Whispers of Gunpowder and Lace
Captain John Price x Debutante (Bridgerton AU)
Series Masterlist
As you and John navigate the joyful chaos of raising two little boys, an unexpected third pregnancy lets you quietly wonder together about a daughter.
56. Enough Papa for Everyone
The house was loud now. Not occasionally loud. Not the manageable, charming sort of noise that could be contained behind nursery doors and soothed by closing a window.
It was loud in the bones of the place.
There were toy soldiers beneath the dining table. There were wooden blocks in the garden path. There were muddy little boots lined crookedly by the back door, though no amount of instruction could convince either of your sons that boots belonged on a mat rather than directly in the middle of whatever room they had most recently entered.
There were tiny fingerprints on the lower panes of the drawing-room windows. There were crumbs in places crumbs had no business being. There was a small leather ball in the rosebush. There was a painted wooden horse in the bath.
And there were two little boys who seemed to appear wherever John Price went as though tied to him by invisible string.
Your eldest was old enough now to run. Not gracefully. Not safely. Not in a way that inspired confidence.
He ran with his whole body pitched forward, arms swinging at his sides, curls bouncing as he charged through the halls with the conviction that every destination was urgent and every obstacle was a personal insult.
Your second son had only recently decided that walking was worth the effort. He preferred to be carried. By you, when he wanted comfort. By Anna, when he wanted biscuits. By his grandfather, when he wanted to be indulged. And by John whenever he wanted anything at all.
“Da,” he would say, holding up both hands.
And John, who had once commanded men in battle without hesitation, would give in immediately.
Your eldest had learned this. He had also learned that if he shouted “Papa” from a room away, John would come.
This had created a dangerous amount of confidence.
“Papa,” your eldest called one morning from the far end of the garden.
John looked up from the shed doorway, where he was attempting to repair the hinge on a cabinet that had been opened, slammed, and climbed upon by two small boys in the span of one afternoon.
“Yes, lad?”
“Papa!”
“I am here.”
“Come see!”
John sighed, set down the screwdriver, and rose from his knees.
Your younger son, who had been sitting at John’s feet with a wooden soldier in one hand and a fistful of grass in the other, immediately stood too.
“Da.”
John looked down at him.
“You too?”
Your youngest nodded solemnly.
“Da.”
John held out his hand. The boy took it at once.
You watched from the garden bench, one hand tucked around your tea, as John crossed the lawn with one son clinging to his fingers and the other already shouting about something he had found near the fence.
The sight softened you every time.
Your husband had never been a man made for stillness. He had always needed something to do with his hands, some project to mend, some path to walk, some detail to notice and quietly fix before anyone else realized it had been wrong.
Now he had two boys trailing behind him through the garden and workshop. He had never looked more content.
Not that he would admit it.
“Papa,” your eldest said as John reached him. He pointed down at the grass.
There was a beetle there. A very ordinary beetle.
Your eldest crouched beside it with the solemn awe of a scholar discovering a new continent.
“Bug,” he whispered.
John crouched too.
“Yes,” he said.
“Big bug.”
“It is a very respectable bug.”
Your youngest leaned sideways, still holding John’s hand.
“Bug,” he echoed.
The beetle crawled one inch forward. Both boys gasped.
John looked over at you. His face held that familiar expression. Half amusement. Half surrender. Entirely love.
You smiled into your tea.
The boys had made him softer. Not less himself. Never that.
He was still steady. Still watchful. Still impossible about locked doors, muddy boots, loose stair rails, and whether a child ought to be permitted near the pond without at least one adult close enough to dive in after him.
But fatherhood had brought out something in him that even you had not expected.
He laughed more easily now. He let your sons climb over him like he was a piece of furniture built specifically for them. He had become capable of sitting on the floor for an hour assembling toy soldiers into ranks, only for your youngest to knock them all down with one delighted slap.
