"You go in.” He handed her a candle and motioned to the door of his bedroom. “I’ll douse the lamps and stoke the heater,” he said.
He waited until the door closed behind her, then turned the wick down on the lamp and filled the wash basin with warm water from the kettle. In the dim glow, he shucked off his shirt, pants, woolen socks, and long underwear and swiftly, thoroughly, washed himself from top to toe. He’d shaved that morning, but now he drew the straight razor over his jaw and neck again.
It was a habit he’d grown away from since Molly’s death, this ritual grooming every night before he went to bed. It was a legacy from his father.
Before his wedding to Molly, Zachary had talked with Noah about women and their ways, and part of his practical advice had been always to go to the marriage bed washed of sweat and clean shaven.
Unbidden came the image of Molly, wrapped in his arms, her nose buried in his neck, her shy whisper tickling his ear.
Dearest Noah, you always smell so good.
He thrust the memory away as he toweled himself dry, dumped the basin in the slop bucket, and after a moment’s indecision, tugged his pants on again. He took a deep breath, willing his thoughts away from the quicksand of remembrance as he opened the bedroom door.
She was already in bed. Only the high, ruffled neckline of her white flannel gown showed above the patchwork comforter. She tried for a smile when he came into the room but didn’t quite succeed. After a single, startled glance at his uncovered chest with its mat of dark hair, she looked away.
He took the candle from the dresser and carried it to the small bench beside the bed. He blew it out, removed his pants, and climbed in naked under the covers. His weight made the mattress sag, bringing her closer toward him.
For long moments, he lay perfectly still, aware of her light breathing, the smell of the soap they’d both used, wondering if she could hear the way his heart was hammering against the wall of his chest. At last, he propped himself on an elbow and reached out and gently drew her closer, one hand on her shoulder, the other on a narrow flannel-covered hip.
She was trembling, and he was conscious of how delicate she was, how big he must seem to her.
"Are you afraid of me, Annie?” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“I—I’ve never done this before.” Her choked whisper was so soft, he had to lean close to hear it.
“I’ll try to make it as easy as I can for you.” She didn’t answer, and for long moments he stroked her shoulder and arm with his fingertips, and when she began to relax, he unfastened only the top buttons of her gown so he could slip his fingers in and touch the velvety skin of her neck.
Soft. She was so soft. He’d forgotten the delightful softness of a woman’s body—Molly's body—.
Ruthlessly, he slammed the top on the treacherous box of memory and nailed it tightly shut, forcing himself to think only of here and now.
This wasn’t love, he reminded himself ruthlessly. This was seduction, but it wasn’t love. As long as he kept them separate—
He bent down and put his mouth over hers in a light, feathery kiss. He took his time, savoring the sweet taste of her skin, the warmth and softness of her neck. Her lips were soft and full, closed until his tongue teased them open. Her breath, the taste of her mouth, was pleasing. He felt her catch her breath as the kiss deepened.
“You taste good," he murmured to her.
Tentatively, her chapped hand came up and lightly rested on his bare arm, and he could feel the tips of her small breasts against his chest, the supple and surprising strength of her long, narrow frame teasing him through the maddening fabric of her gown.
His starved body reacted with violence to her nearness. He drew back for a moment, regaining a shaky control.
“Can—can we take this off?” His voice was rough with passion. Before she could answer, he found the hem of the garment and pulled it up and over her head. She didn’t resist.
He wished he’d left the candle lit so he could see her. Her skin was satin smooth. He groaned with impatience as his trembling hands learned the shape of her, the gentle curve of hip, the hollow of concave stomach, the slight swell of breasts. He took a tender nipple in his mouth and suckled it, and she gasped.
Pleasure knotted inside of him, a sweet delight.
“I’m not hurting you, am I, Annie?” His voice sounded strangled, and his breath was coming in short bursts, as if he’d been running.
“No. It doesn't hurt, it’s—it’s, ummmm, peculiar.” It was little more than a breath of sound against his cheek.
