Deeply Devoted

by Maggie Brendan

  His intense gaze caused her heart to thump against her ribs. She was nervous about how she’d feel tonight after the lights were out. She did want him to hold her, that was for certain, but it had been a long time since someone had done so. She tried to cover her apprehension with a soft laugh. “And I you, Peter. I hope I can be the wife that you’ve been searching for all these years.”

  He drew her closer to him until she could feel the outline of his firm legs through her skirt. He slowly untied the satin ribbons of her bonnet, removed it, and tossed it onto the bed, allowing her hair to fall around her face. He lifted a curl, breathing in its scent between his fingers, looked into her eyes with a frank look of delight, then kissed her mouth softly, lingering a moment. She could feel the tenseness of his body against hers and his strong arms encircling her waist as he nearly lifted her off the floor to kiss her again and again. Someone rapped loudly on the door and they sprang apart, forgetting for a moment they were married.

  Catharine looked at Peter and he nodded, still holding one arm about her waist. “Come on in,” she said.

  Greta and Anna stood at the doorway taking in the two lovebirds and the nicely furnished bedroom. Greta cleared her throat. “We didn’t mean to interrupt but wanted to ask about supper.” Both of them were wide-eyed at the embarrassed couple.

  Catharine knew her freckled face and neck were flushed, but she had nothing to be embarrassed about. Peter was her husband now. She wished she could wipe those grins off her sisters’ faces.

  “It’s no matter. I believe there’s ham to make sandwiches and we can have fruit to go along with that. I’ve never had a cook. Between the four of us, we should be able to handle the cooking.” Peter let go of Catharine’s waist and turned to her. “We could fix a bite to eat now. What do you say, ladies?”

  Catharine was afraid of that very thing . . . no servants. Her father, who had been a wealthy shipping magnate, had a cook and a housemaid, so she knew very little of running a household. But she was determined to learn. She did not want to disappoint him.

  “I’ll be glad to help, Peter.” Anna smiled at him, and her sisters laughed out loud.

  “Ach! I do know how to make a sandwich!” Anna said.

  “Uh . . . until something distracts you and you forget what you’re doing.” Greta chuckled.

  Catharine took her sister’s arm affectionately. “She’s teasing you, Anna. Come with me and we’ll show her.” They started down the stairs, and Peter and Greta followed. Catharine swore she heard Greta say she wanted to learn to cook. Unbelievable. She’d never shown the first bit of interest in that sort of thing. Well, looks like it’ll be a much-needed necessity for all of us, or Peter may send us all packing back to Holland. One place she did not want to return to—at least not now.

  Supper was whipped up with little problem as Peter gave instructions about the kitchen, telling them where staples were stored and how to work the stove. The kitchen boasted a porcelain sink with a pump for running water from the outdoor well. Peter was very patient and allowed Anna to butter thick slices of bread while he sliced the ham. Greta set the table as Catharine made tea then quartered apples to go with the sandwiches. They had a cozy supper, followed by hot tea with sugar cookies Peter had made for dessert, impressing them with his culinary skills. How like a family they already seemed to be with their lighthearted bantering and talk of the Olsens’ homeland and Wyoming, Catharine thought. Soon dusk crept into the kitchen and Peter left to feed and water the livestock.

  “I won’t be long,” he whispered to Catharine out of earshot from her two sisters. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and get comfortable?” She could feel his warm breath tickling her ear. His cerulean eyes lingered on hers, then he slipped out into the dusk, the screen door squeaking behind him.

  Catharine was pleased that her sisters shooed her out of the kitchen. They promised they’d clean up the supper dishes, telling her this was her wedding night, after all. She slipped up the stairs, and by the time the sky was dark, she had bathed and changed into a fine lawn gown trimmed in delicate lace at the throat and sleeves, with blue ribbon that Greta and Anna had insisted on buying for her before they left their homeland. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and with a resigned sigh she crawled beneath the covers. She was indeed more tired than she first thought as she lay there thinking about Peter. Though she tried to wait for his return, she drifted off to sleep.

