Chapter Text
For the first two months, she dismisses it as stress.
Stranger things have happened. That she misses her courses two months in a row must surely be down to her grief and anger and the sheer anxiety that comes with packing up the remains of her life and fleeing England with James. After all - she has been married to Thomas for years now. Surely, if she were going to conceive, it would have happened by now, and besides, she’s no young thing of eighteen - she’s thirty and one, old to be having children, especially for the first time. She tells herself that even when the morning sickness starts - even wonders if she might not have contracted a tropical disease. She’s new to the island, and it would not be surprising, not with James living in the same house and sick as a dog within a week after they arrive, vomiting and sweating until she fears he too will be taken from her. It does not happen, though - he recovers, and she wakes up for the third week in a row, voids the contents of her stomach into the privy, and finally gives in to James’ insistence on calling for a doctor. Two hours later, the doctor leaves and she emerges from their bedroom with a look on her face that is equal parts shock and fear and a sort of confused joy, her stomach now turning over for a very different reason.
“Well?” James demands. “What’s wrong? Miranda - what did he -?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she says, her voice strange even to her own ears. “I’ll be fine.”
“Bullshit. Something is not right. You’ve been ill every morning since we’ve arrived. Something must be wrong, or you wouldn’t be -”
The look of confusion and worry on his face oddly brings a smile to hers, and her fondness for him washes over her suddenly, touched at his concern and now oddly giddy at being able to give him the news. He stops, clearly confused.
“James,” she interrupts him “I’m not ill. I’m with child,” she says, and watches his expression change entirely, from outright worry to shock, quickly followed by a look like a deer caught unawares by a hunter.
“With -?” He starts, and then his knees seem to give out on him. He stumbles backwards, his knees hitting the nearest chair and he sits heavily. He looks up at her, and she can’t help but give him a wry grin. “How far -?” He asks, suddenly breathless, and she shrugs.
“Difficult to say,” she answers. “As much as three months or as few as two.”
James looks utterly thunderstruck, and she can see him doing the mental math.
“Three months,” he repeats. “But that would mean -”
“That this could be Thomas’s child,” she finishes quietly. “Or yours. There will be no way of knowing, not for another six or seven months, at least.”
“My God,” James breathes, and looks at her, something both joyful and lost in his expression. “Christ.” He looks around their small cottage, visibly taking stock of everything that is going to have to be moved or changed if there is to be a small person sharing space with them, and swallows.
“Our plans will have to change,” he says hoarsely, still looking around him. He rubs one hand over his beard, the other gripping the arm of the chair. “I can’t just leave you here to -”
To go pirating. She had known from the get-go what James intended once they reached the island - had known from the moment Peter had suggested going to Paris and James had clenched his teeth, eyes on fire with anger to match her own, and refused. He intended to go on the account - to do as much damage to England as it had done to them. To make them fear him. To make them so afraid of Nassau and her pirate captains that they would be willing to do anything to make their shipping safe again, up to and including releasing Thomas. Up until a moment ago, he had still intended to do so. She knows he had found a crew a few days before, when he was still recovering from his bout of illness, a look like grim death on his face when he’d gone out and quiet, determined satisfaction when he came back, telling her he had achieved his goal. He had been in the process of refitting and coming to an agreement with the crew when he had returned to the cottage unexpectedly, found her ill, and insisted on the doctor’s visit that had turned everything on its head. And now -
Now everything has changed, and nothing, all at the same time. She is having a child - possibly Thomas’s child. They still need Thomas back - more now than ever, in all truth, and as the thought passes through her head, it brings with it an idea at once so terrible and so brilliant that it catches her breath in her throat.
“The plan,” she tells him slowly, running the idea over in her head, looking for obvious flaws, “is exactly the same, but with one small difference.” She turns, looking for quill and paper, and found them, as well as the small bottle of ink they had managed to bring from London. She uncaps it, and he stares.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, clearly startled by her reaction. “You can’t stay here alone, not if you’re -” He gestures to her still-flat stomach.
“I most certainly can,” she refutes him calmly, her quill pen scratching away at the parchment. “You are going to go to sea, as planned. You will establish yourself, earn your men’s trust and goodwill, as planned.”
“What are you doing?” James asks, rising from the chair to look over her shoulder. He skims the letter she has written, and she can see the moment when he spots Thomas’ name at the top. His voice, when he speaks, is incredulous, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You’re writing to him?”
