by Kelly Long
“Is a wedding quilt that important to you? Isn’t this one beautiful enough?” he asked, placing his hand on the quilt Edith had brought the day before.
“Well, yes, but . . .” Was it wrong for her to long for a wedding quilt? For something made especially—and only—to cover her and her husband on a cold winter’s night? Something done together with other women as a gift of love for her and an encouragement for the marriage?
“I guess we missed some things in all the hurry. If it’s really that important . . .” He looked at her with seriousness.
She shook her head. “Nee, I have everything I need.” She realized, as she spoke the words, that she badly wanted for them to be true. She wanted to find complete contentment in the belief that Derr Herr had given her Jacob to stand by her in life. For what more should she ever want? She was ashamed that she longed for the validation of a wedding quilt. How could it be so important? She swallowed and glanced at the bed.
“I guess we should clear things off so that we can get some sleep,” he remarked casually.
“Jah,” she agreed and moved to help him start placing the gifts on various bureaus and side tables. When the bed was clean, and Edith’s angel quilt folded back, they both stood and stared at what now seemed like a very small space of pillows and linens. Jacob cleared his throat and then regarded her directly.
“All right, so we’ve talked about this before. No expectations of a real wedding night until we’ve had some time to—um, court. I think I can trust myself to stay on my side of the bed. What about you?” He grinned and she flushed, looking away.
“Of course,” she said in a prim voice.
“Gut. I’m tired.” He reached for the opening of his wedding coat and slid it down his long arms while Lilly tried to concentrate on the stitching of the quilt’s edge. Did he mean to simply undress in front of her? What was she to do?
“Just my shirt, Lilly. Is that all right?”
She turned at his question to see his suspenders about his waist and his fingers poised at his collar. She nodded and watched him from the corner of her eye, unable to contain her curiosity. His chest was well tanned and deeply muscled. She let her gaze slip up to his shoulder and was surprised at the minimum of puckered red skin left from the gunshot wound. He must have felt her watching because he half turned.
“It’s worse on the front—the exit wound, you know. Grant Williams took out the stitches awhile ago.”
She was once more amazed at his perception and looked fully at his broad chest, marred only by what looked like a starburst of sore tissue on the splay of his arm. He moved toward her to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. She longed to turn her head to meet his lips.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Wyse. I’ll turn off the lights and you can do whatever you usually do for bed. I’m so tired that I’ll probably be asleep before you’re done. I’ll take the side nearest to the window.”
She watched as he walked to the dresser and extinguished the lamp, then sensed him as he felt cautiously for the bed and slid in. The room lay in utter darkness; she couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face. She stood frozen, not sure what to do, until the deep, even sound of his breathing told her that he was asleep. She put her hands out to feel for the edge of the bed, stubbing her toe on something and swallowing a squeak. She decided she’d sleep with her hair up and her clothes on and make sure that she was awake before him so he wouldn’t know. She didn’t want to appear overly shy, but she wouldn’t have been able to find her brush or nightgown in the deep dark anyway.
She slipped beneath the mound of linens and quilt and turned away from him, but it was difficult not to feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from his body. She closed her eyes with reluctance, not wanting to accidentally touch him, and certain that she’d get little to no sleep on her wedding night.
Jacob turned in the bed, still half asleep. He wondered how far he could actually stretch out without touching his wife. He let a cautious hand trail across the bed and came in contact with her hip, then jerked his hand back. Stifling a sigh, he fell back to sleep. Soon he was dreaming, and it felt comfortable and familiar.
He was walking across a newly plowed, sunlit field and Sarah was beside him. They were talking, just like always, easy talk that came as naturally as the rain. But something pulled at his consciousness, an awareness that across the field there was a deep copse of trees. He felt drawn to it for some reason, but when he turned to go there, Sarah walked on ahead without him. He stopped in confusion, then returned his attention toward the trees. A tall, slender girl with long dark hair danced in the shade of the woods. He could only catch glimpses of her. He hurried his steps, drawn with irresistible attraction to the dancing girl. He turned back to call to Sarah, wanting her to know about the beauty of the dancer. But Sarah kept moving ahead, and he let her go.
CHAPTER 22
Lilly came fully awake when she heard him call out the name . . . Sarah. She rolled over and looked at him in the half light of predawn. His hair was ruffled against the white pillow, his lashes thick crescents against his flushed cheeks, his breathing rapid and uneven. He was dreaming—about Sarah.
Lilly felt a chill deep inside as if he had struck her with an icy hand. She moved away from him in silence. She didn’t try to check the tears streaming down her cheeks, and she clenched her hands together beneath her pillow. Somehow, last night in the barn, she had thought that he was interested in her as a person. As someone to share his life with. The idea of him still harboring his love for Sarah had foolishly never even entered her mind.
Now she knew the truth; his subconscious mind revealed where his heart truly lay, and she must never, ever forget it. She decided that allowing him to get too close to her would only hurt her in the end. She wondered if she’d been a fool to go through with a wedding to someone who was so in love with another woman that he dreamed of her on his wedding night. She swallowed a sob, then jumped as she felt his hand on her shoulder.
