The year is 1464.
The War of the Roses rages on; a great showdown between Lancaster and York.
Yet, asleep in her bed, fiery-haired Melissa Woodville dreams of splintered shields, broken swords, and the resounding screams of wounded men in the Battle...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SHE HAD SUSPECTED it for awhile now. The symptoms had been mild at first, mild enough to ignore, but after some time, she could no longer turn a blind eye.
First, it had been her distaste for certain foodstuffs — dishes she could no longer stomach, meats she could not look at without feeling revulsion, and even desserts which had suddenly become far too sweet for her. Second, was the nausea, which at first she had attributed to a stomach bug, but which now plagued her every morning of every day. And then, most embarrassing of all, was the issue of her dresses, the busts of which had to be let out to fit her. That could be related to her growing figure, as Eliza had said, but Melissa knew — no one grew that fast.
Still, even with all of that, she was reluctant to consider the very real possibilities that were presented. Looking back on it, she did not know why — she was a Woodville, after all, and the women in her family had always been fertile, maternally related or paternal. Perhaps it was because she was so young, perhaps because it was all so soon. But, she realized, whatever the case, it no longer mattered.
That final nail in the plywood, for Melissa herself, at least, had been the absence of her monthly courses. She had missed three of them, had a chest full of clean linen pads to prove it, and she had absolutely no idea what to do.
Sure, she watched her sister carry little Lizzie, but she had not been an active part of caring for her. Furthermore, she could not remember any of her mother's pregnancies, and their soured relationship had Melissa doubting Jacquetta would be of any help. As Richie had written in one of his many prolific letters, their mother was "too far up her queenship's arse to be of any use to the rest of us." So that left the duchess with very little options on who to consult, who to trust.
"If I call on a midwife, then everyone will know within the hour." She thought to herself, frustrated. "But if I do not, then I cannot know for sure."
