by Anna Jacobs
She gave him her lips willingly. ‘I shall try to make you happy, Will,’ she promised as they drew apart. She loved the feel of his strong body against hers. She loved his beautiful, serious eyes, which changed to deepest black when something angered him, but which were luminously brown today, like chestnut shells. As his hands lingered on her shoulders, then slid slowly down her body pulling it close to him, she gasped and arched instinctively against him. She had often watched those hands caress one of his animals and wished they were touching her, but the reality was far better than the dream.
Colour flooded her cheeks at the direction her thoughts were taking, but she didn’t pretend that she wasn’t enjoying this.
‘I think we’ll go to bed early tonight, madam wife,’ he said softly.
She was beyond speech, for he was still caressing her, so she nodded and when he paused, she leaned forward to give him another kiss and run her fingers down his cheek.
The rest of the wedding day passed in a strange mixture of everyday chores and the sometimes awkward companionship of two people who hardly know each other’s ways. Will went out to check on the cows, but left the care of them to Mary and the others, it being such a special day and him in his best clothes still.
Sarah went to oversee preparations for a light supper, but found herself shooed back to her husband by Hannah. So she and Will went for a stroll round the gardens instead, discussing how they might improve them and where to plant Mrs Haplin’s bush.
In fact, since neither bride and groom were used to sitting idle, they were both much relieved when the evening drew to a close, with its final ritual of the tea-tray.
‘Will you take a dish of tea, Will?’
He hesitated. ‘Well, I . . No. I thank you, Sarah. Truth to tell, I’ve small liking for tea. ‘Tis thin, bitter stuff.’
‘But you’ve taken tea with me several times!’
‘Ah. Yes, well - that was for the pleasure of your company. Only now we shall be living together,’ he gave one of the rare smiles that lit up his face, ‘I shan’t have any need for excuses.’
She felt a warm glow inside to think that he had enjoyed her company so much as to drink something he disliked. ‘Would you prefer a glass of wine, then?’
‘Nay, I’m no tipplepot. What I do like in the evening, though, is a pot of ale or cider, mulled in winter. My mother will be able to brew ale and cider for us now - she gets a fine sharp taste to them both. Better than what they serve at The Golden Fleece, to my mind.’
Sarah rang for Hannah and commanded a pot of cider for Mr Pur - er - Bedham, stumbling a little over his new name. To hide her embarrassment, she concentrated on pouring a dish of tea for herself, not knowing what to say next.
How little she knew about her husband! She stole a glance at him. He was slouched in a chair, his hands in his pockets, staring into the empty fireplace. He didn’t look unhappy, though; he looked relaxed, at peace with himself and his surroundings. She wondered if Will liked to chat in the evenings, or if he preferred to sit quietly. What did he eat for breakfast? What did he look like when he was asleep? Her mind shied away from that thought, for the wedding-night still lay ahead of her.
As if he could feel her gaze upon him, Will turned towards her. ‘I like this room. Do you sit in here every evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good. I shall enjoy that.’ He sighed, the long, slow sigh of a man relaxing after a hard day.
She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she rested her head against her chair back, occasionally moving it to take a sip of tea. For several minutes there was only the sound of the new clock ticking on the mantelpiece, a dog barking somewhere in the distance and the branches of the trees swishing outside in the light breeze. There was no need to force conversation, she realised with relief. Sometimes, silence could be just as pleasant, if it were shared.
‘What time do you like to go to bed, Sarah?’
‘What? Oh, I don’t mind. Whenever suits you. You’ll have to rise early, won’t you?’
‘Aye.’
‘So you won’t want to be late.’ She finished her tea, put the dish down and took a deep breath, ‘Perhaps we should retire now.’
‘Retire.’ He tested the word on his tongue. ‘Is that what you call it when you go to bed?’
‘Er - yes.’
He gave her a slow smile. ‘Let’s retire, then.’