  Colorful tulips and lush meadows became a pleasant dream as Catharine walked in her garden, breathing in the cool night air . . . waiting for him—again. In the distance she heard the baby crying. She hurried back to the house and flung open the door. In the dim light she made out the outline of him holding the baby at arm’s length, and then all was quiet . . .

  Catharine awoke suddenly from her sleep, sobbing, as Peter gently touched her head. “Shush, sweet one . . . you’ve had a bad dream,” he said. He continued to stroke her arms until she turned around, her tears wetting her cheeks. “It’ll be okay.”

  Catharine didn’t remember falling asleep and certainly didn’t remember Peter climbing into bed. She sat up, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, Peter. I must’ve fallen asleep.” She flung the covers off, unsure of what else to say or do, and walked to the window. She pulled back the curtain to gaze at the twinkling stars against the black sky. “I must’ve slept for a long time too. Forgive me.” She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “You were tired, my dear. Do you want to tell me about your dream?” Peter, looking sleepy-eyed, got out of bed, padding to her in his bare feet and nightshirt. Catharine smiled weakly, then realized she was clad in only her nightgown. She suddenly felt very shy and awkward, not to mention her embarrassment at having red, swollen eyes. What a sight she must look!

  “I’d rather not. It was just a dream.” How could she tell him what that dream meant? She couldn’t . . . she simply couldn’t. She shuddered and folded her arms across her chest.

  Peter pulled her to him. “You’re shivering. Let me warm you up.”

  She breathed in his manly smell, a mix of soap and aftershave lotion. He had bathed for her before coming back to the house. She wondered where. Outside? In a creek?

  He kissed the curve of her neck and nuzzled her ear, and she returned his kisses. He pulled her gently in the direction of their bed, and she lay back down as he removed his nightshirt. His chest was lean and tanned—she supposed from working outdoors—but bare of chest hair. He looked down at her with hungry eyes, and she allowed him to untie her gown. She kept her eyes on his face as he caressed her with his eyes.

  “You’re more beautiful than I have words for, I’m afraid,” he said in a husky voice that made her tremble. “Your skin is like silk to the touch.”

  She smiled back at him. “Mmm . . . thank you,” she murmured.

  He lay down next to her, lovingly stroking her back, whispering sweet things in her ear until she’d almost forgotten about the bad dream . . . almost. Nestled in his arms was where she wanted to be, wasn’t it? His touch was comforting, but why wasn’t her heart racing the way his was?

  Peter was glad to be doing chores the next morning and away from the house so he could ponder his thoughts. He’d left the womenfolk after a breakfast of oatmeal, bacon, and coffee. Certainly not their usual fare—he could tell by the way their stared at their dishes. He could cook well enough to keep from starving, but fancy he was not. He’d hoped that between Catharine and Greta, one of them would turn out to be a fair, if not good, cook.

  When he finished milking the cow and putting the horses out to pasture, he turned to mucking out the stalls. He loved working with his hands and liked the sense of accomplishment he felt when he’d completed his work at the end of a long day or after a successful harvest.

  While he’d admired Catharine from the first time he’d clapped eyes on her, something had seemed amiss last night. Memories of her in his arms last night brought renewed pounding in his veins, and he sighed hea
vily. Though she’d been willing, it seemed she was holding back something from him—something important. But then he was no expert where women were concerned. He only knew that something hadn’t felt quite right.

  He paused his raking and swept his hand across his brow. Maybe he’d rushed her or should have let her have more time to rest up from the trip. That’s why he hadn’t awakened her when he came back—she was sleeping peacefully, until the dream. Was that what had upset her, or was she upset with him? Lord, you’re gonna have to lead me in handling my new bride. Show me what to do or what to say to make her comfortable.

  Peter felt he’d been as gentle and as romantic as he knew how to be. But he had no experience with the art of lovemaking. Maybe he’d talk to Mario. He and Angelina were affectionate and deliriously in love. He wanted that too—was it too much to ask? But how in the world would they get to that point?

