by Holly Bush
“It is daylight, Beau,” she whispered. “We have not yet eaten our noonday meal.”
His shoulder shook under her head as he barked a laugh. “There is no right or wrong time to do this, Eleanor. We can make love in the light of day and in the still of the night. And I intend to do just that.”
“Is that what this is? Making love?”
He tilted her head up with his hand and kissed her open-mouthed, and spoke even as their lips still touched. “I don’t know of any other way to describe it—not the act or how I feel about you—as anything but love. I never imagined myself loving anything or anyone. But I will love you until the last moment of my life and beyond into the evermore. I am sure of it.”
She stared back at him. “My mother told me that most times love comes slowly to a married couple. I cannot see that. I could not have done what I have just done with you without my heart engaged. Without love.”
“We are well and truly married.”
“We are,” she said and sighed contentedly.
“Perhaps I will stop to see the reverend and his wife and let them know.”
She propped herself on an elbow. “Beauregard! You wouldn’t dare! I would be mortified!”
He rubbed her back. “I would never embarrass you, Eleanor. I was teasing you. But that does not stop me from imagining the looks on their faces when I announced that I’d been under your skirts!”
Eleanor felt her face redden and laughed. “It would be a sight!”
“Shall we go and see our property?” he asked.
“Yes. Let me straighten my hair and rinse my face,” she said as she sat up. She looked back at him, still stretched out on her bed, looking manly and satisfied with his life. What a marvel, she thought to herself, to be married to a man she could laugh with, who made her feel wanted and precious, who protected her with his hands and his heart. Who did that to her body.
“We could have a child growing in you right this moment, Eleanor,” he whispered. “Did you realize that?”
She nodded. “I will pray it is so.”
Chapter 5
Beau and Eleanor rode in the wagon together on a two-wheel path near the edge of a deep forest and he repeated all he had learned at the stables that morning. Eleanor agreed that raising horses might be just the thing for them. Beau consulted the map the surveyor had given him and the hand-drawn directions given to him by the dairy farmer. The sun was shining but the air was cold and dry, and Beau found a blanket in the back of the wagon to put over Eleanor’s legs. He spotted the outcropping of rocks to the north just as the dairy farmer had told him he would. Beau turned the wagon to pass the rocks and pulled the horses to a stop as a valley came into view. He pointed with his free hand to a cabin situated on the opposite side of the valley on a plateau of flat land.
He checked his pocket watch and saw that they were only three-quarters of an hour from town, even though there was not a sign of civilization as far as he could see. Not another cabin, or a fence, or even billow of smoke from a fireplace as he surveyed the horizon and guided the wagon up a gentle slope. Neither he nor Eleanor spoke a word as they rode to the cabin. The valley, even with the stark gray of the naked trees and browned grasses, was a beautiful sight, and he knew she agreed, as she gripped his hand where he held the reins and looked out over the vista before them.
“It is a paradise,” she whispered as they came to the flat land where the cabin sat.
“Maybe that’s what we’ll call it. Paradise.”
He helped her down from the wagon, and she followed him to the door. When it didn’t move easily, he put his shoulder to it and opened it with a creak of dry wood. He heard a match strike behind him, and the soft glow of a candle Eleanor held lit the shadows. It was a large one-room structure with a massive stone fireplace against one end. There was a table and a chair near a sink with a pump handle. He walked to it and tried to move the handle, but it was rusted in place.
“One of the men at the stables I met, a dairy farmer who lives west of us, told me he knew the old man who lived here and had visited a few times. He said the well was a good steady one with clean water and that we’d find a small stream for livestock behind the house near the trees.”
“There is a bed frame here,” Eleanor said. “It seems sturdy enough. I need to get ticking to make us a mattress. There are sheets and blankets in the wagon in a trunk. We will need lamps.”
“What do you think, Eleanor?”
She turned to look at him. “I think this is where we will raise our children, where we will raise horses to make our living, where our dreams will come true.”
He pulled the door shut and pointed to just above where the valley began to slope inward. “I’ll build our stables there, where we can easily have grain delivered, and a corral for good weather. We will look in the barn tomorrow. The days are getting shorter and I don’t want to be caught on this path after dark until I know it better.”
Eleanor was busy with her pencil and paper. “I will need to make purchases at the mercantile.”
“I have several good pelts I have not sold yet in the saddlebags. We will get as much as we can for them and use the money to get us through the winter. We must be careful with your silver. It’s got to buy us our studs and get us through one more season until we are able to begin selling foals.”