He carried them both at once when they were tired. He read bedtime stories with more voices than anyone had anticipated he possessed. He let them fall asleep against him whenever they pleased.
And every night, after the boys had finally been bathed and kissed and settled into their beds, after Anna had put away the laundry and the house had quieted into the kind of exhausted peace only parents understood, John would stand in the nursery doorway for just a moment.
He would look at them.
Your eldest, sprawled in his bed like he had fought a war against blankets and lost.
Your youngest, curled around his stuffed lion, one little hand clutching the edge of his pillow.
Then John would come back to you.
“They are asleep,” he would say quietly.
As if it were news. As if it were a miracle.
And sometimes, you thought it was.
The trouble began one rainy morning. Not dramatic trouble. Not a sudden swoon or a shock that sent the household running.
Only a quiet certainty that arrived while you stood in the kitchen doorway watching your younger son fling bits of toast to the dog beneath the table.
You had been tired for days. Tired in the old familiar way. Not simply from being the mother of two small boys who seemed determined to wake before the sun.
A different tiredness. The kind that settled beneath your skin and made you pause halfway through a task because your body had quietly asked you to sit.
There had been nausea too. You had blamed the soup. Then the tea. Then the fact that your youngest had smeared jam into your hair before breakfast.
But on that morning, when the smell of buttered toast turned your stomach and you had to grip the edge of the counter until the wave passed, something settled heavily in your chest.
Anna looked up from where she was helping the boys with their breakfast. Her eyes met yours.
Neither of you spoke. You did not need to.
Later, after the children had been taken out to the garden with their father, Anna found you in the upstairs sitting room.
You were standing by the window, staring down at John.
He had both boys with him. Your eldest was running in circles around the willow bench, shouting something about being a horse. Your youngest sat on John’s shoulders, his small hands tangled in John’s hair, laughing every time John pretended he could not see where he was going.
They looked happy. Loud. Wild. Entirely yours.
Anna closed the door behind her.
“You have counted?”
You nodded.
“And?”
You looked down at your hands.
“I am late.”
Anna was quiet for a moment. Then she came to stand beside you.
“How late?”
You told her.
Her face softened. Not with surprise. With certainty.
“Oh,” she said.
You let out a shaky breath.
“I cannot be.”
Anna looked at you gently.
“You can.”
You laughed once, almost helplessly. “The second one is barely sleeping through the night.”
“I know.”
“Our eldest still thinks the stairs are a sport.”
“I know.”
“I have two boys underfoot at every hour of the day.”
Anna’s mouth twitched.
“I know.”
You turned toward her.
“Anna.”
She took your hand.
“You have a family that is growing,” she said softly. “Sometimes families do not wait for convenient moments.”
You pressed a hand to your stomach.
You did not know whether you felt joy first. Or fear. Perhaps both. Perhaps they had arrived together.
That evening, you waited until the boys were asleep.
It took longer than usual. Your eldest insisted on a second story. Then a third. Your youngest began crying the moment John tried to leave the room, forcing him to sit in the rocking chair until he drifted off again.
By the time you and John finally reached your own bedchamber, the fire had burned low and the house was deep in shadow.
John was loosening his collar when he looked over and saw your face.
He stopped.
“What is it?”
You sat on the edge of the bed.
“I need to tell you something.”
He crossed the room at once. His expression changed, concern settling into every line of him.
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Is it the boys?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
You reached for his hand. His fingers closed around yours without hesitation.
“I am late,” you said.
He went still. Not the startled stillness of the first time. Not quite. This was slower.
He looked down at your hands. Then at your stomach. Then back at you.
“How late?”
You told him.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he blinked once. Twice. And let out a breath that became a laugh.
Not because it was funny. Because it was impossible.
Because your second son was still waking some nights. Because your eldest had only just begun sleeping in a proper bed without climbing out twice before midnight. Because they had two children already, two boys who filled every room and hour and breath of their lives.
Because another child felt like the world opening wider than either of you had planned.