“Guder mariye, Mrs. Wyse.” His voice was deep, lulling. She thrust the sound from her mind.
“You slept in your wedding dress? Why didn’t you change?”
She wiped hastily at her tears, then hoped her voice would come out steady. “I couldn’t see in the dark. So silly of me.”
“Are you all right?”
She felt him shift in the bed, moving closer to her.
She nodded hard. “Allergies—in the morning. I need to get a drink of water.” She wriggled from beneath his hand and slid from the bed, keeping her head turned. She hurried across the wide fir boards and slipped out the door and into the safety of the kitchen.
She knew she had to go back to him, if only to grab clean clothes and change before her mother awoke and started to ask questions. So she splashed icy cold water on her face from the sink again and again, then dried herself with a tea towel. She straightened, smoothed out the wrinkles in her wedding dress, then headed back to the bedroom.
She had made her vows before Derr Herr and man, and she had no intention of forsaking her words—no matter whom he chose to dream about.
Jacob allowed himself the rare luxury of lounging awake in bed while the first streaks of dawn played across his chest and arms. He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. His father had insisted he take the day after the wedding and Christmas day off from his normal chores and work. He hadn’t wanted to, but now he considered that it might be nice to spend some time getting to know his bride. The Englisch idea of a honeymoon was not something practiced by his community. Instead, couples would usually spend the remainder of the winter months with the groom’s family, visiting relatives here and there, and then move into their own little place, usually on the groom’s family property. But there was always the possibility for differences in living arrangements, like in the case of Lilly’s mamm.
He opened his eyes as Lilly reentered the room, her head still down.
“Feeling all right?” he asked.
She nodded, and he wa
tched as she began to gather clothing from the neat row of nails along the wall, then picked up her brush from the dresser. There was definitely something wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps he’d accidentally touched her in his sleep and made her feel uncomfortable.
He pulled his hands from behind his head and played with the sheet tangled along his hip for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
“Lilly, before you go dress, I was wondering if there is . . . uh . . . some husband’s privilege that you’d like me to exercise?”
That made her look up. She stared at him with eyes as round as a hoot owl’s and stood frozen at the end of the bed.
“A husband’s privilege?” she whispered in a tight voice.
He watched her from beneath shuttered lids as she appeared to be gathering the resolve to bolt.
“Jah, I thought there might be something that you wanted . . .”
She looked like she was considering as she put a slender hand up to feel for her kapp, which was askew from the night’s sleep. Stray tendrils of rich brown strands fell in wisps around the fine bones of her face and neck.
“You think I want something from you?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
She put her hand down and clutched her clothes in front of her like a shield.
He watched in some confusion as myriad expressions played across her face—anger, sadness, and then, reluctant determination.
She dropped the pile of clothes to the floor and stepped closer to where he sat.
“You want to know if I want something from you—something for the little wife to keep her feeling happy?” Her voice trembled with suppressed emotion.
“Jah?” He wondered where he’d made his mistake.
“Very well, Mr. Wyse.”
She used her schoolteacher tone and he had the feeling that he’d just grabbed hold of the wrong end of a rattlesnake.
Did she want something from him? She wanted to give him a firm kick somewhere. Her tears had given way to a definite flame of anger, and she was furious with herself for even now letting her eyes stray to his bare chest. She dragged her gaze upward and saw uncertainty mingled with concern in his eyes. She dropped her arms to her sides and stood stiff and still.
He stood up and caught her close, then bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “You’re riled about something, my fraa. I wonder what?”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked at his sock-covered feet.
“What have I said?” He reached to touch her hair with a gentle hand. “May I help you brush your hair?”
“What—do you mean?”
He smiled as she peeked up at him. “I’m a hand at grooming horses, but your hair is altogether different—it’s so soft and smells like summer. It’s like something from a dream—” He broke off, seeming to lose his train of thought, and she frowned.
But his hands were already at her hair, feeling for the pins that held her kapp in place.
“How many hairpins do you use?”
She tried to concentrate on the unusual question while his clever fingers began to find each pin in its hidden place.
“I don’t—I mean, it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does,” he coaxed, locating a pin behind one ear and bending to brush his lips against the spot.
She stared fixedly at his chest, trying to remind herself where his heart truly lay. She recited in her head the proper anatomical terms for the bones and muscles that moved and flexed in perfect symmetry before her. Thorax . . . sternum . . . trapezius . . .
With a flick of his wrist he tossed her kapp backward onto the bed, and she felt more of her hair begin to come loose. He bent his face close to hers, so that his own dark hair brushed her hot cheeks. “Well, teacher, you’re trying to be a million miles away. Why is that?”
Her breath felt funny in her chest, like the time she’d raced some students to the top of Elk Mountain and had won. She couldn’t help but meet his warm eyes and she tried once more to focus. Iris . . . cornea . . . mouth . . .
