Cicatrice

Chapter XXV

QUEEN ESTELLE BELSHAW

Feeling my stomach churn within me, I try to accept a child growing inside of it. I was only a baby myself- with me being merely seventeen. I had to learn to grow fast, perhaps faster than I would have liked. You would assume being born into royalty would be a Sunday stroll in the park, but it was far from it.

I would kill for regular life.

Lying beside Malcolm, I watch him sleep peacefully whilst my hand rests on my stomach. I still hadn't told him I was pregnant; in fact, I found myself avoiding it, and I wasn't entirely sure why. Suppose he'd treat me better if he found out I was carrying his child?

Or worse?

With a sudden act of impulsion, I shake Malcolm, attempting to awaken him. He groans in frustration as his eyes remain shut, tossing and turning. "Malcolm," I whisper, pushing his shoulder harshly. He takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering open.

"Oh, what is it? I was dreaming," he whispers irritatedly, holding himself up on his elbows. I purse my lips, taking a deep breath. "I need to tell you something," I stated softly, watching him deeply sigh in frustration. "Why, can't it wait 'til morning?" he groans, lying back down on his side.

Feeling blood boiling through my veins, I stop myself from overflowing. "It cannot wait 'til morning Malcolm, I'm pregnant, okay?" I growl, pursing my lips at my sudden outburst.

Ah, hormones.

He jolts up out of his slumber, facing my guilty, yet furious eyes.

"You're what?" he whispers, consternation deep within his eyes, his jaw dropping open. I couldn't yet tell if he were happily surprised or upset. With the fifty-fifty chance of him being the father, it would be cruel to not let him know that I was pregnant.

"I'm pregnant, Malcolm," I reinstate, a small smile plastered on my lips. An overwhelming amount of guilt rushes over me. Although Malcolm wasn't such a great person, who was I to judge? This was the most blasphemous crime one could commit for a queen.

With a joyful giggle escaping his lips, he pulls me in for a hug. "Why, this is incredible!" he gasps, holding either side of my shoulders. "I'm going to be a father!" he exclaims, holding up his fists in excitement, making me grit my teeth.

It could never get out that I had an affair.

⁂

Marguerite's hand reside on my still slim belly. With a small smile attached to her lips, she looks up into my eyes. "Darling, are you having an affair?" she questions as my eyes widen with shock. I was taken aback by her audacity, although I hadn't been offended.

"What?"

"This child is not Malcolms. You know that, don't you?" she asks nonchalantly, not a hint of disgust in her eyes, although I had felt disgusted.

"You can't know for sure, can you?" I question, feeling my heart sink to my stomach. If it hadn't been Malcolm's, this child would be a result of infidelity, and I wasn't sure if I could live with that fact.

Eddie wasn't mine.

I watch as she purses her lips and raises her eyebrows, puzzled. "I assume there is no real way to know, honey, but I can feel it, I can feel it in my heart, this child does not belong to Malcolm," she whispers, a look of sincerity in her eyes as tears well up in mine.

I trusted Marguerite with my whole life. She had predicted things in the past such as genders of children, how many, and has been eerily accurate. I would be mad to not believe her, wouldn't I?

And that could only mean one thing. Eddie's child would be born to me.

It was a double edged sword. If I could have anybodies child, it would be Eddie. But Eddie wasn't mine to keep- I was married. I should be having Malcolm's child. I am a queen, for chrissakes, not a fille de joie.

One would think that a queen would do absolutely as she pleases, but this wasn't the case. I knew I'd be shunned if this came out to the public; just like my father was shunned, being blamed for the uncontrollable, deadly plague.

I did not want to step down as a queen. If I were forced in these shoes, I might as well make it worthwhile and change what I can, like what a true leader would do. I would be more of a leader than my father ever could.

What catches Marguerite and me off guard is when a vase shatters behind us, making us both gasp. "Is somebody there?" I call, however, I receive no answer. With my heart thumping rapidly against my chest, I worry if somebody were listening in on our conversation.

"Marguerite, this conversation doesn't leave this room, understand?" I whisper, and she nods.