there would be more than enough for dinner.
“Isn’t that nice, François?” she asked, more to herself than anything. A baby as one’s only company all day was rather lonely, after all, and this way she could pretend his fussing and gurgling was his way of replying.
The day passed quickly enough, despite the lurch of anxiety she felt every time she made her way upstairs and walked past the window. No, she reminded herself time after time after time; Bernard was fine. He was talking to people and writing, and he would return home safe and smiling.
And tired, she reminded herself. And cold from being out in it all day. He needed new shoes, but it was a difficult purchase to convince him to make. The last time she’d tried she’d been so round that moving was difficult.
“We may need that money later, for a midwife,” he’d said.
But they were well past that point, and the midwife hadn’t cost them more than they could spare. Perhaps he might be convinced over supper. Or before then. He was the only one bringing money in, after all; it seemed right to see to his needs first. What if his broken-down shoes hurt his knee or his back?
She sang while she cut up what they had for the soup and added it to the pot. Nursery rhymes to start, for François’s benefit, and then a ballad or two she’d learned years ago at the de Jarjayes mansion, sitting with Madame at her pianoforte in the drawing room.
She fed François afterward, burped him, and waited a little while to change his diaper.
“We’ll do the laundry tomorrow,” she told him, rocking him again by the window. It would be hours yet before Bernard returned, but still, she liked to look, sometimes—just in case. François had no intention of looking at anything; he closed his big blue eyes and fell right to sleep. “I guess it’s nap time, then,” she said to herself, and rose from her chair to lay him in his crib by the bed.
He would be safe there for a few minutes. She went to stir the soup and then returned to check on François. Ran back downstairs to get more coal for the stove, and as soon as she washed her hands and relieved her bladder, ran back upstairs again. She laid down for a few minutes herself, not to sleep but to lightly doze, one eye on the crib. A shame they didn’t have a cradle for her to rock, but she was blessed to have a crib. Alain had helped to locate it for them.
When François woke again it was back to work, rocking him to calm his upset at not being in her arms immediately, while she made her way downstairs again to stir the soup and serve herself a small portion. She ate while she tried to plan the next day in her mind. Wake up, breakfast, then Bernard would leave early. Get the stove going for hot water with which to do laundry. Try to launder as quickly as possible before François got bored or too wiggly to trust with both of her hands in the tub.
Strange, how her food disappeared so quickly when she was busy thinking. She washed her dish and spoon, set them out to dry, stirred the soup again. Fed her son and burped him before she looked out the window for a few minutes—more to keep an eye on the weather than for her husband, she told herself.
It was quiet after that for a few hours. She played with François, tickling his tummy and listening to his squeals. When that game bored him, she marveled at the way he scrunched up his little face to try to grab at her fingers. What kind of boy would he grow into? What sort of man? A kind one, she hoped—like her husband.
The soup was a far cry from the best she’d made for them, but it certainly wasn’t the worst, either. Bernard would like it fine, and might even compliment her on it. He would be home soon—within a half hour, most likely. He tried to stick to a schedule—said it helped to keep his mind clear.
And hers, he never said, but she knew it was half for her sake.
A half hour passed, though, with no sign of him. She sat in his chair to feed François, stood to burp him, and then changed him again so that he would be clean when his father came home.
The sound of a key in the door nearly made her knees weak. The door practically flew open—a gust of wind and Bernard following after.
“Sorry!” he apologized, shoving it closed again. He locked it behind him and then turned to her with a smile. “It smells great in here.”
“Are you hungry now?” she asked, wishing she had a hand free to help him with his things.
He shook his head and shrugged out of his coat. “In a few minutes,” he said. “There’s no rush.”
“François decided to stay up to greet you this time.” She laughed a little, rocking him in her arms.
“He didn’t wear himself out pulling on your hair today? Good lad.” Bernard hung up his coat and headed directly for his armchair, falling into it with some measure of relief on his face. “I felt like I was on my feet all day,” he said. “A few minutes of this, and I’ll be well again.”
