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There are three sharp knocks on the door. The sound reverberates through the house, and Eliza awakes with a start. Her back is aching.
“One second!” she yells, scrambling out of her seat.
She opens the door. It’s still outside, no wind, but no sun either. The sky is dark, clouds hanging low–swallows fluttering about closer to the ground than they usually do–and the trees surrounding her quaint little home look more gray than green in the dim obscured light of the midday sun.
“Sorry, I was just…”
She trails off. Something hard and cold grips her throat, an invisible fist tightening around her larynx.
Arthur is as she remembers him: tall, a bit to the skinny side–even if he’s filled out since they last saw each other–and handsome as the day is long. His shaggy blond hair has been cut short and close to his face, accentuating his cheekbones and strong jaw. He looks apologetic.
It’s like déjà vu.
For just a second, she’s back in the saloon, handing out drinks, taking orders from rude customers. Getting heckled and tripped and harassed. It hadn’t stopped when Arthur entered, their eyes meeting briefly–and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from being taken by the simple handsomeness of him, the hat low on his forehead, striding across the salon in a way that conveyed earned confidence. It had only earned her another leer and a sharp comment about eyeing her next payment.
She wasn’t a working girl but that never stopped anyone from assuming. They always assumed. Everything.
But they had gotten to talking, perhaps a bit of flirting–he was kind to her and the rest of the waitress’, and she was sure she was not the only one throwing either curious or coy glances his way.
And then one of their regulars had something real nasty, and Arthur’s eyes had narrowed. His fist had stirred.
He had found her after it ended, knocking on the door to her small chamber, space for nothing more than a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. He had apologised–asked for forgiveness for disturbing her while she worked–for causing trouble where there shouldn’t have been any, his knuckles an angry red shade. And then she kissed him. And he kissed back. And then she was up against the dresser, and the wall, and–at last–the bed, the mirror fogging up as she caught glimpses of their reflection, of the state they were in.
I’m staying in town for a bit, he had said, and they met again and again and again, and it was all like a dream–a flurry of touches and tongues. It hadn’t been love, she didn’t kid herself like that, but it was something burning and hot, and she had drunk it up. Right up until her throat got scorched.
She should have known better. But when she found that out it was already too late.
He’s got his hat in hand, held against his stomach: an honest pretension of manners.
He swallows; clears his throat. “Miss Autumn.”
The air between them is cold and curdled–a sort of awkwardness that stems from knowing what conversation they’re about to have. A conversation none of them want to have.
Eliza stays silent. Keeping her breathing in check, she takes a step back and motions for him to follow her inside. Still, neither of them say anything.
She pulls out a chair and Arthur sits, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He folds his hands and lowers his head. He looks like a man in prayer. But she’s kidding herself–his hands are nothing like that of a priest whose hands are cold and unfeeling and impartial. Arthur’s hands are warm and kind and steeped in blood and violence she knows he has never attempted to wash or rid himself of.
“My pa died.” The splintering of silence is almost too much to bear. It’s a truth she has yet to speak out loud, as if keeping it locked behind her teeth would somehow make it not so. If Arthur is in any way affected by her words, he doesn’t let it show. “Two months ago. That’s the only reason I reached out.”
He nods, pointedly looking anywhere but her. She’s sure he’s taking in the state of her home, how cold and empty it is, the fireplace in the corner gathering more dust than anything else. She hasn’t had time to clean much–not anything besides the essentials–too exhausted and aching and heartbroken all the time.
“No one knows yet,” she continues, pulling out a chair for herself, tries not to cringe at the way it scrapes against the ground. “If they did, they’d take the house.”
She doesn’t really know why she adds that. To gain more pity? To make him understand the danger he’s put her in?
To simply air out a bit of the worry that’s been gnawing at her soul bit by bit ever since she buried her father?
It’s so still and quiet, Eliza is sure she could hear a needle drop. It’s been like that for so long.
A part of her wants to reach out, wants to press her hand into his–tell him it’s all gonna be okay. That she doesn’t regret what they did; what they shared.
But Eliza isn’t a liar.
“I’m alone. And it won’t be long before I’ll have trouble working.”
At that, Arthur turns to look at her. He still isn’t looking her in the eyes, but he runs his gaze from top to bottom, before his eyes settle on the undeniable swell of her stomach. She hasn’t felt a kick yet, she’s not far enough along, but when he stares at her belly, she swears she can feel something move. She’s probably just getting sick again.
Arthur’s face is blank, expressionless, save for a twitch at his jaw, like he’s grinding his teeth.
The silence is unbearable.
“I ain’t no kind of father,” he says eventually. And there’s this, this–this acidity to it, this sharpness to his words that nearly make Eliza flinch.
The air is thick with tension. She feels like she’s choking on it. This is what she expected. “I understand.”
Then Arthur sighs, squares his shoulders, and, with some sort of quiet, kind defeat, says, “But I’ll do my best.”
Arthur’s words are like lightning in a bottle; completely unfathomable and unendingly unrealistic. For just a second, Eliza believes she must have misheard him, but then she turns her head and he’s staring directly at her and his eyes are so earnest and open and beautiful, and it’s concerning how easily she believes him to be telling the truth. Even if it is a lie, she thinks, it’s a really pretty dream. One she’s willing to indulge in. Just for a bit.
The idea of Arthur living with her, breathing life into their home, even if the only thing they shares is love for an unborn child, has Eliza breathing hard. Her hands are shaking, she realizes with a start, and she feels like laughing, but oh it would sound hysterical even if it’s born out of the simple joy of having someone care just a bit.
