Chapter Text
The call comes as she’s kneading dough, Monica Baddingham’s annual fundraiser for the Women’s Institute two days away and requiring a dozen loaves of crusty French bread. She isn’t kneading by hand, at least, the shiny new stand mixer folding the dough over and over while Taggie crosses another item off her to-do list.
“It’s purely selfless,” Rupert had preened, arriving home one day with a collection of boxes containing pricey kitchen gadgets that she had only ever dreamed of owning. “I’ve got to make up for years of missed birthdays.” She would have pushed back, reminded him that it didn’t count as a missed birthday if they hadn’t known each other, but she was admittedly becoming very fond of his frequent spoiling. Besides, the stand mixer really did speed up most of her catering prep.
The phone continues to ring, Gertrude giving her an unimpressed look as she shuffles across the kitchen to pick it up. “Penscombe Court, Mrs. Campbell-Black speaking.” Using her new name still sends a rush through her, a giddy little shiver running up her spine. She’s Rupert’s wife, his partner in all things.
That includes, apparently, parenting emergencies.
“This is Headmistress Danvers, from Highbury School for Girls. I’m calling about Tabitha, she’s fallen ill. I’m hoping one of her parents can come pick her up, but I've been unable to reach either of them.”
“Rupert’s on set today,” she sighs, remembering his reluctance that morning. He’d clung to her tightly, head nuzzled into her neck as he mumbled about demanding producers who insisted he attend every damn day of this shoot. It was a punishment, he argued, for the crime of being in love. “H-he’s in Bath, I could try his car phone?”
“I’m afraid Tabitha needs to go home sooner than later,” the woman says softly. “Is Mrs. Gordon around? I tried their line but no one picked up.”
Privately, Taggie thinks that Helen would leave the country without telling them, if she could. While her temper had mellowed since the release of the memoirs, she still wasn’t particularly fond of Taggie, often speaking around her instead of addressing her directly. Glancing at the clock, she makes up her mind. “I’ll come get her. I can be there in twenty minutes or so.”
Ultimately, accounting for the brief call she makes when the Headmistress hangs up, it takes her half an hour. The tape Rupert had recorded in case of emergencies, one side with directions to Tabitha’s school and the other with directions to Marcus’s, had failed to mention a new fork in the road, leaving Taggie to guess which way she had to turn. It only took five minutes to circle back and make up for the wrong turn, but those added moments cause her stomach to flutter with guilt. Helen wouldn’t have gotten lost, she reminds herself moodily. She would have been able to read a map, or street signs.
All thoughts of Helen disappear, however, when an aide leads her to the nurse’s office. Tabitha is curled on the bed, her blonde pigtails slightly askew on her head and face pale. The only sign that she’s still Tab is the toothy smile she gives when she finally spots Taggie.
“Hi darling,” she whispers, coming to crouch by the side of the bed. “Heard you’re not feeling well.”
“I threw up,” Tabitha’s usually chipper voice has morphed into a quiet moan, tinged with exhaustion. “And my head hurts.”
“I know,” Taggie coos, brushing the sweat slicked bangs from her forehead. “We’re going to go home soon, alright? I’ll make some soup, like you did when I was sick, remember?”
For a few minutes, they sit in a comfortable silence. Tabitha’s eyes fall closed as Taggie strokes her hair, feeling her forehead for any sign of fever. She’s warm, though her cheeks remain pale and clammy. It was the flu, most likely, a severe strain had been making its way through Rutshire for the past few weeks. Poor girl, Taggie thought, watching the shallow rise and fall of Tabitha’s chest as she finally rested. At least Rupert would likely be home early, which would surely bring her some comfort.
A cry broke the silence suddenly, Tabitha lurching up and reaching for the bucket that sat near the end of the bed. She barely makes it, her shoulders shaking with sobs as she retches into the plastic bowl. With one hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades, Taggie tries her best to comfort the poor girl.
“I wanna go home,” she sobs, tears trickling down her now ruddy cheeks. “Can we g’home?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Taggie tries to soothe her as best as possible, ducking her head into the hallway to see if the nurse is still lingering nearby. Thankfully she is, concern etched across her face. “I’m taking Tabitha home now,” she explains quietly, trying not to let her own nerves show. “Can someone help bring her things to the car?”
She’s got reinforcements waiting outside, having the foresight to know that Tabitha would likely cling to her and refuse to let her drive. Her predictions prove correct, the little girl wrapping around her like a barnacle as soon as she and the nurse re-enter the room. “Come on, Tab,” she huffs, not quite used to bearing the weight of an eight year old yet. Her legs wrap around Taggie’s waist, clinging tightly as they move slowly down the hallway. Her head tucks into Taggie’s neck, an echo of her father’s position that morning, mumbling something soft that she cannot quite make out.
When they step out of the school, Patrick is leaning against the car, sunglasses pulled low over his eyes. “Can you get the door,” Taggie asks quietly, trying not to jostle Tabitha in her arms. “I’ll sit in the back with her–and her backpack, grab that from the nurse, will you?”