“Another baby,” John said quietly.
You laughed too, though tears had begun to burn at the corners of your eyes.
“Possibly.”
He sat beside you.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. Then John leaned back against the headboard and covered his face with one hand.
You stared at him.
“John?”
He lowered his hand.
He was smiling. A helpless, disbelieving smile that made him look younger.
“Love,” he said, “we have lost our minds.”
You burst into laughter.
He laughed too.
“The second one only slept through the night twice,” he continued. “Twice. And one of those times was because he had a fever.”
“I know.”
“Our eldest thinks breakfast is optional if he can find a biscuit in the pantry.”
“I know.”
“He has learned how to open the garden gate.”
“I know.”
John looked at you.
“Another baby.”
You nodded.
He reached for you then, pulling you into his lap with a care that made your throat tighten. His arms wrapped around you. His face pressed into your hair.
“You want this?” he whispered.
You did not answer immediately.
You looked toward the door.
Beyond it, two boys slept in rooms down the hall.
Your sons. Your first and second miracles. Your house full of noise and laughter and tiny shoes.
Your body tired, yes. Your heart full, yes. But still able to make room.
“I am frightened,” you admitted. “I do not know how we will manage.”
John’s hand moved slowly over your back.
“We will manage.”
“I know.”
“And?”
You swallowed.
“And I think I want this.”
His arms tightened.
“I do too.”
You turned to look at him.
His eyes were bright. Not because he was unafraid. Not because he did not understand the chaos waiting for you.
Because he did.
And he wanted it anyway.
“We will have three,” he murmured.
“Perhaps.”
“We will.”
You smiled.
Then the room went quiet again. A softer quiet. The kind that made the truth waiting between you impossible to ignore.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“Do you ever wonder?” you asked.
John’s brow creased.
“About what?”
You hesitated. The words felt dangerous in a way they should not.
Not because you loved your sons any less. Not because you would not love another boy with every part of yourself.
But because there was a small, private place in you that had begun to imagine something else.
A daughter.
A little girl in the garden.
A child with ribbons in her hair and John’s eyes, perhaps.
You looked back at John.
“If it is a girl.”
He grew very quiet.
You felt his hand tighten around yours.
“I have thought about it,” he admitted.
Your eyes stung.
“I do not want to hope too hard.”
“No,” he said softly. “Neither do I.”
You looked down.
“I would feel guilty.”
“You should not.”
“I have two beautiful boys. I am happy. I am grateful. I do not want them to ever think I wished for something different.”
John touched your chin and tipped your face toward his.
“Wanting a daughter does not mean you love your sons less.”
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“And if it is another boy,” he said, “we will love him exactly the way we love the others.”
“Yes.”
“If it is a girl,” he continued, his voice changing, turning softer, “we will love her exactly the same.”
You smiled faintly.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“We do not have to make a wish into a burden,” he whispered. “We can wonder. That is all.”
You closed your eyes.
“We can wonder.”
John kissed you then. Slow. Tender.
Not a promise of what the baby would be.
Only a promise that whatever came, it would be welcomed.
The doctor confirmed your pregnancy two mornings later.
Anna cried.
Your mother cried too, though she insisted it was because she had been cutting onions earlier in the kitchen, which no one believed because there were no onions within ten feet of her.
Your father sat down heavily in his chair.
“Three?” he said.
You smiled.
“Three.”
He looked toward John. Then toward the garden, where your sons were chasing one another around the fountain while Mr. Price pretended he was not encouraging them.
“God help us,” your father said.
Mr. Price slapped the arm of his chair.
“Three grandsons,” he declared.
“We do not know that,” you reminded him.
“Three grandchildren, then,” he corrected. “Still excellent.”
Your eldest had been told about the baby in the simplest terms possible.
Mama had a baby in her belly. The baby would come later. The baby would be small. The baby would not take his horse.
This last point seemed most important.
“Baby no take horse?” he asked seriously.