“As he is possibly about to be a father, yes,” she answers.
“I hardly think they’re likely to allow him to receive mail there,” he says, a hint of something both sorrowful and gentle in his voice, as if he believes that she has in some way lost her wits.
“Nevertheless,” she answers, continuing to write.
“What good could it do to tell him? To taunt him with a child he can’t see -”
“I’m not taunting anyone,” she says calmly. “Any news addressed to Thomas will inevitably make its way to Alfred instead.” Her tone changes, her voice hardening. “He will want this child, James. He might hate Thomas - might even want him dead, but he will never, ever willingly allow a child of Thomas’ blood to be raised outside of his control, for fear that child will one day learn of its birthright and create a scandal by demanding it. He will be willing to negotiate - willing to take risks.”
James face goes more and more white as she speaks, and he stares at her now in unabashed horror.
“You would offer up Thomas’ child -”
The suggestion sends anger sweeping through her, hot and sudden, and she drops the quill and stands, slowly, rage driving her to her feet, her hands held completely straight at her sides, suddenly shaking with fury.
“Never,” she hisses. “He will have my child over my dead body, and yours too if it comes to that. He will never so much as lay eyes on our son or daughter.” Her voice is a foreign thing, something that does not belong to her, low and dangerous, and James seems to realize that he has misconstrued. He steps back, eyes fixed on her, both startled and frightened at what he sees.
“Miranda - I -” He starts, and she closes her eyes and waves a hand, silently dismissing the apology on his lips.
“No,” she says, letting out her breath, allowing her hands to curl slightly again and the tension to bleed out of her posture. She opens her eyes again, the frightening thing within her receding again. “No. I haven’t explained.” He lets out a quick breath, relief flashing over his face.
“What, then?” he asks, his eyes still fixed on her, baffled. “Why would you -?” He stops, and she can see the moment when her plan becomes obvious to him. He looks at her suddenly with absolute wonder, understanding causing his mouth to drop open a little way. “You intend to make him come in person,” he says. “To fetch his grandchild and -”
“And give Thomas back to us,” she finishes, her voice low and fierce. “Yes. If he can be persuaded to remove Thomas from Bethlem -”
She can hear James’ breath catch in his throat and sees hope kindle in his green eyes. Here, at last, is a plan that won’t take years to accomplish. Here is something he can do now - a way to help Thomas that doesn’t involve becoming a monster.
“We can intercept him,” he breathes. “We’ll need to know the name of his ship - the route they sail on, when, how many hands, how many guns,” he starts, and Miranda nods.
“I still have a few contacts left in London,” she says. “I will need to write several letters, some to my contacts and some to those I can be sure will share my correspondence with Alfred. There can be no doubt in his mind that the child is Thomas’s. He will need to be convinced.” James nods his understanding, his gaze now focused away from her, his eyes narrowed as he works on the details of their subterfuge.
“We’ll need someone to tell us if Thomas is being moved. If Alfred tries to deceive us or leave him there -”
“Thomas should be warned,” Miranda agrees. “He must know that we haven't abandoned him.”
James nods, and when he looks at her again, his gaze is determined, eyes clear and brighter than she has seen them since Thomas was taken from them.
“Yes. Let him know I’m coming for him.”
*************************************
She sends her letter the very next day, to an acquaintance in London whom she would not truly trust as far as she can spit, but whom she knows will take her letter straight to Alfred, rather than to Thomas as she instructs. Another goes, on a different ship, to her former lady’s maid, a woman whom she has known since she was newly wed and who knows Miranda possibly better than Miranda does herself, with instructions to deliver it to Thomas by whatever means necessary. Her wording is necessarily vague, but she hopes that Thomas will divine its meaning and use it to sustain himself until she and James can put an end to his imprisonment.
The months seem to crawl past. Miranda’s ankles swell. She continues to throw up in the mornings, and her dresses begin to require alteration, and still she does what she can to make their house seem more like a home. She gardens, reclaiming the soil inch by inch, replacing weeds with vegetables and just a few small flowers here and there in defiance of the loss of all the beautiful things she had surrounded herself with in London. James dusts off his father’s carpentry skills, near forgotten, and knocks together a crib in between his trips. He is settling in as a captain, slowly but surely. He comes back after his first run with a crescent-moon tattoo on one arm that he tells her stings like anything and an earring that is apparently meant to augment his vision at sea. She makes a point of lavishing attention on his injuries (a slash to the opposite arm from the tattoo and a burn mark from a mishap with a gun). His eyes are haunted somehow, and she does what she can to assure him that he had no choice. If they want Thomas back, this must happen. They must have a ship, and a crew loyal to James, and that entails taking prizes.