Sliding into the back of the Mini, Tabitha lets out a whimper. “Sh, we’re heading home now, Tab. We’ll go slow, alright? You just let me know if you think you’re going to be sick.”
Her little head nods, tucking impossibly closer. “Can we watch Dorothy Dove when we get home,” Tab asks quietly, her hands clutching the fabric of Taggie’s dress. “On the couch?”
“Of course,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to Tabitha’s fringe, sweaty and slightly matted from her fever. “Whatever you want, darling. Daddy will be home soon too, I promise.”
That seems to settle her, her breathing starting to even out as they pull away from the school. With another reminder to drive slowly, Patrick, seriously, they begin the drive back to Penscombe and Taggie works through her modified to-do list. The bread will still be rising when she gets home, and she had planned on spending the rest of her afternoon doing prep work. That could wait until Rupert got home, or even the next morning. Surely Monica Baddingham, of all people, would understand the importance of prioritizing a sick child.
The car shakes as they hit a pothole, rattling all three of them. Tabitha gives a little cry, sniffling at the uncomfortable sensation. “Mummy,” she whines, the first time she seems to notice Helen’s absence. “Hurts.”
“I know, darling,” Taggie murmurs in response, pulling the girl tighter in her arms. “You’re being so brave. We’re almost home, we can try calling your mummy again when we get there.”
Stroking her hair softly, mumbling quiet nonsense that seems to soothe Tabitha’s tears, she attempts to distract her for the remainder of the drive. She babbles on about Biscuit and Mabel, shares her plans for upcoming parties and what type of cake Marcus might want for his birthday. “He likes vanilla,” Tab murmurs, her forehead tucked against Taggie’s neck. “With cream cheese frosting.”
“Why don’t we make a test cake next weekend,” Taggie suggests quietly, catching Patrick’s eye in the rearview mirror. “We can have a picnic, down by the stream.”
If her brother has any thoughts on her relationship with Rupert’s kids, he can keep them to himself. The two of them have butt heads multiple times since she and Rupert got engaged, unfounded accusations of flaunting their relationship in front of Cameron rising during admittedly awkward family dinners. It always ends with Patrick storming off, the sound of his motorbike revving a sure sign that he’s heading to Cameron’s place in Hamilton Terrace.
Tabitha has fallen asleep by the time they reach Penscombe, soft snores puffing against Taggie’s neck. “Can you get the doors for me,” she asks her brother quietly, scooping Tab back into her arms carefully. She’s a limp weight, a bit too heavy for Taggie to manage up the stairs, but she refuses to pass her to Patrick. Deciding to go straight to the sitting room, she maneuvers carefully through the house, avoiding the curious pack of dogs that swirl between her legs. “I know, I know,” she mutters, the excited pitter patter of feet following her down the hall. “Tab isn’t feeling well, pups, you have to be gentle.”
The sitting room is just as they left it the night before. Her favourite tartan blanket is slung across the back of the couch, Rupert’s blue jumper half-buried underneath it. They’d cleaned up the wine glasses at least, leaving the coffee table clear for the inevitable crush of soup, saltines, and tissues. There’s no easy way to deposit Tabitha onto the couch, at least not without waking her, so Taggie simply sinks down onto the cushy sofa and lets the girl remain curled around her.
“You’re good with her.” Patrick’s voice is quiet, lingering tentatively in the doorway. “I always knew you would be a good mum.”
“She and Marcus make it easy,” is all she says in response, beginning the arduous task of untangling Tabitha’s pigtails. She rakes her fingers through the tangles, gently undoing the elastic loops and placing the bobbles on the coffee table. “I’m the lucky one, really. Could you try ringing Cameron on set, see if you can get Rupert sent home early? I think Tab will feel better if her dad’s here.”
Patrick mutters something under his breath, but Taggie doesn’t care enough to start a fight with him right now. Not when Tabitha is still so feverish, her sweet face twisted in discomfort. All she can do is keep the girl comfortable and happy, at least until Rupert gets home.
He gets to Penscombe in record time, almost certainly violating a dozen traffic rules in the process. It’s not his fault, ultimately: Cameron was the one who insisted he show up to set that day, despite having little to no involvement in the actual creation of television programming. Rupert is the face, the chief executive. He doesn’t need to be lurking on set with nothing better to do, not when he’s got a beautiful wife at home in desperate need of his attention.
At least, he’s desperate for her. His desires tend to be reciprocated these days though, Taggie’s sexual appetite equally as ravenous as his.
It had taken multiple calls from Patrick O’Hara to get him dismissed, ringing over and over again until Cameron finally called cut and answered him. He would ream her out at a later date, her stupid insistence that he be present for this pointless day of shooting keeping him from his sick child. Thank god Taggie had been home, a rarity these days considering her flourishing schedule.
