The Family Origin

Chapter Forty-Six: MAISIE POV

 My time in bed passed in a blur. Each time I woke, Miles was next to me. He was either running his fingers through my hair or had his arms wrapped tight around my body. When the thoughts of Briar's death flooded my mind, I could not hold back my tears and Joseph would force the rag over my face. Each time I woke, I could go a little bit longer without crying. When Miles came into the room and helped me change into a nightgown, I knew this foggy haze was finally ending.

Looking at the empty space where Briar's crib was once no longer caused me to break down into tears. My heart still ached for my baby, but I was able to stop crying. I needed to push away the tears if I wanted to get out of this bed.

In the morning, the exhaustion lingered in my muscles. My knees buckled as I changed my clothes. Miles saw me holding onto the dresser to stop myself from collapsing, and he wrapped his arm around my waist to keep me on my feet. I turned in his hold and rested my cheek against his chest. He tightened his arms around me and pulled me tighter into his body. I sighed and closed my eyes as I was enveloped in his warmth.

It was good to be standing again. I had no idea how many days Miles and Joseph were forcing me to sleep. When I was awake, Miles spent his time caring for me. He would feed me or bring me to the bathroom when I needed. He helped keep me clean. He had also lost a daughter, but he spent his time making sure I was alright. Did he even have time to grieve?

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"Why?" he asked.

I looked up at him to see his usual blank expression, which provided me with a comforting sense of familiarity. He was still my husband. We were still a family.

"For everything," I said.

I pushed myself up onto my toes and placed my hands on his shoulder. He tightened his hold into a crushing grip as I kissed him. When I pulled away, I could see a faint smile.

"Let's go downstairs," I said.

Miles kissed me again before he loosened his grip. He kept his arm around my waist as we left the bedroom and went down the staircase. Joseph was already sitting at the table in the kitchen. His brows were furrowed as he read a letter in his hands. A pot of porridge was already on the stove. I moved to step toward the counter, but Miles pulled me toward the table and forced me to sit.

Joseph glanced up from the letter to me. His brows remained furrowed, and his jaw was tense as he gritted his teeth. I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat. Was he furious about the way I had been acting? Miles had to have him cover my mouth with the rag every time I started to cry.

Miles brought over two bowls and set one down in front of me. He sat across from Joseph and raised a brow.

"Who wrote you a letter?" he asked.

Joseph let out a deep breath, but none of the tension left his expression. He folded the letter in half and set it on the table.

"Thatcher," he said.

The name took me a moment to recognize. Edith Thatcher was the woman Joseph spoke to about helping deliver my baby. Vincent Thatcher was the man whose throat Miles slashed. My appetite disappeared as my stomach twisted itself into a knot.

"Edith?" Miles asked. His grip was tight on his spoon, turning his knuckles white. "Why would she be writing to you?"

"It is not Edith," Joseph said. "Oliver wrote this."

Miles threw his spoon down into the bowl. The loud clang caused me to jump. He leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on the table, but pushed his shoulders back to make him look even more broad.