  Catharine and Greta dragged one of their trunks to the sitting room and began unpacking their personal belongings. Catharine lifted out her most prized possession. Only a few pieces of Blue Willow china had been salvaged after the trunk was damaged during a storm on the ship. She treasured the beautiful teapot, cups, saucers, and sugar and creamer, but the rest had been broken into a million pieces.

  “Why don’t you set it on the tea cart, Cath?” Anna suggested when tears filled her sister’s eyes.

  Catharine looked around. “But there’s a rose teapot there already.”

  “So?” Greta said, her hands on her hips. “This is your home now. You can do as you please, Sis.”

  Catharine chewed her bottom lip. “I suppose you’re right.” She carried her tea set over to the cart near the settee, and Anna picked up the rose teapot and cups and carried them to the dining room.

  After several trips up and down the stairs, carrying their clothing and other personal items, they were hot and thirsty. “I could use something cold to drink.” Catharine wiped her hands on her apron. “Then we’ll need to carry this trunk to the attic. Peter has enough to take care of.”

  “I’ll fetch us some water,” Greta said. “We can take a short break first.” She strode to the kitchen in search of glasses.

  Anna sat down and leaned back on the settee. “Whew, I’m tired. I think I’ll take a walk outside. It’s stuffy in here.”

  Catharine pulled back the chintz drapery and shoved open the windows, allowing a breeze to circulate in the room. She wondered what she would put together for lunch and what time Peter would return. She’d have to come up with something. She didn’t even own a cookbook, but maybe there was one in the kitchen somewhere.

  Greta returned with a pitcher of water and three glasses. They gulped the water down and then had another glass. “The dry weather here is making me so thirsty!” Greta said, setting down her empty glass.

  “I have to agree with you, but one good thing—water is good for you, and it hits the spot.”

  Anna laughed. “I’ve never seen you choose water over hot tea!”

  “Never fear, dear sister, when I’ve had a chance to get this trunk upstairs and cool off, my tea will be made,” Catharine said.

  Anna chuckled, and Greta just shook her head and smiled at her.

  “Okay, let’s see if we can haul this trunk to the attic and get it out of the way.” Catharine grabbed one of the leather straps on the end. “It’s heavy, but not nearly like it was before we emptied it.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Anna slip out the door. She knew her sister was itching to explore the surrounding area. Catharine understood her free spirit, but she was trying hard to instill the importance of having responsibility in Anna’s life. How did you teach a fifteen-year-old how to do that when her head was in the clouds most of the time? She sighed. Sometimes the responsibility of being mother and father to her sisters was a struggle, and she felt the weight of it on her shoulders.

  “Are you all right? You sure are doing a lot of sighing,” Greta said, taking her end of the trunk.

  “Ja, I’m fine . . . just thinking.” They started up the stairs with the trunk, Catharine in the back to bolster most of the weight.

  “Oh? About Peter . . . your wedding night?” Greta teased.

  Catharine bristled and said, “I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind!” She realized that her protest sounded defensive and hurriedly added, “I was just thinking about Anna. She’s such a dreamer.”

  “What you really mean is she’s lazy!” Greta laughed.

  Catharine paused halfway up the stairs to look at Greta. “In her defense, I doubt that’s true. She just sees things through a different eye.”

  “Meaning she marches to the beat of a different drummer?” Greta raised an eyebrow.

  “Mmm . . . you could say that.” They both laughed. She continued on up the stairs, pushing the trunk as Greta pulled.

  When they finally reached the attic door, they were tuckered out and paused to catch their breath on the landing. “I’ll help you drag it into the attic space, but I don’t like dusty, spider-filled rooms, so let’s hurry,” Greta said, breathing heavily.

  “All right. Then I’ll have to go start lunch.”

  Greta snorted. “Then count me out unless you really need me. I want to straighten our room and put our things away. You know Anna will only leave things right where she left them, and I can’t stand clutter.”

  They continued up the last of the stairs that led up into the attic, and it turned out Greta was right. It looked as though no one had been in there for quite some time.