Silence greets him at the door, only a yawning Beaver there to greet him. Crouching to scratch his ears, he huffs a laugh. “Where’s the patient, boy? Hm? Did she scare you away?” Tabitha was demanding on the best of days, but when she was sick she tended to reach a new level of neediness. She required only her favourite blankets, toast that was perfectly buttered, and was known to pitch a fit if anyone dared suggest a spoonful of Cheracol.
It’s why he’s surprised to find her bundled up against Taggie’s chest, eyes slightly glassy. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, wishing he had a camera within arms reach to capture his two girls together, but Claudius catches sight of him and gives a sharp, excited bark. “Hello, my darlings,” he says quietly, coming to kneel beside the couch. “I hear you had a bit of a sick day, Tab.”
“I threw up at school,” she murmurs, eyes blinking sleepily. “Then I came home and we watched Dorothy Dove.”
“She was very brave,” Taggie adds, her eyes never leaving Tabitha’s face. “Even when the car ride got a bit bumpy. Her fever has gone down a bit and she was able to keep some toast down, didn’t you?”
He’s never been more in love with Taggie, he thinks. Not even on their wedding day, when the sight of her at the end of the aisle brought tears to his eyes. Because this is the real, hard stuff that no one thinks about when they get married. Sick kids are difficult to manage, especially when Rupert knows that Taggie had her own agenda for the day. For her to drop everything and pick Tab up, keeping her company until he got home, means more than he can put in words.
“Why don’t I carry you up to bed, pumpkin,” he suggests, knowing that she is likely to fall asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. “We can read a chapter of Black Beauty, if you want?”
What he doesn’t expect is the resistance, the low whine that escapes her as she turns further into Taggie’s embrace. She mumbles something, a low protest that he can’t quite make out. “Tab, sweetheart, you need to get some rest. Come on, up to bed.”
She mumbles again, this time loud enough that he can catch her words. “Wanna stay with mummy.”
If this catches Taggie by surprise, she doesn’t show it. She simply strokes Tabitha’s hair, feeling her forehead quickly before wrapping her arm tighter around her. “Why don’t we go up to our bed,” she suggests, the suggestion causing Tab’s face to light up. “It’s big enough for all of us to cuddle, isn’t it?”
Nodding excitedly, she scrambles from Taggie’s lap and into Rupert’s waiting arms. “Can Mabel cuddle too,” Tabitha yawns, exhaustion becoming clear on her pale face. “And Gertrude?”
“We’ll see,” Taggie says with a laugh, giving him a wink that suggests both dogs will probably be enticed to follow them upstairs. “Go with daddy, I’ll follow you in a second.”
Three chapters of Black Beauty and a highly protested dose of Calpol later, Tabitha is sound asleep between them. Her arms are splayed across Taggie’s stomach, head pillowed against her shoulder because Taggie gave the best cuddles ever. He can’t even be angry about his daughter’s preference for his wife, because he’d choose her over everyone else too. “So,” he starts, voice low so that he doesn’t disturb the sleeping girl. “Mummy, huh?”
“I think she misses Helen,” Taggie murmurs, resting a gentle hand on Tabitha’s back. “She cried out for her a few times today, I felt awful. Gave her some extra cuddles to make up for it, that seemed to settle her. Where is Helen, anyways? The school couldn’t reach her.”
“Probably London, some society event.” He doesn’t care, frankly. Helen was an abysmal caretaker, always had been. Her bedside manner left much to be desired, only skirting into the children’s sick rooms to dole out medicine or take their temperatures. There were no cuddles, no days spent on the couch. None of the softness that Taggie had shown. “You know, angel, I don’t think she was crying for Helen today.”
Confusion crosses her face, brow furrowing adorably. “Are you sure? Maybe it was because she really wasn’t feeling well, people do strange things when they’re feeling poorly.”
Shaking his head, Rupert covers the hand on Tabitha’s back with one of his own. Their rings touch, silver bands overlapping sweetly. “The children don’t call Helen mummy,” he says softly, his other hand rising to cup Taggie’s cheek. “She’s always been momma, she insisted on it. It’s what she called her own mother.”
He lets her sit with the words for a second, realization dawning on her face. They’d dealt with this once before, Marcus accidentally slipping the word out at her last birthday. It hadn’t been a big deal then, a single slip that Taggie had handled with her usual grace. But this was different, it was Tabitha. His stubborn, spitfire daughter who refused to bow to anyone. She was too much like him, she hid her hurt as long as possible, would rather bare her teeth than show a sign of weakness. For her to find comfort in Taggie, calling her mummy in her fevered state, was something he had never truly expected.
A tear runs down Taggie’s cheek, quickly swept away by his thumb. “Oh, my darling,” she whispers, a small smile crossing her face. For a second, they just sit in the quiet, listening to the dogs breathing at the end of the bed and the soft snores that Tabitha has begun to emit. Then, Taggie turns into his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Can you do me a favour?”
“Anything.” And he means it. He would do anything for her, for Tabitha and Marcus. His perfect family, not quite what he envisioned as a child but ultimately much better.
“Can you call Monica and tell her that I apologize, but I’ll need to cancel her party on Wednesday. I’ve got a child home sick.”