“I am not trying to slight your intelligence, darling,” he replied, setting down his fork long enough to cover her outstretched hand, “but I cannot tell you what made me laugh. So please, for my sake, stop asking.”
“No, I shan’t stop asking,” Ellen pressed as he picked up his fork again. “You are hiding something from me, and you have always been hiding something from me. I can see it now.” That was a slight exaggeration . . . or it had been, until she saw the faint flash of guilt on his face. The pinkening of his cheeks and the sidling of his gaze which couldn’t quite meet hers for a moment. “You are hiding something from me!”
“Have done, Ellen! What could I possibly be hiding from you?” he demanded. “Think about that! I have shared with you my life, my heart, and my thoughts. And if I should find a funny thought running through my head, if you are there, then I should tell you about it. If it is of a gentlemanly nature, of course. But if you are not—and you were not there at that time—then once it has passed, why should I share it? Some jests are amusing only in the moment in which they occur and cannot be shared once that moment and its context have passed! In this case, that moment has passed for sharing the jest, and we need to move on to other things.
“Now, I intend to go to town tomorrow with the latest of the ripened cheeses. If you will remember, the mayor’s wife asked for us to bring her some more of the herbed goat cheese when it was ready. She mentioned something about entertaining relatives visiting from Providence in the next week,” he reminded her. “Do you think you could pick out five of the most flavorful cheeses from the well house cellar in the morning? I think she might enjoy some of the ones with the savory and chive, since you have a wonderful hand when it comes to flavoring those.”
If her husband thought the subject was dropped, he was mistaken. Ellen allowed him to redirect the conversation for now, but she wouldn’t forget it. Nor would she forget that little flash of guilt she had seen. She had not imagined that. Nor would she let him forget that she didn’t believe for a moment that he had forgotten the source of his laughter.
She would not be shut out of his life. She would not be treated like a simpleton—or dismissed like a mere girl!
THUNK. “Here’s your milk pail! Have you anything to say to me, or have you forgotten it?”
Biting back the urge to groan, Jack finished pulling on the nanny’s teats with a few more ripples of his fingers and traded the full metal pail for the empty one she had brought. “Enough, woman! It has been a full week. You didn’t even rest on the Lord’s Day. Must you go on about this forever?”
“You promised you would treat me as an equal when we married, Jack King,” Ellen retorted, all but sloshing the goat’s milk out of the pail as she snatched it up by its handle. “Yet here you are, dismissing the simplest of my requests! What kind of a man have I married, that you would go back on your word to your wife? What are you hiding from me?”
“Leave it be, Ellen!” he ordered tersely. Not that he had much hope of that; she had nagged him for a solid week now.
“How can I? How can I ever trust you again? You promised you would share your life with me, but you won’t share whatever it is you are hiding! How can I live with a man who has lied to me?” she challenged him. “Tell me the truth, Jack King! If you ever loved me, tell me the truth!”
She just would not let it go. These last seven days were rapidly turning into the worst of his life. For the last three nights, she had not responded to his advances in their marriage bed. Not being of a nature to force the issue, Jack had spent each night in restless misery.
“What am I to do, Husband?” Ellen asked him pointedly. “Am I to . . . to have a good reason to stay here, confident that you love and trust me? Or am I to believe—without cause to support otherwise—that you do not trust me with your life? And if I cannot have your trust and share with you all the aspects of your life, what then? What then . . . but to go home to my father? He, at least, never held back the truth from me!”
Her threat made him pale. Ellen . . . leaving me? It was almost inconceivable. He loved her! He could not envision a day of his life without her. I might as well be dead, than to not have her by my side . . . but . . . God in Heaven and the Wee Folk of the Tor, if I don’t tell her, she’ll leave me and I’ll die . . . but if I do tell her, I’ll die anyway! King of the Tor, why did you curse me with this gift?
He was too far from the Tor to expect an answer, of course, being on the other side of an entire ocean.