Peculiar? He grinned and slid a hand down over her velvety stomach, his fingers discovering her silky mound. Soon she was hot, damp. With the last remnants of his control disappearing, he deftly positioned her beneath him, insinuating himself between her legs, trying not to hurry.
Her arms came around him, and her lips met his in shy, eager acceptance. She moved, clumsily, against him, and he gritted his teeth against the exquisite, driving urge to plunge into her.
He tried to make his entry smooth and slow, but the unbelievably hot, wet tightness of her passage combined with his own long abstinence undid him. At the last moment, when he knew without doubt that she was a virgin, he fought for control, but it was too late. With a strangled cry and an inner sense of despair at his impatience, he lunged, once, again, and at the final instant—
There must not be a child—there must never be a child of his again.
With superhuman effort, he pulled out of her, groaning as his seed spilled on her belly and legs and on the sheet beneath them.
He collapsed beside her, the swirling delight of release making his body seem boneless and light. In the aftermath of passion, he was ashamed of his haste.
"I’m sorry, Annie,” he murmured. “Next time, it will be better for you, I promise.” He gently disentangled their bodies and moved a careful distance away, so that no part of him touched her. Within moments, he slept.
Annie felt somehow bereft. She heard his breathing change, becoming deep and even. She waited until the pattern was well established before groping for her nightdress and struggling into it, careful to keep her movements from waking him, conscious of his warm, wet stickiness on her belly and legs.
She lay on her back, scrupulously keeping the distance he’d drawn between them. She'd always slept with her sister, and having this man beside her was going to take getting used to.
Her private parts throbbed with the strangest mixture of pain and thwarted pleasure. She stared wide-eyed into the darkness, confused and a little frightened by this act that had changed her from spinster to married woman.
Elinora had done her best to explain it. "It's either heaven or hell, dearie, depending on the man,” her landlady had said, but this hadn’t been either one. There must be something between the two extremes that Elinora hadn’t told her, Annie deduced.
Would it be possible to ask in a letter? Elinora had told her to write about anything at all and promised to do her best to answer honestly.
Dear, forthright Elinora. Tears filled Annie’s eyes as she thought of the countless miles that now separated her from her best and only friend. The night before her proxy wedding, Annie’s rotund little landlady had brewed a pot of ginger tea and spoken candidly to her about this entire aspect of marriage.
"Some men are thoughtful, see. They try to pleasure their women. But there are others unskilled at such things, unaware, or just uncaring that women can enjoy the act as much as men. I was lucky in marrying Mr. Potts; he was one of the giving sort. I pray your Noah Ferguson is like him, pet.”
Was he, Annie wondered? So far, Noah was a puzzle. One minute he was friendly, and the next there was this vast distance.
He’d been gentle at first, but then a madness she didn’t wholly understand had taken him over. And just when the first, fierce pain inside her dwindled and another sensation began, he’d made that strangled sound and torn himself away and it was over.
&nbs
p; At least she knew why he’d pulled back like that. Again, Elinora had explained. "You know about babies, pet, and how they’re made. A clever girl like you doesn’t work with a hundred others and not come by that information,” she’d begun, going on to explain to an astonished Annie how men and women prevented them.
She’d described the technique Noah had just used, but she’d advised Annie not to rely on her husband in this matter.
"Out in that wilderness, he's likely to want a passel of young 'uns, so don’t count on him being any help,” she’d warned Annie. "Farmers need a big family to help with the work. But a woman don’t last long when she carries a baby every year. You have to take care of yourself in such things, my girl. There are female preventatives you can use to make sure one child’s well grown before another’s planted, and if you’re clever, he don’t ever need to know.”
Annie had cringed at the thought of still another deception. She’d already told so many lies that she could hardly remember all of them, and preventing babies seemed so unnecessary.
"I want babies, Elinora,” she’d protested. "I want lots of babies.”
