It was the fifth day of praying it was a terrible disease that had taken over Agnes’ life, as she crouched over the bowl and heaved. She had managed to convince her husband she was simply sick with the flu, or a cold, or what have you- and she held her spit until after he left in the morning (or cleaned it up before the smell or sound could wake him up, when it was still early).
It wasn’t a normal illness, of course. Part of her knew this from the first day. Still, when all she had was stubborn defiance, what could she do but lie- even to herself?
She was on sick leave from the Society, though the concept of ‘leave’ had largely fallen out of use as the numbers dwindled- they couldn’t afford to get rid of someone, even someone who was too unwell to be on site more than once a week. Agnes knew several such people who, in some way or another, had become cornerstones- simply because there was nobody else to offer more support than them.
Nobody there suspected anything, of course. And her husband, bless his soul, was the most clueless man she’d ever met. She wondered absently who would realize first- her husband, or one of her friends at the castle. She never stayed away so long- even when she was sick. It was only a matter of time until someone figured out what was going on. She wouldn’t be able to hide it forever. At some point, even if her husband believed that she had caught something- her belly would get too large to hide under blouses and skirts.
The tears welled up in her eyes as she caught her breath, having spit up nothing but stomach acid for the second time that morning. She held the chamber pot with a deathly grip under her callused hands as she started to shake. Her breathing failed to slow as she took deeper and heavier breaths, the blood rushing to her cheeks- away from her hands- until she picked up the chamber pot and flung it across the room in an attempt to get it as far away from her as possible.
The sick splattered across the walls and floors as the pot clanged against the ground. If she didn’t clean it up right now, it would stain within minutes. The snot and tears and throw-up ran down her face and wet her clothes.
It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be pregnant. Couldn’t be. Everything was going well. She was happily married. Her husband was wonderful. What he couldn’t offer her in intellectual, or at least interesting, debate, she found in abundance at Castle Gyllencreutz. And what physical intimacy she no longer wanted from him, well. She had Algot for that. Everything had started to fit into place over the last few years, and she had been happy.
This put all of that in jeopardy.
Agnes wanted to scream. To yell. To punch something, someone, for doing this to her- but the spit-up on the walls festered. She turned and grabbed a bucket and a rag.
The trap was so elaborate it didn’t even have the decency to allow her her fury. She had to hide her carelessness.
How would her husband react when he found out? He’d be delighted, no doubt. Start writing down names. Jonas if it was a boy. Lena if it was a girl. She scrubbed harder, trying to quiet the bubbling thoughts in her head.
Kerstin. Jan. Annelis.
The soap foamed terribly on the rag. Her knuckles were bleeding. She put one in her mouth, sucking at the blood, tasting the soap and probable residual acid, as she switched to her left hand. It was over. Her life was over.
What about Algot? How would he feel? …if it was his, would he tell anyone? Would he even know?
She stopped scrubbing.
Agnes would be able to tell. She would know. Algot, even if he didn’t know for sure… would he tell anyone? Her husband? God, what would he do?
It was his fault. None of this would have happened if… if Algot wasn’t around, or if her husband…
It wasn’t fair. She felt her face flushing once again as she swirled the line around in her mind. It wasn’t fair. Her husband would keep going to his job. Algot would stay butler at Castle Gyllencreutz. And she would be at home, taking care of a baby. Watching the world pass her by. Letting people die to Vaesen. People that could have survived if she’d been there. And for what? A little version of her husband?
Nothing would change for them. Nothing would change for anyone but her. And everything would change for her. She’d have to give up everything. And if he found out the child was Algot’s, if it was… what would he do with her?
It was infuriating. She would bear their children. They would live the rest of their lives. They would win. And she would have nothing.
She paused. Her face, which had been steadily scrunching up without her realizing it, relaxed a bit. What if… they didn’t have to know?
Madeleine Lindelöf.
She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t asked, or brought it up. But when she had gone to Studsvik for a job last winter, there had been a lot of unchaperoned women staying at the hotel Lindelöf. Several of them with child. She’d had her suspicions. If it was true… If Madeleine did what Agnes thought she did…
Well. If she didn’t, that would be fine too. She could tell the people of Studsvik it was a miscarriage.
As for her husband… he wouldn’t question it. She was going to the seaside for her health, or for a long-term job from the Society. He might not even care. And the Society would just have to manage without her for a while.
She started scrubbing again, a renewed vigor in her movements. She could fix this. She could recover. She could have the life she wanted again. It would just be a quick blip, in the course of things.
She started to do the math in her head. She could have her stuff packed by tonight. Would she wait until her husband came back before she left? Yes, yes. If she rushed now, it would only be suspicious.
The Society? She would send them a letter. A letter was good enough. She’d be back in a year. She’d be back in a year.
Algot… she shook her head. She couldn’t bear to see him. To talk to him. He would get away with everything. No one would even bat an eye at him if their relations came out.
No, she’d see him again when she came back. Maybe by then, the anger will have faded. Things could go back to normal.
For now… she’d have to make it through.
One year. One year and everything would be fixed.