Sarah led the way upstairs, sheltering the candle flame carefully against the drafts that swirled round the old house even on calm days.
In the bedroom doorway, on this first night, he stopped and looked round with the same satisfaction he had shown over her parlour. ‘It’s a rare fine room, is this. I never thought I’d be sleeping in Squire’s bed.’
‘For most of my life, I’ve had to share a room with my mother. In the last year or two, we didn’t have much money, and we had to live and sleep in the one room. I still lie in bed here and marvel that it’s all mine - all ours now,’ she amended hastily. The last thing she wanted was to make him feel dependent upon her benevolence.
He was still deep in his own thoughts. ‘I always forget - that you used to be poor, I mean.’
‘Very poor. I’ve gone hungry at times to save money - especially at the end, when my mother needed the laudanum.’
That caught his full attention. He stepped forward and put his arms round her. ‘Well, you shall never go hungry again, Sarah. I’m a good enough farmer to promise you that.’ As she leaned against him, he asked diffidently, ‘Would you rather wait until we know one another better to become man and wife? We don’t have to do anything tonight but sleep, if that’s what you’d prefer.’
She didn’t even have to think about it. ‘No. I wish to be your proper wife, Will.’
He kissed her cheek very gently. ‘Then get you ready for bed, my dear.’
She nodded, then remembered that she had not yet shown him the rest of the details of how things were arranged. ‘I nearly forgot to tell you where things are. Over here is my dressing room.’
He walked across and raised the candle to peer into it. ‘I see. You keep your clothes and things in here.’
‘Yes. And over the other side is your dressing room.’
He walked back and stared into an almost identical room. ‘To think of it - one each, and just for keeping clothes in! There’s folk as have only one room for themselves, and their animals must share even that.’
She waited a moment or two, then said, ‘Well, I’ll get ready for bed now.’ But for all her brave words, her heart was beating rapidly and her throat was dry with apprehension.
Will watched her limp over to her own dressing room. Poor Sarah, she did look nervous. He must deal gently with her. He strolled back into the small room that was his and couldn’t help grinning. His few garments looked lonely in the great clothes press, for they didn’t even half fill the space. How elegant it all was here at the manor! He stroked the wood of the press doors. Fine workmanship there.
He found a ewer of warm water standing on a small table, with a basin and towel beside it. This was what it was like to have servants to tend your needs. As he took off his clothes, folded or hung them, washed his person and dried himself on the towel laid beside the basin, he had to admit that it made your skin feel nice, all this washing. Would she like the feel of his skin, as he already liked the feel of hers?
He pulled on the new nightshirt his mother had made for him, which someone had also laid ready, then a problem arose. Would Sarah expect him to wear a nightcap? His mother had insisted on providing one. He couldn’t abide the things, no, nor wigs, neither - though the gentry seemed to wear things on their head all the time. What was wrong with their own hair? Would Sarah expect him to shave his hair off and wear a silly contraption of scratchy horsehair in its place? He didn’t think he could face that, not under any circumstances, any more than he could put on a silly nightcap now.
When he went back into the bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, wearin
g a white nightgown and a frilled nightcap on her head, her hands clasped around her knees, her expression solemn. Carefully he carried his candle over to the vacant side of the bed and set it down next to the tinder box.
‘Ready?’
She nodded and blew her candle out. He watched her slide stiffly down in the bed, nervousness showing in every line of her body. He climbed in beside her, wet his fingers and pinched his own candle out, hearing her draw in a trembling breath.
‘Will, I don’t really know what to - what to do.’ The words came in a rush, before he’d even had time to lie down.
‘Ah, but I do,’ he said gently. He took her in his arms, untied her nightcap and tossed it aside, then stroked her hair. ‘Lovely hair,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve always wanted to stroke it. Soft as silk, it is, and the colour of new honey.’ In the darkness, tender words were not nearly as hard to find.
‘Do you - do you really think so?’
‘I wouldn’t say so, else.’
‘Oh, Will, no one has ever said such nice things to me as you do!’