Her eyes fell to his feet—to the shoes he’d worn daily for at least as long as she’d been married to him. But no—she would bring it up later. Catch him off-guard.
He held out his arms. “I’ll take him for a few minutes, if you like.”
She smiled. “Father-son time is important,” she was sure to say, even though a small part of her felt guilty for being relieved to have her arms free for even a few minutes. “I’ll wash up a bit if you don’t mind.”
“Take your time,” he said. By the time she left the room, he was already talking to the baby, touching a gentle fingertip to his nose and telling him about his day in terms obviously meant for his little ears.
God, she was lucky—to have found him, to have opened her heart to him. She had wondered, then, even as she left to be his wife, if she could love him properly, the way he deserved to be loved, but she needn’t have worried. It was easy; he made it so.
She took a moment to head up to their bedroom to start the fire in the fireplace and then freshened up, washing her face and neck and arms. After a quick pat dry with a towel and a break to answer nature’s call, she had to admit she felt quite a bit more like herself—even such a small thing made a difference.
“I’ll be home all day tomorrow,” Bernard said when she returned. “I’ll go out for food then, if you like, and then get to writing for the rest of the day.”
“We’ll try not to disturb you,” Rosalie managed with a small smile; a hungry François disturbed the neighbors, he was so loud, but she tried not to let him get to that point; he had his little tells.
“A little disturbance would be welcome, actually.” He pushed aside a few of their son’s wispy bits of light hair and glanced up at her. “How was your day?”
She told him everything as she moved around in the kitchen to finish and serve up dinner while Bernard entertained François. He might not like to know how often she checked the window, so she left most of that out, and instead told him about the songs she’d sung and which one she was sure was their son’s current favorite.
They sat to eat together, modest portions as always, though she did manage to sneak Bernard a little extra without him trying to switch their bowls. Maybe he was simply too tired to notice. He looked it, a bit, and his face seemed chapped from the cold air outside.
Well, it wasn’t anything good rest and attention couldn’t fix.
He finished the meal in record time, surprising her.
“Do you want more?” she asked, knowing very well that if he had more now, there would be less for tomorrow’s lunch.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I think I’ll head up to bed.”
It disappointed her a little, but she focused on her spoon instead, getting it into her mouth while she nodded in understanding. “Good night,” she managed.
“Not yet,” he said, stopping as he passed to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll wait up for you.”
Her smile was quick and genuine—almost eager.
With a baby, one or both of them were often too tired by the end of the day to spend much proper time together, and she rather missed it. Even just a few minutes in his arms would do something to help ease the loneliness of him being gone so often, especially in such bleak weather.
“I’ll be up soon,” she said.
“Here.” He bent down, and they worked together to get François transferred into his arms. “Oh, he’s halfway to sleep already. I’ll put him down for the night then.”
The only blessing they had was that he was already easily sleeping more than half the night. Come midnight or so, he’d wake fussing, and, if left unattended, by one o’clock the screaming would start, but neither of them let him get to that point anymore. That was plenty of time together—even to sleep close.
She hurried through the rest of her dinner and then cleaned up as quickly as possible, putting the lid on the soup pot for it to keep until the next day, and then taking a peek at the fire in the stove to make sure it was on its way out.
By the time she made her way upstairs, François was nestled in his little bed, a blanket draped over the posts to make sure the light of Bernard’s candle didn’t disturb him.
She went to grab her nightgown from the bed, but saw it was already laid out by the fire to warm it.
“Oh!” she said, pleased. “Thank you.”
She changed, there, in front of the hearth while Bernard watched from his place in bed.
“Still as pretty as the day I married you,” he said when she joined him.
Her side was already a little warm, too, like he’d laid there first to ensure that it would be before he retreated to his usual spot.
“I don’t know about that,” she said, blushing a little. “I still feel kind of lumpy.”
He slipped an arm around her, pulled her close. “It’s the good kind,” he assured her, hand running over her hip and then to her behind.