“No,” you assured him.
“Baby no take lion?”
“No.”
“Baby no take Papa?”
John looked up from where he sat on the floor with your youngest.
The question seemed to catch him somewhere deep.
He opened his arms.
Your eldest ran into them.
John held him close.
“No one takes Papa from you,” he said quietly. “There is enough Papa for everyone.”
Your eldest looked up at him.
“Enough?”
“Enough.”
That seemed to settle it.
For the moment.
The pregnancy moved forward quickly. Not in the way time truly moves. The months were still long. Your body still changed. There were still mornings of sickness, afternoons of exhaustion, nights where the baby moved beneath your ribs with enough force to make you gasp.
But the days were crowded. Your sons made sure of it.
Your eldest began following John into the workshop whenever he could escape the nursery.
Your younger son followed your eldest.
By the end of a week, John had two small shadows behind him every time he crossed the garden.
One day, you found all three of them in the shed.
John sat at the workbench, attempting to sand the edge of a small wooden stool. Your eldest sat beside him on an overturned crate, wearing a pair of John’s old gloves that fell halfway to his elbows.
Your youngest sat on the floor with a wooden spoon, tapping it against a bucket with great satisfaction.
“Papa make,” your eldest said.
“Yes,” John replied.
“Papa fix.”
“Yes.”
“Papa make baby bed?”
John looked at you.
You stood in the doorway, one hand resting over the gentle curve of your stomach.
“I did make your bed,” John said.
“Baby bed?”
“Yes.”
“Mine?”
“No,” John said, smiling. “The baby has its own.”
Your eldest considered this. Then he pointed to the pile of wood.
“Mine too.”
John sighed.
“Of course.”
You laughed.
He gave you a look.
“This is your fault.”
“They are your sons.”
“Exactly.”
The first time you felt the baby move, you were sitting in the garden with both boys.
Your eldest had fallen asleep with his head in your lap after an hour of chasing butterflies. Your younger son sat beside you in the grass, trying to put a flower into the mouth of the wooden lion Soap had given him.
John was nearby, repairing a loose section of fence.
The baby fluttered beneath your hand.
You froze.
Then it happened again.
A soft, unmistakable movement.
You looked toward John.
“John.”
He looked up at once.
“What is it?”
“It moved.”
He dropped the hammer. Not dramatically. Not on purpose. It simply slipped from his hand and landed in the grass.
Your sons both startled.
Your eldest blinked awake.
John crossed the lawn in three long strides and knelt before you.
“You are sure?”
You took his hand and pressed it to your stomach.
“There.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the baby moved again.
John inhaled sharply.
Your eldest watched him.
“Baby kick?”
John looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Baby kick Mama?”
“Yes.”
Your eldest frowned.
“Bad baby?”
You laughed.
“No, sweetheart. The baby is saying hello.”
Your youngest crawled closer and pressed his palm against your stomach.
“Baby?”
“Yes,” you whispered.
John looked at all of you.
At your two boys in the grass. At your hand over his. At the child still hidden beneath your heart.
His eyes shone.
For a moment, he could not speak.
Then he bent and kissed your stomach gently.
“Hello,” he whispered.
Your eldest copied him. A loud, sloppy kiss pressed against your gown.
“Hi baby.”
Your youngest followed with an enthusiastic pat.
“Baby.”
You laughed through tears.
John looked up at you.
“Three,” he said softly.
You nodded.
“Three.”
The birth came during a cold winter rain.
The whole house seemed wrapped in shadow and candlelight. Your boys had been taken to your parents’ estate before the labor properly began, because your mother had insisted that two small children did not need to witness their mother trying to bring a third into the world.
Your eldest had cried when he left.
“Want Mama.”
“I know,” you told him, kneeling carefully before him. “I will see you soon.”
“Baby come?”
“Yes.”
“Baby boy?”
You paused.
“Maybe.”
“Baby girl?”