That made him realise how sparse compliments must have been in her life, for he knew himself to be no wordsmith. Poor Sarah! He must do his best to make her feel comfortable with him.
She sighed and nestled against him, so he began to caress her body gently. ‘I shan’t hurt you, my lass. Let me show you what to do.’ He began to trace the lines of her body, caressing each curve until she was gasping and writhing. He kissed her until he could wait no longer and she was as pliant as wax in his hands.
And when he entered her body and she cried out, not in pain but in pleasure, he smiled in triumph before allowing himself his own release. It was far better between them than he had expected.
Afterwards, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re my wife in every way now, lass. Eh, what’s this?’ For she was weeping.
‘I was so afraid I’d disappoint you,’ she confessed.
He rocked her a little and shushed her gently. One thing led to another and he found himself enjoying a second congress that night. Well, it had been a long time since his body had had any relief, and she seemed to enjoy it, too.
‘I think we are very well suited indeed,’ he told her afterwards. ‘Not all find pleasure in this act - especially when first wed.’
She fell asleep in his arms, her breaths soft against his chest. He lay awake a while longer, thinking over his day and saying a little prayer that life would deal kindly with them.
* * * *
Mr Jamieson left for London again two days later with a sense of relief. Really, when you thought about it, marriage was the best thing that could have happened to Sarah. A woman on her own was a prey to fortune hunters and thieves. Now, her inheritance was tied up safely and she had a husband to look after her and her property. And though Will Bedham might be a simple yeoman farmer, he was an honest enough fellow, at least, a hard worker and clearly cared for her.
Both Will and Sarah had begged Mr Jamieson to return for more visits, and he rather thought he might do that. He had no close relatives left and it was pleasant sometimes to leave the heat and dust of the city. Besides, he had grown fond of dear Sarah and intended to keep a close eye on her and her affairs from now on.
* * * *
Will found it extremely pleasant to live at the big house. There was something about having spacious rooms and willing servants that made a man feel good. He enjoyed coming in after a day’s toil to find a ewer of warm water waiting for him in his dressing room. He grew quite used to changing into what he called ‘indoor clothes’ in the evenings.
It was good, too, to dine with his smiling wife in the cosiness of the parlour. They took their evening meal late, when the day’s work was done, not at a fashionable hour in the afternoon. Sometimes, his mother would join them, but she was not yet fully at ease with Sarah, or with her own position here. More often she would make her excuses and stay with Hannah in the kitchen, for the two of them had struck up a friendship.
After supper, Will would sit with Sarah and discuss the day’s small happenings, or read one of the books from the library, or a newspaper that the parson had passed on to them. With the latter, he would read out the interesting bits to his wife and could be sure her comments would be sensible.
After Mr Jamieson’s departure, he discussed their daily finances with Sarah and was relieved to find her capable of handling the accounts. ‘I’ll leave that to you, then.’
‘I thought you might wish to take over the money side of things yourself,’ she said.
‘Is that what you want me to do? Tell me the truth, now! Always tell me the truth!’
‘Well - I don’t mind how we arrange it, actually, Will. As long as you’re content. But I do enjoy dealing with figures, I must admit.’
‘Well, I don’t enjoy casting accounts. I work long hours and should be pleased to have such things taken off my hands. My mother always handled those things in our house, but we cannot ask her to do that here.’
She nodded agreement. Their life was settling down into pleasant patterns, and the only thing that was wanting was for him to say he loved her. He showed he cared about her in many ways, but she hankered after the words - and until he did say them, she didn’t dare express her own love fully, though it seemed to overflow into every aspect of her life - always there, always a thought of Will behind every action.
They now started in earnest on the more major repairs Will considered vital. He haggled with the timber merchant in Sawbury for beams to replace those gone rotten, finding a barter which would benefit them both, by ceding to the timber merchant the right to cut down a certain number of trees in exchange for the required dressed timber, those trees to be chosen only by mutual consent and not to be taken from places where their loss would be seen from the house.