“If you don’t kiss me right now, you’ll never know how good,” she whispered, and was rewarded almost instantly with his lips against hers. Rosalie had heard stories from some of the other married women—about how their husbands acted behind closed doors, about the kinds of lovers they were…or weren’t.
She felt lucky in that, too. Bernard was perhaps not the smoothest talker, and not the most romantic man to have ever lived, but he possessed a sort of boyish eagerness in the way he loved her that she found attractive. It was as if he knew that a lot of other men took it upon themselves to decide what would or would not happen in the bedroom, and chose to be more open-minded, himself.
If she had ideas, he was happy to listen; if she wanted him a certain way, he usually agreed.
His goodness was his finest trait, after all, and that he let it show in public as well as in the privacy of their home was what ultimately won her heart completely.
She kissed him back sweetly and pressed closer to him under the blankets. He was completely hard already; it still amused her how quickly he was capable of that; he was either ready or not, but never anything in between.
Maybe he was just that easy to please. Or that attracted to her.
Still, he kissed her for a long time, one hand slipping up under her nightgown to touch her skin, his fingers still a little cold from his day outside.
“You’re just trying to warm yourself up!” she teased, squirming under his chilled fingertips.
“But you’re so warm,” he returned with a grin, mouth going to her neck to kiss on her there, pulling the collar of her gown to the side to reach more skin.
His fingers warmed as he stroked her belly, drifting upward to her chest before she could think to tell him not to.
The moment his hand made contact with her breast, they both started leaking again—badly.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” she scolded him. “I’m getting wet in the wrong place!”
He laughed and kissed her collarbone. “I didn’t think they’d be that full. Didn’t you just feed him before supper?”
“Yes! But they’re always full!” And prone to leaking, too, which meant more laundry—or more smelling like stale breastmilk. Rosalie was quite certain she preferred the former! “I’m sure I produce enough for two or three babies, not just one. And worse, he has a preference! If I hold him the other way he won’t latch at all.”
“He’ll eventually need more as he grows,” Bernard said with a grin, looking up at her and holding the front of her nightgown up so that the fabric didn’t soak up more milk. “But until then…”
“Until then?”
“I can help with it.”
She stared at his innocent expression for what felt like a long time and then blushed warmly. “You’ll drink it?”
“Why not?” he asked. “It’s food, isn’t it? If it leaks, it’s just wasteful. And you don’t like it when you feel too full anyway.”
“They do ache, then,” she admitted. “Well—if you want to. I suppose I don’t mind. Get the left one first, though; that’s the one François doesn’t seem to like as much.”
Bernard brought her nightgown up over her breasts and took a nipple in his mouth in what felt like less than a second. What were the chances that he’d thought about this before?
She couldn’t imagine what to expect from the experience, but he treated it exactly the same as anything else new to him: with surprising gentleness.
The instant release of pressure she hadn’t even realized was there almost made her toes curl. And then she was incredibly annoyed suddenly with her bunched-up nightgown in the way.
“Hold on,” she said, and hurried to take it off. He waited until she settled back down to put his mouth on her again and this time she could at least watch him do it. She buried her hands in his hair, made sure to brush it back slow and easy. “There, now. I wanted to see my husband having a proper meal.”
She felt him smirk a little, but he waited another few moments to pull back and talk, fingers stroking the side of her breast. “It tastes all right,” he said thoughtfully. “Rather thick. A little sweet, actually.”
“Are you going to write a column about it?” she teased.
He laughed quietly. “No. The way my wife tastes is for only me to know.”
For some silly reason, the words instantly turned her on. “Carry on then,” she said, smiling.
He lowered his head again, pulled her nipple into his mouth, and sucked a little harder. It shouldn’t have done anything to or for her, she thought—not the act itself, anyway. She was used to breastfeeding an infant already, and it was decidedly unsensual. Almost painful, sometimes, even.
But her husband’s mouth was different—felt different. She ran her fingers through his hair while he drained her and tried not to squirm even though each long slow draw he pulled out of her made her wetter.
When he moved to her other breast, she shifted her hold, cradled his head. “You’re not full yet?” she asked.