“Only a few more months,” she tells him soothingly, and he stares, green eyes fixed not on her but on the wall behind her as she washes the injured areas.
“Some of the men on that ship were no more than eighteen or nineteen - barely more than children,” he murmurs. “Christ, Miranda - what in the hell am I doing?”
“What is necessary,” she answers, and it’s no comfort. He looks at her, and she cannot speak, only gather him to her, his head resting against her shoulder as his shoulders shake and he lets out a small sob. This cannot last more than a few months. Please, dear God, it cannot, because she cannot let him keep doing this to himself for any longer than that - cannot keep asking him to sacrifice heart and soul in the name of the man they both love. She doesn’t have the stomach for it - still less with the little one on the way.
***********************************************************
The expected response from Alfred reaches them three months after the hatching of her scheme, and it is all Miranda can do not to crumple it up in one fist and throw it into the fire when she reads it. It is horrible - condescending, smugly arrogant and coldly demanding - and it brings a vicious smile to her face. Alfred has taken the bait. He is demanding that the child be turned over to him, just as she had expected, and she sits down at her writing desk, her belly bumping the edge as she leans over to write a response - an equally frigid, equally coldly calculating piece of correspondence that turns her stomach even as she writes it, demanding to know what Lord Ashbourne is willing to give her in return for her only child and suggesting that she would be willing to negotiate for the right price. She trusts that Alfred will know of what, or rather whom, she speaks, and she sends the letter with a prayer, clasping James’ hand as she does so. He looks equally terrified and hopeful, his green eyes a sea of emotion at the thought of what they are about to do.
Not a month later, Miranda receives word that Thomas has been seen being loaded into a carriage and taken to the Earl’s residence. The letter is frustratingly vague as to his condition, but she breathes a silent thanks nonetheless, relieved beyond measure that her husband is now safely out of Bedlam, if not yet free entirely. She receives a second letter hard on the heels of the first, this one from Alfred, confirming the terms of their deal, and another, unsigned, which makes James stare, a strange expression on his face.
“Alfred Hamilton will be sailing to Charles Town aboard the Maria Aleyne on June the 5th. You may wish to know that his cargo includes his son, Lord Thomas Hamilton.” He reads it aloud, and then stares at the writing, his fingers tracing over the stylized H in Hamilton. “I suppose that’s as close to an apology as I’m ever likely to get,” he says roughly.
“It seems the Admiral has had a change of heart,” Miranda agrees.
“If he thinks this is going to save Alfred’s miserable life when I find him -” James starts, and she shakes her head.
“No. I’m sure he knows better. This ends now, for all our sakes. I won’t spend the rest of our lives waiting for Alfred to come and tear everything down around us again. He cannot -”
The baby kicks, and she winces.
“Apparently your son agrees with me,” she says, at James’ look of concern.
“I thought you weren’t certain?” He asks, one eyebrow cocked.
“He’s yours when he’s being argumentative,” she retorts, and one corner of his mouth pulls upward.
“Thomas would be playing innocent right now,” he says. “As if he’s not every bit as stubborn and contrary.”
“Stubborn and contrary, yes. Prone to punching people, no,” she retorts, and James shakes his head, and abruptly the mood between them changes. He looks at her, and she lays a hand on his chest.
“Bring him back to us, James,” she charges, and he nods.
“I’ll be back in a month,” he tells her. “We’ll take the ship as it approaches Charles Town. If we hit her right -”
“You won’t be hitting anything,” Miranda says severely. “Thomas is aboard that ship.” He sighs.
“It’s a figure of speech,” he tells her. “I’ll bring him back safely, Miranda, I swear it.”
She reaches forward and grasps the back of his neck, bringing him down to her for a kiss and then releases him.
“Be careful,” she says firmly. “I refuse to lose you too.” He nods, and then lowers his head to kiss her again, the gesture equal parts comfort and sorrow that turns into a biting, desperate thing, as if he is attempting to leave her with the lingering memory of his mouth on hers to tide her over until he returns.
“I’ll see you in a month. This will be over in a month,” he says, and then he’s away, heading out the door to go and retrieve their lover.