Theobald Comes Home

Theobald saw he would have to leave the barn and go back up to the house. The animals were restless—they knew that he only made an appearance at this time of night if there were a birth or an illness among them, and both made them nervous.

Anyway, he would have to have it out with Githa. He tried to imagine how it would go—he wasn’t even sure what a man was supposed to do in such a situation. Was he supposed to stay with her? Would she rather want to go to—him?

Theobald let himself into the house. Githa jumped up from the bed, still dressed. Her eyes were red, but he couldn’t bear to look into them. As soon as he saw her he knew he wasn’t angry—only sad—horribly, unutterably sad.

He pulled a chair up to the fire and stared down into the coals. Githa crept closer to him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said wearily, as she seemed about to speak.

“I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“That’s precisely what I don’t want to hear.”

“Don’t you care?” she gasped.

“I? Care?” he gave a strange laugh, and then stared a while into the fire. “I mean it, Githa,” he said finally. “There’s nothing you or I can say to one another that can repair—this. Let’s… not try.”

“Oh, Theobald!” she sobbed.

“There’s just one thing I need you to tell me.”

“What is it?” she asked hopefully.

Theobald hesitated a long while. He knew exactly the words he wanted to say, but couldn’t bear to say them. He managed at last, but hadn’t the strength to look at her. “Is this baby mine?”

“Theobald!” Githa leapt back, stung. “How could you?”

Her indignation infuriated him. “I?” he thundered. “How could I?”

“Oh Theobald, you’ll wake Athelis,” she moaned.

Theobald scowled at her.

“Theobald, how could you say such a thing? How could you think such a thing?”

“My God, woman, do you not yet understand where babies come from?”

Githa blushed hotly. “Of course I do, but why would you think that—that I—Oh, how could you say such a thing?”

He paused, thoroughly confused.

“What in God’s name are we talking about here?” he asked her.

“I thought it was—I thought it was about—Alred.”

His blood rose again. “It was about Alred, wasn’t it?” he growled.

“Oh but—oh but not that, Theobald!”

“Just so far, and no farther, eh?”

“Oh Theobald, who told you such a thing?”

“Matilda said she saw him in here this morning, naked with you.”

“No, never!”

“What then? Does she lie?”

“He was never naked! We only—” She broke off, blushing.

“What did you do?” he asked, more softly now that his worst fears seemed to be evaporating.

She looked at the floor, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. The firelight on the soft curve of her cheek brought out the resemblance between her and her daughter, and she seemed as childlike as Athelis.

“Look at me, Githa,” he said gently. A new suspicion began to bloom in his mind. “What did he do to you?”

Her little chin quivering, she looked up and haltingly told him her tale of Alred’s illness, her mother’s ointment, and how with every passing day the thing had grown from a small favor to an obligation that had made her sick with worry and guilt.

Theobald listened thoughtfully. There was more to this than what she was saying, but it was quite possible that it was more than even she knew.

“There, Githa, don’t cry,” he said after she had finished her explanations, drawing her close.

“You knew it was wrong, didn’t you?” She nodded, sniffling. “Next time someone asks you to do something you think is wrong, you’ll tell me, won’t you?” She nodded again. “Good girl.”

He hugged her tightly. There would be time enough tomorrow to worry about these things. Tonight, she belonged to him.