“Maybe.”
He thought about that.
Then placed a kiss on your stomach.
“Hi baby.”
Your younger son did the same, though mostly because his brother had.
Then they were gone.
The house felt too quiet without them.
John stayed by your side.
This labor was not as long as the first. Not as uncertain.
But it hurt in new ways.
Perhaps because your body remembered.
Perhaps because you did too.
There were moments when you laughed bitterly at the thought that you had ever believed birth would become easier simply because you had done it before.
John did not laugh.
He only held your hand. Brought you water. Pressed cool cloths to your forehead. Told you again and again that you were doing it.
At one point, in the long stretch before dawn, you clutched his shirt and said through clenched teeth, “I do not think I can do this again.”
John’s face went pale.
“You do not have to.”
“I mean now.”
His expression softened at once.
“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “You are doing it.”
“I am tired.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I do not mean it.”
“I know.”
“I may mean it later.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“You can tell me later.”
The midwife gave instructions. Your mother held one hand. John held the other.
And when the final moment came, when you felt as though every part of you had been pulled apart and remade, John’s forehead pressed against yours.
“Come on, love,” he whispered. “Bring them home.”
You gave one final push.
Then there was silence.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then a cry.
A sharp, furious, perfect cry.
The midwife smiled.
“It is a boy.”
For a second, you only stared.
Not because you were disappointed.
Never that.
Because the word landed in a place already prepared for it.
A boy.
Another son.
Another little life.
John made a sound beside you that was half laugh, half breathless disbelief.
The baby was placed against your chest.
He was warm and furious and beautiful. His hair was darker than your second son’s had been. His face was red from protesting his arrival. His little fists opened and closed against you with fierce determination.
You looked down at him.
Your third son.
Your heart opened wider than you thought it could.
John stood beside the bed, tears already bright in his eyes.
He looked at the baby. Then at you. Then back at the baby.
And laughed helplessly.
“Another one of me,” he whispered. “God help you.”
You laughed through your tears.
“God help us all.”
John bent to kiss your forehead. Then the baby’s hair. Then he took him carefully when the midwife offered.
For a moment, he stood there holding your newest son against his chest.
He looked tired. Overwhelmed. Happy.
There was no disappointment in his face.
Only awe.
Only love.
Only the stunned realization that life had given him more than he ever dared ask for.
“Our boys,” he said softly.
You looked at him.
“Our boys.”
He came back to the bed and sat beside you.
The rain tapped gently at the window. The fire burned low. The cradle waited nearby.
John held your third son between you, and you rested your hand over the baby’s back.
“So,” he murmured, looking at the tiny face beneath the blanket. “We have three.”
“We do.”
“You know what this means.”
You smiled tiredly.
“What?”
“The house will never be quiet again.”
“It was never quiet.”
“No,” he admitted. “But now it will be louder.”
You looked at your baby. Then toward the door, imagining the moment your other sons would return.
Two little shadows.
Soon to become three.
You knew there would be jealousy. There would be mess. There would be nights when all three boys cried at once and John stood in the middle of the hallway looking as if he had been handed an impossible mission.
There would be muddy boots and broken toys and arguments over who sat beside Papa at supper.
There would be moments of exhaustion so sharp you might cry over toast again.
But there would be this too.
Three boys.
Three sons.
Three small hearts that had made room for themselves inside yours.
John looked down at the newborn in his arms.
Then back at you.
“You all right, love?”
You smiled.
“Yes.”
And you meant it.
There was a tiny ache somewhere inside you. The soft, private wondering of what it might have been like to hold a daughter.
But it did not take anything from this.
It did not make your joy smaller.
Your son shifted against you.
John’s hand came over yours.
The rain fell softly outside.
And in the quiet before the house filled again, you let yourself hold both truths at once.
You had wondered.
And you had been blessed.
Your family was loud.
Your home was full.
Your heart had made room again.
And there was no part of you that wished it otherwise.
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