Pippa was dressed in clothes bought with her own money, made by a seamstress! The feel of fine fabric instead of the practical fabric... she felt different about it... it wasn't the same. Her mother and father had paid for her clothes, finery, and having been at work for Tristan without a clue as to how to work. She looked at herself in the mirror, not in admiration but indifference. She sat and held her work frock up.

The money, the finery, the preparation to move into a place of her own. She pictured Tris and all he had done for her despite her ignorance of many things. Then she looked at her room, the basket of mending she still had to do, at the things she collected as a maid.

Then she felt the baby move and dropped the dress in her lap to put her hand on the spot. She knew she was going to do vetter. Her child was going to learn how to work, to clean, to do chores... she was not going to let her baby grow up with soft hands. He or she would know how to rely on themself.

Pippa stood and put the frock in the small trunk she had paid for, but she felt her anxiety go through the roof and started to tremble a little.

(CW: Reference to violence)

He hadn’t slept, though he was sure he had experienced several nightmares. The tranquilizer had worn off, but the tension in his body hadn’t. Every sound, so alien and dangerous, had startled him. The sound of the wood-clogged fishermen making their way to the harbour inflicted hot, racing panic. He had gotten out of bed, put on his shoes and paced the floor.

The pain seemed worse than last night. Was he certain he hadn’t broken anything? No internal bleeding? No brain damage? No damaged vision? It was hard to tell in the dark, but he had blown out his candled for it caused shadows to leap along the walls and he dreaded lighting it again. His ribs were killing him with every breath. He felt as gently as he could. Bruised definitely, but no clear fracture. He examined his liver, his kidneys, his stomach, while a cynical voice in the back of his head wondered why he bothered. If he lived, how was he supposed to face the days that lay ahead? Face the world?

But there was no internal bleeding. He was quite certain. And as the walls and ceiling crept from black to grey, and the hustle and bustle swelled outside his window, he recovered a slither of reason. He was not in fact going to die and he needed a plan. There were things to arrange. He had a responsibility.

With great effort and a handful of curses, he managed to get dressed. Then he examined his face in the mirror and shuddered at what he saw. He did what he could to clean it up, but there was no way he was going to be able to hide it for a couple of days at least. The bruise around his eye would take longer, he suspected. He did not plan on seeing any patients – (he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to open the door in the first place) -, but there was Pippa. She was in such a delicate state as it was.

Pippa… He remembered John. What had he said? It was all a blur. Didn’t matter. Pippa should go away, go to the Zimmermans and they’d not approve of John anyway. Pippa had to go. Today. That was what all that mattered now.

But he spent the morning avoiding her. His breakfast was untouched. He sat in his practice with the door locked as if he was seeing patients. He sat alone in a trance.

It wasn’t until later that morning, after another dose in his veins to stop himself from absolutely losing his mind, that he made his way up to the guest room. He had insisted Pippa would take it, for he no longer wanted her to climb the stairs to the attic in her condition, and she was no longer a housemaid. He knocked but did not enter.

“Pippa? Please don’t open the door. I think I’m ill and I don’t want you to catch it in your state. I’ll write to the Zimmermans and ask them to take you in while I’m recovering. If you could start packing…”

She opened the door so he could see she had packed some, one of her frocks in the trunk with half hanging there. She sat down slowly, didn't speak, couldn't. But then she got up and took the frock to fold it. She gave a shaky breath. Then she looked at him and down at the silk she wore, hair perectly coiffed. It felt wrong to her, alien.

She swallowed audibly, then finally spoke. "I am sorry I disobeyed you. Mister Zimmerman already bid me to. He said to leave the frocks, but I can't find it in me to leave them." She turned to look at him, tears in her eyes, tilting her head a little. "I'll miss you terribly. You are my family in my heart. You taught me so much. My child is going to learn to depend on themself... the thought occured because the baby kicked while I was staring at it, my frock in my hands."

Then she added, "I heard you come home. I am not asking... but I am here if you wish to discuss it." She wiped her face with a wet cloth from her ewer. Her room had been turned into a haven. She had started a patchwork quilt and a knitted blanket for the baby as well as half done booties, little gowns and nappies, the basket of mending next to an old chair given to her.