“Mm-mm,” he said around her nipple, and sucked so hard it made her moan softly, her back arching into his mouth. He smiled a little and eased up until the suction felt gentle again.
It was incredible how good he looked in the candlelight: his dark hair framing his face, his eyes closed, his elegant hands splayed over her skin. And all at her breast.
He drew back after a little while. “I don’t want to take it all,” he said, “but I must admit…it’s very tempting.”
“You enjoyed it, then?” she asked.
“Of course I did,” he said, sounding vaguely offended. “You’re my wife.”
She laughed. “Good. I rather liked it, too.”
“I could feel you trying not to squirm, you know.” He grinned up at her, pressed a kiss to the center of her chest, and then came up to her mouth to give her something small and chaste. Even then, she could smell the milk on him and it made her feel a little giddy, like she made him smell like her.
“I need my husband now,” she said, and hardly ten seconds later he made his way between her legs.
“I need you, too,” he returned, and she felt the tip of his dick press up against her for just a moment before he pushed inside.
The feel of him filling her made her want to rock her hips up into his, but she grabbed onto him instead, one hand holding his nightshirt up out of the way and the other grabbing at his behind. “Next time,” she said, her words already a little breathless, “you can try having me while you eat your supper.”
He moaned at that, something rough and almost primal—like he wished he’d thought of it just a little bit earlier. But he didn’t waste time: he started moving almost immediately—and then she found herself moaning, reaching down between them to touch herself.
She closed her eyes, let herself get lost a little in the sensation of him moving and the sound of his breathing and the slip of her fingers over her clit. She didn’t often get herself off first; for some reason, she was the sort of woman who could only ever come once and was then quite done with being touched down there for the evening. It was usually her preference for him to get off first, and then to hold her while he touched her—the intimacy of it in her mind was hard to beat.
But with the way she felt, she didn’t want to wait—and part of her hoped that she might find her release first just to bring him to his.
He lifted her leg and she tried to hook it up and over his hip. It brought him a little deeper, made her eyes open just a bit. Through her lashes she saw the way he looked at her, half lost in his own pleasure.
She closed her eyes again to race him, shifted her hips so that he hit her just a little better, and focused solely on herself. She gasped just before she stumbled toward the edge, back arching as she tried to meet his thrusts with her own, fingers rubbing insistently between her legs.
As if he understood her need, Bernard went a little harder, but kept the pace exactly the same, and she moaned just before she clenched hard around him—and on nearly every tightening of her muscles thereafter until she felt lightheaded from it and the way he kept moving to prolong it.
“Hurry,” she moaned to him—before her sensitivity went into overdrive, definitely…but she mostly just wanted to hold him. Or be held by him. Whatever his preference happened to be this particular evening.
He might not have needed her encouragement; he came a mere fifteen seconds later, never once straying from his perfect pace, even with his mouth open and moaning her name. In her opinion, he was always cute when he came, but today he seemed especially so: his hair a little wild, his face quite red, his eyes glassy and half-lidded.
She felt his release hot inside of her and wondered if it would amount to anything.
The best part came after, though; the moment he started to come down, he folded her into his arms, held her close, kissed her shoulder and neck and face while he waited for his breath to return to him.
She ran her fingers through his hair some more and thought about how long it took for François to be conceived—and how the last weeks of it had been downright miserable. She hadn’t been allowed to do anything at all but rest in bed, and even though she’d listened carefully and obeyed it as best she could, the labor had gone on and on.
Forever, it felt like.
She was finally free of the reminders of it—except the extra weight, which she didn’t mind—but it was hard to forget the way the midwife had tsk’d and said it was possible she wouldn’t be able to have more. Trying couldn’t hurt, but it wasn’t the sort of thing she was supposed to get her hopes up about.
Still, a second baby might be nice right away—a little brother or sister for François. If they could afford more, she’d be happy to have them; a house full of laughing children seemed lovelier than a dream. But with the state of things…it would be foolish. One more, then, if providence was with them.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmured against her face, his breathing soft and even again.