  “We can just leave it right here by the door, Greta.”

  “Good. Now let’s go.” She turned back to the short flight of stairs.

  “You go on ahead. I want to see if there’s anything usable up here.”

  “Suit yourself, if you can find them under the dust and dirty cloths.”

  Catharine didn’t mind being alone in the attic to explore. As a child, she had frequented her parents’ attic, enjoying the history there. She lifted a cloth and found a stack of old books that she and Anna might like, then proceeded to the other items draped with the dusty cloths. There was a charming lady’s dressing table and chair, whose now faded fabric had a tear in the seat. She might be able to repair it. It would be a good reading chair in the alcove under the window in her sisters’ room. She’d think about it before asking Peter to carry it down.

  The dust caused her to sneeze, and as she turned to go, something next to a rusty birdcage caught her eye. She slowly drew the cloth back so as not to disturb any more dust, and her breath caught in her throat. An exquisitely carved cradle of fine cherrywood sat vacant. She timidly touched the smooth wood, which caused it to rock slightly . . . almost eerily. Whose cradle was this? Peter’s? How wonderful it would be if their own baby could lie in it next to their bed. She blushed, thinking of the previous night and Peter’s gentleness as he wooed and touched her with his love. A tear started at the corner of her eye, and she knelt down next to the cradle. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to have a child. Maybe God won’t entrust me with one. She buried her face in her hands, struggling with emotions she’d tried to push deep inside.

  “You’re still up here?” Greta called out as she came up the stairs. She knelt beside Catharine and placed her arm around her sister’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Cath, it’ll be all right . . . you’ve had a lot to bear. Don’t torture yourself. Come on, let’s get you back downstairs.” Greta stood and draped the cover back over the cradle. She held out her hand and Catharine reluctantly took it. With a heavy heart she struggled to her feet to go prepare lunch.

  After scouring the cupboards, Catharine found green beans and a jar of peaches. She sliced what was left of the bread and added leftover bacon from breakfast. Pretty sorry fare, she concluded. She hoped she’d be able to come up with something better for supper and wished there was some soup. She would have to figure out how to make it. Come winter, a hot bowl of soup would be a hearty dish to serve.

  “Do you suppose we’ll ever ea
t in the fancy dining room, Cath?” Greta said, placing the forks and spoons next to the plates.

  Catharine muttered, “Maybe when I learn to cook something edible or special.” She paused, looking at the food she’d placed on the kitchen table. “Though I have little appetite right now, I’m sure Peter will be hungry when he gets home for lunch.”

  “He’s been gone for hours.” Putting the glasses on the table, Greta turned to glance out the window. “What do you suppose he does all day long?”

  “Plenty, I’m sure. I think I’ll ask him what chores we’re expected to do. Without help, I don’t see how he gets it all done.” For some moments Catharine watched as her sister gazed out the window with longing in her pretty face, far removed from the little kitchen. What beautiful innocence. “Are you longing for home?” Catharine asked.

  Greta jumped at her question and turned to face her sister. “No . . . not at all. I was just thinking . . .”

  “Something bothering you?” Catharine knew that Greta was never one to be quiet for long.

  Greta moved to fill the glasses with water but kept her eyes lowered. “Oh . . . it’s nothing, really.”

  Catharine didn’t feel reassured. Ever since Greta had met the soldier in town, Catharine had caught her daydreaming at odd times. That was more in character for Anna than Greta. Catharine shook the worry away when she heard Peter swing open the back door.

  Smiling, he walked over to where she was standing and kissed her cheek, then hung his hat over the rung of the kitchen chair. “Hello, beautiful!”

  Before she could answer, he glanced over at the table with a puzzled look on his face, but if he thought the fare was bare, he made no comment. Instead he headed to the sink to wash his hands.

  “There wasn’t much that I could fix, Peter, but I hope this will do. Is there some meat I could use for dinner?” She felt her face flush as his gaze softened. Probably regrets his decision to make me his wife. “Greta, can you go call Anna and tell her lunch is ready? I don’t know where she got off to.”