“More fool you,” Elinora had snorted. "Wait until you know for certain what sort of man he really is.” And so, in Annie's trunk, hidden among her petticoats, was the device Elinora had given her, a sponge with a string attached, and directions for a vinegar solution.
It didn’t look as if she’d need to make use of it, however. If tonight was any indication, it seemed that Noah and Elinora were of one mind, whether they realized it or not. He wasn't taking any chance that she’d get with child, and it made her feel empty, diminished in some unexplainable fashion.
Gradually, Annie’s weary body began to relax in the strange bed, beside the man who was now her husband in more than name.
Careful not to disturb him, she turned on her side and curled into a ball, sorely missing Bets’s warm body close against her back.
A log fell in the heater, and outside the dog barked in response to a far-off, unearthly howling. Annie shivered, thinking of the miles of wilderness that surrounded this place, and how totally dependent she and Bets were on the strong man sleeping beside her.
She hated being dependent on anyone. She’d never felt as lonely in her entire life as she did at this moment, not even when her mother had died.
But she would get used to it, Annie told herself fiercely, trying to ignore the tears that trickled down her face and soaked the pillow. It was a chance for a different sort of life, the only chance she and her sister might ever have.
She’d gotten used to the factory, and she’d been only a little girl when she started there. She’d gotten used to taking care of her sick mother, to being solely responsible for Bets. She fished for her handkerchief, tucked under the pillow, and softly blew her nose.
She’d get used to this man. She’d get used to being his second wife, chosen not by love, but by necessity.
All she needed was time.
Chapter Five
March 26, 1886
Medicine Hat, Northwest Territories
Dear, dear Elinora,
Your first letter just reached me, and I’m so glad to have it, and am answering forthwith because I have many things to tell you and twice as many other troublesome matters for which I long for your assistance.
First, I shall try to answer your questions.
Yes, Bets is over the grippe, and although she still coughs a lot, she is much improved. As to the weather, there is still a great deal of snow on the ground, but some days are quite tolerable— one can now visit the outhouse without frostbite!
You ask about the view, and I have to smile. There’s a great deal of nothing at all, empty, rolling plains and vast sky and precious few trees. As I’m sure I mentioned in my first letter, the ranch is situated only a short distance from the South Saskatchewan River, and Noah says there are willows along it which turn quite green in summer, but for now, everything is white, although sunrise and sunset are quite wonderful on days when the sky is clear.
As for me, my health is good, as always, but oh, my dear Elinora, sometimes (at least a dozen times each day) I fear I’m not suited to this ranching life at all.
My first week here, Noah took me outside to show me what "chores’’ would be mine, and for the first time in my entire life, I encountered cows and chickens and pigs and horses. I was, and am still, utterly terrified of all of them, although I do my best not to appear so to Noah. He seems to find my ignorance amusing, at least outdoors, and the surprising thing is that Bets doesn’t share any of my concerns. She is quite at home around the animals in the barnyard. Noah has even promised to teach her to ride a horse when spring comes, and he’s given her a kitten whom she’s named Tar.
With me, it's quite a different story. He’s trying to teach me to milk, but the cow hates me and either slaps me across the face with her tail or deliberately puts her filthy foot in the pail.
One rooster with a terrible disposition lies in wait to chase me, jumping on my back and pecking every time I step out the door, and I now carry an empty pail so that I can drop it over him, putting a heavy stone on top, thereby trapping him until Noah comes and sets him loose again. If only I had the stomach for it, I’d serve the beast up as Sunday dinner! (The rooster, not Noah.)
As for horses, I had no idea how large they are up close. And pigs—dear Elinora, is it true they have a tendency to eat their young, or is Noah having a joke at my expense? Jake, the old dog, is the only animal with whom I feel a true kinship.