His wife took his anguished silence for stubbornness. A soft sniff made him look at her. She stood gazing at him with tear-bright blue eyes and a trembling lower lip, but with her chin lifted high. “Very well, then. I shall pack and leave first thing in the morn.”
No! Everything within him clenched at that idea. Broke at that idea. Shaking his head, Jack found his voice. “No! No . . . I’ll tell you.”
She didn’t smile in triumph, but neither did the tears fall from her eyes. Ellen held herself still, almost as if breathing would make him change his mind . . . or make her change hers about staying to listen. There was just one problem with telling her immediately; Jack didn’t want his final moments to be spent in the barn, of all places.
“I will tell you. Tonight,” he promised. “I will tell you everything. But,” he cautioned, “I want no arguments out of you, and no nagging, and no unpleasantness—and no mention of packing up and going to your father. No fighting, no recriminations . . . just the rest of this day spent as peacefully and lovingly as possible. Will you promise me that?”
She blinked at him, as if unsure she had heard him right, but nodded slowly all the same. “A peaceful, quiet day . . . I suppose. But why can’t you tell me right now?”
A glimpse of the barn cat who had started this mess gave him the inspiration he needed. Managing something of a smile, Jack offered, “Well, now, I could hardly tell you what the joke was when both of us are angry and upset. It just wouldn’t be the same, would it?
“Come here . . . my love,” he offered, struggling to hold back his anguish at those two little words. Thankfully, she accepted his outstretched hand. As much as he wanted to take her into their house to make love to her, he still had two more goats to milk, hay to pitch, and water to draw from the well. He kissed her knuckles, then pressed her palm to his cheek. “Just remember for the rest of this day that I do love you. With all the life left in my body, I love you that much . . . and so much more.”
She flushed. Only the bleating of the half-milked nanny goat, Parsley, broke their tableau. Taking the full milk pail with her, Ellen retreated from the barn. Once she had gone, Jack was free to bow his head in pain. There was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable, one way or another.
The nanny bleated again, irritating him. Lifting his head, he glared at her. “No, I will not let her do that! I don’t care if it spares me my life to have her return to her father and leave me alone. She is my life—Keep your bleating to yourself!” he added as Parsley protested again. “I’ll have the rest of this day to make perfect, and I’ll not have you spoiling it in any way.”
Sweeping the other animals a firm look, he finished with a glare at the cat.
“As for you . . . I’m beginning to feel like I should have drowned you at birth. You have ruined my marriage and brought about the end of my life. If you want me to be kind to you for the rest of this day, then get out of my sight!”
Wisely, the cat scampered out of the barn.
Turning back to the nanny goat, Jack positioned the emptied pail and began milking the last of the liquid from her udder, careful to keep his rippling strokes firm and purposeful, but not bruising. He would not end his last day on earth by abusing his animals. However much Parsley’s suggestion to let his wife leave with her questions unanswered might vex him, he would not hurt her.
TWICE over breakfast, she opened her mouth to ask him to tell her now, because the wait until evening seemed interminable. Each time, he discerned her intention and
narrowed his eyes in silent warning. Subsiding each time, Ellen sought for something else to say.
“The weather seems to be quite good; will you be cutting hay in the southwest field today?” she finally asked, adding a dollop of honey to one of her buttermilk-raised biscuits. “I planned to do some weeding in the herb garden, then perhaps collect some wood from the forest this afternoon. I know we have plenty of logs left from the winter to see us through most of the summer, but I was thinking of gathering bits and pieces for tinder and kindling, for which we’re running low.”
“No. Today . . . I would like us to do something different,” Jack stated slowly. His blue eyes looked troubled, though his words were remarkably romantic. Even for him. “I would like to spend the rest of today with you going over every memory we’ve ever made together. From the very first moment I saw you in Boston, looking so lovely in your bonnet and pelisse, laughing at some jest, to the . . . to the way you look, all flushed and dreamy, yet fiery at the same time when I hold you in my arms at night.”
