It started as a suspicion. Abigail thought nothing of it at first, but then thought again when not a day passed without nausea. It was true that she was never regular; Dinah had assured her that was normal for someone her age. So when her monthly impurity did not begin on time, she gave it no mind. Two weeks moved by before she thought of it again, and at that point she was too busy worrying about Elizabeth to actually think about it. But in the weeks of her friend’s recovery, she could not keep the thoughts at bay any longer.
When an entire month passed without the bleedings that should have hit her twice, she knew. She was pregnant. And as she looked at Elizabeth’s too-thin face one day, she knew she could not share her burden with anyone. Elizabeth had enough concern of her own and did not need Abigail’s thrown onto her fragile shoulders.
She could have talked to Dinah or Ester, but the thought of telling one of her mother figures that she, unwed and unwilling, was with child was too much for her to consider. Andrew and Simon were out of the question. And besides, if she were going to tell anyone, it should be Jason.
But the thought of telling Jason was even more terrifying. Why, she was not sure. She suspected he would be rather pleased with the news, proud to be the first of his friends to plant his seed and reap an offspring. But by law, her child would be a slave. Even if Jason loved his son or daughter, it would be his belonging more than his child.
She never realized how much that would bother her. If she were married to Andrew and having his child, it would also be born a slave; Cleopas’s. But that, somehow, did not seem so bad, perhaps because to the father the baby would be more than that.
Not that such a situation was at all pertinent. She was not having Andrew’s child, and now she never would. She knew that. She remembered clearly what Jason had said: if they had a child, he would never give her up. She would have to follow him wherever he went. He would force her to leave Israel, Jerusalem, Ester, her friends. She would be his and only his. Their child would be, too.
She held her secret close to her chest, where she could worry it like the tassel of a prayer shawl. As long as no one else knew, every option was still available.
One night when she lay beside Jason, listening to his even, deep breathing, the war raged so hot within her that she thought she would burst. She knew not what to do, and her time for deciding was running out. Soon, her figure would start to change. Not drastically perhaps, but Jason would notice.
She closed her eyes, deciding that the following morning she would act. It was market day, and she would be sent to shop. It would give her several hours alone, away from home, when she could go to Elizabeth’s mother and ask her exactly what the risks of the poison were, what was in it, how it worked.
If she did not like what she heard, then she would go home and tell Jason the supposedly-joyous news.
*
Abigail pulled her head covering as low over her forehead as she dared, cast her gaze upon the ground. Every step made her heart thud, fear and queasiness swamping her. She had made this trek once before, a week ago. It had been difficult then, but not like this.
In most of the doorways, scantily clad women lurked, either shouting to each other or to the few men out and interested at this early hour. Abigail suppressed a shudder. Never had she envisioned herself walking the same streets as these harlots. She had braved it last week only to give Elizabeth’s mother an update on her daughter’s condition.
If only her reasons today justified her presence so well. If only she did not feel as base as the women selling themselves.
She spotted Lydia in her doorway. Though no longer a young woman, she was still beautiful. Her hair still shone with luster, her skin was still smooth. But her eyes . . . as Abigail drew near, she saw again that Lydia’s eyes were older than the earth underneath her feet.
“Good morning.” The harlot offered a smile. “I am afraid I have forgotten your name.”
“Abigail.”
Lydia nodded. “And how is my daughter?”
“Improving every day.” Abigail drew her lip between her teeth for a moment, forced a swallow. “That is not why I have come.”
Lydia straightened, drilling her with those hard eyes. “What is it, then? Have you followed my daughter’s example and taken up with a married man?”
“No.” Eyes on the ground, she felt her cheeks burning. “He is not married, but that does not make the situation any easier. I cannot have his child.”
Lydia’s gaze was unforgiving. “Why not? Will your mistress have you stoned? Your master? Will the man hurt you?”
“No.” This was a mistake, surely. Why had she come here? “That is not the point. If I have this child, our lives will be his forever.”
A bitter laugh slipped between Lydia’s painted lips. “Welcome to the world, beautiful one. Your life is never your own when you look as you do. It is best to belong to someone who will take care of you.” She shook her head, and her curtain of curls swayed with mesmerizing regularity. “I will not help you.” She even turned to walk inside.