Inside the house, things are not a whole lot better. Because you took such fine care of us and I worked so many years in the factory, there’s a great deal I don’t know about housewifery. I feel the ghost of Noah's first wife watching me with disapproval as I dust her house and scrub her floors and try to cook on her stove. (That reminds me, do you have a reliable recipe for making bread? I’ve tried, but the results of my efforts are not edible, to say the least. Even the chickens refused the last attempt, and as you probably know, chickens eat anything at all.)
I know all too well that Noah compares me to that other wife and finds me wanting. Last week, I rearranged some small items on the sideboard, and although he didn’t say anything, he soon put them all back just the way she must have had them.
Enough of this whining. There is also good news. Elinora, I can hardly believe it myself. You remember my last letter was filled with the difficulties of caring for Noah’s father? Well, a near miracle has occurred, and it's thanks to Bets. She’s befriended the old man and is teaching him her sign language, and his disposition is improved beyond belief now that he can communicate. The two of them have endless games of checkers, and Bets is always able to understand what he needs and wants.
Taken altogether, my dear friend, I have been more than fortunate with this “adventure,” as you label it. Noah is the most generous of husbands. He took me to town last week and insisted I buy warmer clothing for Bets and for myself, and he eats whatever I prepare without complaint and thanks me politely for my attentions to his father. If at times lonely tears drip into the dishwater and I long for the kind of romance I used to moon over in my beloved dime novels, I remind myself that Noah could have been fat and ugly, with warts on his chin, a bulbous nose, and a mean nature.
Instead, as I told you, he actually resembles those mythical old-fashioned heroes, tall and strong and handsome. And, unfortunately, silent most of the time. He’s not a talker, and I needn’t remind you, Elinora, that I am. He’s kind, he’s unfailingly polite, and he’s unnaturally quiet. At times I even wish he’d lose his temper and rage at me, but he’s far too controlled for such excess of emotion.
I can hear you telling me to count my blessings, and you’re right, of course.
And now, enough of me. Are you well? Are the new girls behaving themselves? Is Fanny still with you? I know she doesn’t read, or I would write to her. Give her my regards, and tell her that although I don’t miss the factory, I do miss her.
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I miss you too, dear Elinora, more than I can ever say. I feel so far away from you. I wonder, shall we ever again share a cup of tea and a wicked gossip?
Write soon. I love you.
Your old friend with a new name, Annie Ferguson.
April arrived.
The weather improved, and one windy day in midmonth, Annie awoke with laundry on her mind. Blankets, sheets, curtains, clothing; she suddenly wanted everything clean for spring.
"After breakfast I’ll need your help in getting your father up, Noah,” she announced as soon as she opened her eyes. “So I can change those filthy sheets on his bed. I need to do a big wash. Could you help me bring water in from the well to fill the copper washtubs and set them to heating?" Inspired, she added, "Also, Mr. Ferguson sorely needs a bath, and he could also do with a haircut and a shave.”
It was the beginning of a long, hard, satisfying day.
Alone in the bedroom late that night, Annie sank deeper into the old tin tub, letting the hot, soapy water soothe the ache in her arms and shoulders and ease the tension in her back from bending over a washboard hour after hour.
Ooohhh, this was heaven.
Her hands were raw from scrubbing, and the entire house smelled of soap powder and garments fresh from the clothesline.
Weary as she was, there was an enormous sense of accomplishment in what she’d done today. For once, everything had gone perfectly.
Every sheet, every towel, every sock in the house was clean and dry and folded. Next door, Zachary Ferguson slept in a fresh and sweet-smelling bed. He was bathed, shaved, trimmed, and wearing a fresh nightshirt, and he looked a different man.
She’d said as much to Noah and gotten a quiet nod in return.
There was a tap at the door, and she jerked upright in the tub and then hurriedly ducked beneath the suds again as Noah came into the room, carrying a kettle. The candle on the dresser flickered as the door closed behind him, sending long shadows up the walls. He towered over her, and instinctively she folded her arms across her naked breasts. She was still shy about having him see her unclothed.
A Lantern in the Window Page 4