Ellen blushed. She searched again for something to say. A faint noise distracted her. Frowning, she tried to pinpoint it.
“I still remember quite clearly the day we met, my love,” Jack continued earnestly. “I thought you—”
“Shh.” Lifting her hand, she silenced her husband. Turning her head, she strained to hear. Yes . . . I think there’s some sort of disturbance outside.
“Ellen?” Jack asked, frowning.
The noise was growing. “Can’t you hear that? There’s something outside—Jack, I think something is disturbing the animals in the barn!”
He bolted up from his breakfast, and from its place of pride over the mantel he snatched his Springfield musket, which she knew he always kept carefully oiled, loaded and ready out of habit from the days of the second war with England. Never having been of the temperament to cower in a corner, Ellen rose as well, moving to one of the kitchen cupboards and snatching up her wedding gift from an elderly aunt, a solid, marble-carved rolling pin. It was the sort of weapon guaranteed to brain anything that threatened her, whether it stalked on two legs or four.
Hurrying after her husband, she followed him outside, where the bleating and bawling of the goats could now clearly be heard. She almost ran into Jack as she hastened inside, for he had inexplicably stopped just a few feet within the door. Peering around his broadcloth-covered shoulders, she spotted the reason for the commotion.
Their one billy goat was butting and biting and chasing one of the nannies around and around their feeding stall. Cowslip bawled and charged, and Parsley bleated and dodged. When she finally tried to escape out through the open half door into the pasture, he cut her off with a savage whirl and kick which flung her off her hooves. Stunned, the poor nanny lay tumbled on her side, dazed and bleating weakly, her summer-short wool scruffed and slowly reddening from the blood welling out of two scrapes Cowslip had made.
“Jack! Stop them! Cowslip’s gone mad!” she begged, tugging on her immobile husband’s arm.
Cowslip snorted and bleated, then looked their way. He bleated twice again, snorted, and trotted outside, leaving Parsley huddled shivering in the hay, her head half buried in the stalks.
“Jack! Aren’t you going to do something?” Ellen demanded, tugging on his shirtsleeve.
“Yes, I am.” Handing her the rifle, he entered the stall and crouched over the cowering goat, checking her wounds. “Just the two scrapes, and some tender bruises,” Ellen heard him murmur after a few moments.
He gently prodded the nanny’s side. Parsley bleated, then shook her head. Jack sighed roughly.
“Well, you have no broken bones, so you’ll heal.” Rising, he came out of the stall, taking the rifle back from Ellen. “Find some clean cloths. I’ll fetch the bottle of spirits and clean her wound to keep out an infection while you see to the tidying of the breakfast things.”
“What about Cowslip, Jack?” Ellen asked, hurrying to keep up with his long strides as he headed for the house.
“What about him?” There was an odd, grim edge to his voice. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. He looked handsome, as he always did with his golden brown hair and blue eyes, but there was something rather stern, almost authoritarian about him just now. Ellen wasn’t sure if she liked it.
“Well . . . he’s mad!” she offered, doing her best to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. “Attacking poor Parsley like that . . . !”
“Mad? Hardly. As for myself . . . I have come to my senses. Go tidy up,” he ordered her.
Mystified, Ellen did as he requested. She returned the rolling pin, wiped her hands on her kitchen cloth, then went upstairs to the second bedroom, which until they had children had been left as a sort of library and crafts room. She had to move several books, including an illustrated tome of fairy tales, with its fanciful picture of the Frog Prince embossed on the cover, but at least she knew where to look for what her husband would need. She fetched strips of cloth from the rag bag in the trunk beneath the tome and carried them downstairs to Jack. Then she covered their plates with bowls in case either of them grew hungry again, since their meal had been interrupted.
With nothing else to do but wait for his return, she started tidying the rest of the kitchen. Jack came back when she was wrist-deep in soapy dishwater. Setting the bottle of distilled spirits back in its cupboard, he crossed to her and held out his hand. “Come.”