She pulled away from his arms, feeling confused and absurd, with one part of her hair up and the rest down. She hugged her arms protectively across her chest and knew she had to get things out in the open with him or she’d probably always feel consumed with the raw emotions he seemed to inspire. “You ask me what I want? Fine. I want truth between us, Jacob Wyse.”
“Truth?”
“Jah.” She turned to face the window, not wanting to see his face when she spoke. “Do you still love her?”
There was a distinct quiet in the room that did little to reassure her.
“Sarah?” he asked finally.
“Jah, Jacob—Sarah.” Her voice trembled and she clenched her hands into fists. “I must know.” She turned to face him.
He shook his head once as though to align his thoughts in order to speak. “Nee.”
“Truth!” she demanded.
“Why do you ask—”
“This morning you cried out in your sleep. You called for her. You said Sarah’s name.”
CHAPTER 23
If she’d struck him a physical blow, it couldn’t have shocked him more. He sank down onto his marriage bed—the bed where he’d spoken the name of another woman. He had no doubt that what Lilly said was true. He frantically combed through his mind to catch the dream, but it eluded him. He was never much at remembering his dreams; they’d never seemed to matter. Though he knew the Bible said that sometimes the Lord would speak to one of His own in dreams. Yet now—now, something from his stupid mind had hurt his new bride—and badly. He couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if Lilly had cried out the name of another man, but he knew it had to be the intense pain of a knife blade cutting. He stared at her bent shoulders and dropped his head in his hands.
“Lilly . . . I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not good enough, Jacob.”
“No, I know.” He looked at her, feeling his face burn with shame. “I don’t remember dreaming of Sarah.”
“But you were. Admit it. To yourself. To me. You really do love her still, maybe more than you even guessed. More than I could have guessed . . .” There was painful resignation in her tone, and it made his eyes sting.
He tried to think, to search his soul and mind, then remembered his fervent prayer of the night before.
“Lilly . . . I want to love you. To choose you.”
“Choose me? You did that already, Jacob. It’s called a wedding, remember?”
He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Choose you first. Consciously. I-I’ve prayed about it. I don’t want to have feelings for Sarah. I’m trying.”
The room was quiet and he watched her think, his breath held. At last, she turned from the window, her slender body in silhouette from the sun’s first rays.
“All right, Jacob. I knew what I was getting. I knew it. This is my fault too, for going forward, for believing that you could forget.”
“I can forget. I will.”
“No. Your will can accomplish nothing on its own.” She took a deep breath. “The Lord must work this out between us. I . . . I forgive you though I cannot promise to forget.”
He bowed his head at her words, then listened as she gathered her things and slipped from the room.
Lilly went about her morning chores examining her own heart. There was no sense being mad or keeping secrets in a marriage that she’d vowed to honor all of her life. she’d accept his apology but remember to keep him at a distance emotionally.
She rolled back the wine-colored sleeves of the blouse she’d changed into and smoothed her white apron over her black dress. Then she set about making a big breakfast, hoping that Jacob would enjoy it; she might as well proceed with an attitude of goodwill.
She’d have to get up earlier on school days now too, she considered, as she made potato cakes out of the wedding’s leftover mashed potatoes. Tending to both her mother and Jacob’s meals would probably require a little more time.
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She looked over her shoulder with a tight smile as the master bedroom door creaked open and Jacob walked into the kitchen. He’d changed into an aqua blue shirt and dark pants, and his hair looked freshly combed.
“Scrambled eggs, fried ham slices, potato cakes, and tomato preserves for breakfast,” she said low, attempting to be pleasant.
“That sounds gut.” He clasped his hands behind his back and moved to look out the kitchen window where snow fell in thick flakes.
“I have to make some Christmas cookies after breakfast—for all the guests who are bound to come round.”
“Ach, sure. That’s fine.”
She set a platter of the delicately fried potato cakes on the table.
“I forgot to mention,” he spoke. “My mamm invited us over this afternoon. She said to bring your mamm, of course.”
Lilly grimaced a bit as she turned the tender ham slices. “We must go—I’d love it, but I don’t know if my mother will come or not.”
“Do you mind leaving her for a bit at the holiday?”
“Nee, she’ll be fine. And, like I said, the bishop makes sure people always drop over, but I suppose more will come today because of us—Mamm just won’t answer the door if she’s not feeling up to visitors.” She brought the rest of the food to the table and surveyed the settings. “There—would you like to eat? Mamm will probably be up later and take something in her room.”
He came to the table and then bolted through his food so fast that she’d barely had the chance to begin on her eggs. He rose and took his plate to the sink, rinsing it, then depositing it on the counter.
“I have the outside chores to do—the horses and the firewood. You needn’t worry anymore about those things. I’ll be back in a bit.” And he was gone out the kitchen door with his coat half on and his scarf trailing loosely about his neck, dangling to his lean waist. As her eyes filled with unshed tears, she noticed he’d even left his hat behind.