“Another baby.”
“So soon?” He sounded surprised, but said nothing else even though she would not have scolded him for reminding her what the midwife had said not three months ago.
Maybe he had wanted to hear it even less than she did.
Or he wasn’t willing to force her to face it, yet.
And at the end of the day, one child was more than enough, wasn’t it? If it didn’t take tonight, or the next time, or the time after that…then so be it. She would be happy with what she had been given.
Still…
“It would be nice for François to have a playmate, wouldn’t it?”
Bernard was silent for a moment, fingertips stroking down her collarbone. “Yes,” he said at last. “It would be.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Healthy is all that matters.” He propped himself up, touched her face, smiled just a little. “You’ll really have your hands full with another one, you know,” he said. “Something will always need to be done. You won’t have a moment of peace.”
She touched his cheek, admired how soft his eyes looked in the candlelight. “And neither will you.”
“If it brings you joy, then I don’t mind. What’s a little lost sleep?”
She laughed a little and sat up, reached for her nightgown. “François has been so easy… Would we get that lucky with a second?”
He stretched out on his back and rubbed at his chin as if deep in thought. “Definitely not,” he said and grinned just before she pulled her nightgown over her head.
“I’ll be back,” she said and stood to grab her shawl from the chair beside the bed.
He laughed and slid into her spot to keep it warm. “You can’t hold it, can you?”
“Definitely not,” she said. “If I don’t go right now, I’ll probably explode! That’s the price we both paid to have François with us.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were sincere; she knew they were. He hadn’t liked seeing her nauseated and hated seeing her confined to bed; the tearing, the bleeding afterward, and even the way sneezing too hard would make her almost pee herself bothered him, too. It was as if he felt it was his fault.
None of it really was, though. She had wanted a baby as much as he did—and probably more. It was just the way of things.
She swatted him playfully with the end of her shawl, watched him pull up the covers before she could do it again. “I’ll be right back,” she said before picking up the candle holder. “Do try to behave yourself.”
He would, of course; she knew it already as she trudged down in the cold to empty her bladder one final time. And sure enough, when she returned, he was still in her spot.
She checked in on François, peeling back the blanket draped over his crib to get a peek at his sleeping face. He seemed perfectly at peace—secure so close to his parents. If she only ever provided him one thing for the rest of his life, she hoped it would be that.
She pulled the blanket closed again and made her way over to the bed, smiling as Bernard moved back to his side. When she climbed in, hers was pleasantly warm. “Thank you,” she said and blew out the candle.
But she just sat in bed a moment, in the dark with him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Your shoes,” she said. “I want you to replace them.”
“I don’t know…”
“I understand your hesitation,” she made herself say, “but your health is important to this family—now more than ever. Please take care of it as best as you can. For your wife and son’s sake, if not your own.”
He sighed, softly. “All right,” he said. “I’ll look at replacing them this week.”
She hummed her thanks and wriggled under the blankets while he adjusted his pillow. When he held his arm out for her to settle in against his side, she pressed close and let her head rest against his shoulder; he smelled of parchment and ink and the sharp cleanliness of winter. The familiarity of it was soothing.
“I’m still very much in love with you,” he said. It was something he told her with enough regularity that she most certainly believed it by now, an echo of his earliest feelings for her: that little admission that he was starting to fall and wanted it to be all right with her.
“I love you, too,” she murmured as he pulled the blankets up and over them.
Tomorrow, Rosalie thought as she drifted off, would be a little different. She would wake with François for his midnight feeding, as always, but when he was settled again, she’d return to her own rest. In the morning, she would try to wake up first, but Bernard would be gone already. She’d find him downstairs in his chair, the baby in his arms, the stove already hot and ready for her to work her magic.
They would eat a late breakfast and she would see him off to pick up more food and coal, but he would return home early from that, probably before she even finished with the laundry—and the sound of him muttering to himself at the table while she worked on dinner and sang quietly to François would keep her heart feeling so light and easy that she wouldn’t think to look out the window even once.