Ellen gave his fingers a bemused look. “Right now? But I’m in the middle of the dishes . . .”
“They can wait. This cannot. Come,” he repeated.
Unsure what he was about, since he didn’t entirely look angry, but neither did he look romantic, Ellen lifted her hands from the soapy water. She dried them on her apron, then tucked one hand into his. Without a word, he pulled her in his wake, heading for the stairs. A quick glance behind her at the kitchen showed there was nothing on or near the hearth fire that could pose a threat if left untended. The entire floor was paved in bricks, and their dining table and its chairs were set too far away for even the most vigorous spark to reach.
It was a good thing everything was fine as it was, for he marched both of them straight up to their bedroom, brought her inside, and closed the door.
“I want you to know that I love you,” Jack stated, though this time his tone was more grim than emotional. “I love you beyond everything in God’s Creation. And that I will continue to honor the vows I swore unto you, your father, and to God Himself. That I will love you, cherish you, honor you, and respect you as my equal.”
Ellen flinched at the hard bite in those emphasized words. She found herself towed a second time in his wake, this time to their bed, where he turned and faced her, giving her another stern look. Before she could do more than open her mouth to ask him what was wrong, he sat down on the neatly made bed, disturbing the loft of the feather-stuffed mattress which she had patted into shape just that morning while he was checking for eggs before milking the cows. More than that, he tugged sharply on her wrist, making her stumble into him unexpectedly.
He did catch her, but not to right her. To her startlement, Ellen found herself twisted and dropped stomach-first onto his thighs. “Jack?”
“I have given you equality and respect in the understanding that these things would be returned to me. Equality is all about things being equal on both sides of a matter, and respect must be mutual for it to have value as well as meaning. You have not been respectful to me, Wife.”
“Jack! That is not true!” she protested. She struggled to rise, but he pushed her back down, pinning her on his lap. She could feel the wooden strip of the busk in her stays digging into her breastbone and stomach, and knew it was digging into his thighs as well, but he didn’t relax the pressure of his left palm between her shoulder blades. “Jack! Let me up!”
“Quiet!” he snapped, alarming her.
He unnerved her further by rucking up the hem of her gown, lifting it up above her rump. He also lifted her waist pettico
at, following it with her chemise. Embarrassed, Ellen squirmed, but a firm press from his left hand made her hold still. She gasped in the next moment, for his right hand touched her thigh above her garter, and slid slowly up the back of her leg to the soft, bared curves of her buttocks.
“I promised myself I would never raise a fist to you. But over the last week, you have disrespected me. In fact, you have disrespected me grievously. You have ignored my requests to drop the subject of why I laughed and, in doing so, belittled my wishes as less worthy than your own. You have accused me of lying, without proof of any truth to the contrary, which means you have deliberately chosen to distrust me. You have nagged me and bossed me about as if I were a lowly servant and thus not your equal.”
Jack paused, his hand on her rump. Ellen shivered. Normally, he only touched that part of her anatomy when he was aroused and wanted to be with her, to arouse her as well. She blushed with the naughty memory of how often he had praised her curves, murmuring scandalous things to her in the dark of the night. And while he had seen that part of her by candlelight at night during the months of their marriage, both of them worked too long and too hard on the farm most of the time to bother dallying by day. It was embarrassing to be exposed so, particularly on such a bright, sunny day.
“I love you very, very much,” he repeated in a softer murmur. Almost of its own volition, as if prompted by the same memories she was recalling, his fingers moved gently over her bum, stroking the rounded flesh. The contrast between his touch and his words confused her, for it both aroused and alarmed her. He continued quietly, almost reverently at first, slipping his hand to the other globe and feathering his fingertips over the crease in between. “I talk with you, I consult with you, I treat you as my equal because I love, cherish, and respect you. But I also respect myself too much to be treated like a rag-braided carpet. Whatever transgressions you may think you have suffered, you have transgressed against me all the worse.
Bedtime Stories Page 35