“Come with me,” he continues. “You know what I am, who I run with. We’ll provide for you. We have other women. You won’t be alone.”
And just like that, the pretty dream is shattered – like the glass of a bottle she thought she could catch lightening in.
She stares at him, knows disbelief is written clearly across har face.
He had told her of his life under the open sky–of robberies and hunting and playing dress-up to fool rich folk. Had talked of patching up injuries. Of moving from town to town to clearing to forest to cliff to town. He had told to her of the loss of fellow men.
Of beauty and nature and freedom. It had sounded so wonderful, so fantastic and unreal and she knows that it is. The loss written in the lines of the crinkles around Arthur’s eyes speak for themselves.
“That ain’t no place to raise a child.” She knows she’s being cold, knows she sounds angry, but what does he expect from a proposal like that?
It’s faint, but she recognizes the twitch in his lip, that twitch of annoyance people get when she talks back a bit too much, and she feels herself shrink back into her chair.
Arthur seems to notice because he clenches his fists and sighs.
“Sorry,” he says, “I just... I think it’ll be good. She’ll have more people looking after her than I did most of my childhood.”
At that, Eliza allows herself to smile, the slightest sliver of fondness, as Arthur lets his private thoughts slip out. This softness is what she experienced in the aftermath of their lovemaking – the featherlight touches and warm embrace as he tangled his legs with hers. Held her close. Like he never wanted her to leave.
“You want it to be a girl?”
Arthur lowers his head. He’s quiet for some time.
“I guess.”
And Eliza can only nod. She understands, or knows, what thoughts must go through his head. It is so clear that he, this man of mud and violence and tenderness all in one, will never understand the situation he has put her in.
If it is a girl, she thinks, she will live a life more horrid than that of her mother. She does not say this, doesn’t articulate or explain why a baby boy would be much easier off under the scrutiny of those surrounding him. The logistics of her pregnancy, the target it has put on her back, is too much to bear and she does not have the energy to sit Arthur down and explain to him exactly what it is that he has done.
“The life you live…” she continues, schooling her face, “it ain’t a life I want our child to live. It ain’t a life I want to live.”
Arthur chuckles–sort of, it’s more of a snort really–and shakes his head.
Eliza narrows her eyes. “What?”
“It’s nothing, just…” He shakes his head again and runs a hand through his hair. “You sound like someone I used to know.”
She can feel her brows furrow. Has he gotten someone else pregnant then? “Whoever they was, they sound sensible.”
Arthur blinks, sighs in a sort of dejected way and says, “Yeah, something like that.”
“I don’t expect you to be a father.” She ignores the way her words make him cringe, the way he clenches his eyes shut as if punched in the stomach. “I just need money. Money to put shoes on our baby’s feet and food in their belly. I need money to keep this roof above their head.”
“I understand, and I’ll do my best. I can’t promise anything extravagant, but–“
“I don’t need extravagant.” She sets her lips in a hard line. “I just need to survive. It’s what I’ve done all these years in this lion den of false politeness and– and propriety. It’s what my parents did and it’s what my grandpa did. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not, and I don’t want you doing that neither.”
Now, for the first time since he entered her home, Arthur looks her in the eyes. They’re as startlingly clear and beautiful as they were last time they spoke. But they’re also sad. And regretful. Somehow, Eliza fully understands that the regret is not aimed at her, not something she’s had a hand in.
On some level or another, she understands that Arthur has lived and lost.
And so, she softens up. “All I want from you, is effort.” She finally reaches out and grabs his hand, notes the way it dwarves her own, the rough, callouses of his palms pressing into her equally worn skin.
His other hand comes to lay on top of hers, her hand know caught between his, and he runs his fingertips over the back of her hand. She doesn’t know whether he does it absentmindedly or not, but it feels nice. It feels nice and homely.
“I’ll do my best,” he says eventually, and squeezes her hand.
Eliza could have cried.
“They’ll get my surname too.” She says it fast, rips the plaster off and quietly prays that it doesn’t sting too much.
Arthur only nods. He looks deep in thought.
“Why?”
“My grandma’s name was Autumn. My grandpa chose it to remember her, after he ran with my pa. And he didn’t wanna keep the Adams name.” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and Eliza almost scoffs. “I just… I wanna keep it. I want them to have it. They won’t be recognized as a Morgan anyway.”
“I guess that’s… true. I’ll do my best,” he repeats again, but it’s more to himself than her really, muttered under his breath.
She allows herself to smile, tired as she is. It’s as though a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Like there’s a hand around her heart, like there usually is, but for once it’s not squeezing and hurting but warm and protective.
There are birds singing outside. Close to the ground.
It’ll rain eventually. Arthur’s kindness cannot stop that. But it’s nice to pretend that it can.
“Thank you.”
He nods at her and stands. He reaches into his satchel, fiddling around with its contents until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a little pouch that clinks and clanks when he reaches out toward her with it in his hand.
“Here, take this.”
It’s almost a question, something pleading in his voice.
“Thank you, Arthur.” It’s heavy in her hands, the pouch, but the promise in the coins held within grounds her.
She watches his back as he leaves.
“You’re a good man.” The words blurt out of her mouth before she can stop them.
At once, she’s embarrassed, but also… it’s the truth, she knows it is. A lesser man would have never showed up, would not have even entertained her pleadings and asks. Would perhaps have done something horrific and awful and all too common.
Arthur stops in the doorway and looks at the ground, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I try to be,” he mutters before closing the door behind him.