After that, Will summoned Joe Haplin from the Waste, for Joe was good with his hands, and set him on at day rates, under his own careful supervision, to repair the roof. ‘A proper carpenter would want fresh timber for everything,’ he told Sarah, ‘but Joe’s used to making do. There are old planks and pieces of wood lying around all over the place in the barns - I never saw such waste! - so we’ll collect them and barter for others, and only buy what we’re forced to.’
For nearly a month, the daylight hours were filled with the sound of hammering, sawing and banging, but no one minded that, because everyone at the big house was busy for as long as the summer daylight lasted. Those working outdoors were galvanised into a variety of new tasks by Will or in the dairy by Jessie Pursley, and those brought in from the village to help indoors were urged on by a fearsome alliance of Sarah and Hannah Blair.
In late July came the haymaking and this year found the home fields rich with lush grass, for there had been a happy alternation of sun and showers that had set everything growing rapidly. Not content with reaping the fields, Will culled as much hay again, if of an inferior quality, from the bits of land around the house and from odd clearings in the woods. This time he hired Ted’s sons to do it, which pleased Poll greatly.
After the haymaking was over and the ricks built, they held a modest celebration for the labourers and their families in one of the tumble-down barns, though it was the strangest haymaking supper in living memory, and had its sad side, too, because only half the village was able to attend, those bound to Mr Sewell having been strictly warned to keep away from any festivities at Broadhurst.
Mr Sewell flouted custom and held no haymaking celebrations at Marsh Bottom, for he considered them a waste of time and money. This caused considerable ill-feeling among those whose labour was tied to him, but no one dared say so. They arranged a surreptitious celebration of their own in The Golden Fleece, but it wasn’t the same.
In September there was the harvest to be gathered in, always one of the most significant events of the year. If the harvest failed, people went hungry and the weaker ones died. This year, it was a good harvest and the sale of the surplus wheat produced by Will brought in a welco
me purse of golden guineas to fill the Bedhams’ empty coffers and pay for new tiles for the roof.
This year at harvest tide, said the villager elders, meeting in solemn assembly in church, they would follow the old customs to the letter, so that no more bad times should come to them. It didn’t do to neglect the proper ceremonies and customs.
Even Mr Sewell couldn’t persuade them otherwise, so he scornfully granted them permission to do as they wished.
‘Ah,’ said Thad Honeyfield, newly appointed to the select group which made the important decisions about crops for the common fields and when to sow them, ‘even that old devil has to bend sometimes.’
They shushed him quickly. It was one thing to insist on sticking to their customs, another to utter insults aloud about a man who repaid with violence anyone who displeased him.
‘One day .. . ’said Thad.
‘Ah, one day,’ they agreed in whispers, ‘but not yet, so hush up, lad.’
After the last sheaf of Will’s wheat had been loaded on the wagon, the villagers formed a procession to escort it to the barn at the manor. Mr Rogers led the procession, carrying a beautifully-carved crucifix to placate the Christian God, and old Richard Bennifer followed him, playing his fiddle all the way to drive away evil pagan spirits.
Sarah gave no credence to the idea that following the old customs would ward off evil, but she saw no harm in people who had worked so hard enjoying a little light relaxation, and she allowed them to enthrone her on the cart with a child on her knee, and drive the corn home in style.
Afterwards, on Jessie Pursley’s advice, she supplied the villagers with a barrel of cider to quench their thirst and a hearty meal in token of the plenty they had brought in from the fields.
‘And that,’ said the elders, ‘Is how a harvest had oughter be celebrated. Real gentry look after their folk.’
* * * *
Of course, Sarah and Will had their disagreements from time to time. That was inevitable, for in spite of their quiet ways, they were both strong-willed. Many of their quarrels came about because Sarah insisted on overtaxing herself. Now that he was her husband, Will didn’t hesitate to tell her when he thought she was being foolish.