“I will put in a kitchen garden, and I know how to can and dry meats.”
Beau helped her settle on the seat of the wagon. “I imagine there are plenty of deer in the woods. I will get a henhouse together for the spring.”
He climbed onto to the buckboard, clicked the horses in motion, and looked at Eleanor as she concentrated on her list on the paper on her lap. The wind began to blow and the temperature dropped rapidly, and he focused on keeping Bristol on the path. When he looked at Eleanor again she was gazing into the wooded landscape and her lip was trembling.
He helped her down from the wagon at the stables and followed her to the restaurant where they had eaten many of their meals.
“Is something bothering you, Eleanor?” he asked after the cook had brought them bowls of stew and slices of crusty bread.
“No,” she said and moved the potatoes around in her bowl. She looked up. “I hate to bring it up as we’ve had such a wonderful day, even aside from Mrs. Buckland. Our home is beautiful. I am so very fortunate to have it, to be married to you with all of our lives before us and so much to look forward to. But it is December. My mother would have been planning her baking and making or buying gifts for us girls. We would be getting ready for the church service to celebrate the birth of Christ. It was always my very favorite time of year. This year will be very solemn and quiet.”
“I will take you to church, but I won’t go inside. I don’t want anything to do with Buckland,” Beau said and looked up at her. “And honestly, I wish you wouldn’t go either. They have done nothing but treat you poorly. They don’t deserve your kindness.”
“I will not allow them to come between myself and the Lord. I miss my family desperately all of the time, but Christmas will be especially hard.”
Eleanor sat quietly through the rest of the meal, watching her husband wipe his bowl clean with a heel of bread. She was lucky in so many ways, and she would focus her thoughts on those things and keep at bay the overwhelming sense of loss that crept into her mind. It happened at the strangest times and when she was least prepared for the heart pounding and dry throat that accompanied a sudden vision. Riding back to town in the wagon, she’d been excited to make her list of things she would need to make the cabin a home, and then she looked off in the distance trying to decide how many oil lamps she should purchase and saw a straggly pine standing alone away from the forest of bare trees and evergreens. There was a moment, just a fleeting moment, where she saw her sister’s smiling face, so real that she lifted a hand to touch Ruth’s cheek.
“Eleanor?”
“Oh,” she said. “I am so sorry. I was lost in a daydream. What did you say?�
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“I asked what kinds of things your family did at Christmastime.” He was leaning forward, across the table from her, attentive, his hands wrapped around a metal mug of coffee.
“There are so many good memories,” she said with a wistful smile. “So many. Mother making the shortbread dough, rolling it out, and letting us cut shapes before she sprinkled them with sugar and baked them. Getting new hair ribbons or lace collars or sacks with clear candy or chocolate on Christmas morning. Walking into the church on Christmas Day and seeing the fruit of my mother’s and some other church women’s labors: The pews and altar would be draped with boughs of fresh pine and ribbons. It was beautiful. On Christmas Eve we sang carols while my mother played the piano, and afterwards we would visit the poorest family in our town and take them socks she had knitted and food she’d made or collected.
“A German family belonged to our church, and Father liked their tradition of cutting down a pine tree for in the house. We would hang paper ornaments on it, and Mother would scold him for finding the most ill-shaped and crooked tree in the woods. Most of all I can hear my father preach about the wonder of the Savior’s birth. There was not another sound in the church other than his voice as he read the story.”
Beau reached for her hand. “You are very lucky to have those memories.”
“I am. Was there anything special about Christmas for you when you were younger?”
“We didn’t go to church too much; Aunt Dorthea did more regularly. Uncle Chester was convinced the traveling preacher was stealing from the collection plate,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t think he was, but Chester didn’t take well to the man and he rarely went, so I didn’t either. We always went to dinner at some relative of Aunt Dorthea’s on Christmas Day, and I had to clean good under my nails and wear new stiff clothes and slick my hair down. It was a trial.”
“I can imagine you were a bit of a trial to your aunt and uncle.” She smiled.
“I was. But they loved me, and I loved them back. So I guess that made all the difference.”
“It does,” she whispered and then straightened in her seat. “I refuse to be maudlin. I will miss them every day, but I won’t be sad on their account. None of them would have wanted me to. They would have wished me to be joyful, just as I would if it had been one of them to live. I would want them to remember me and be happy.”
It was December twenty-third, and Beau had bought a used cookstove and hauled it to the cabin just a few days prior with the help of two men he’d met at the stables. Eleanor had scrubbed it and loaded it with logs and was hoping that she could produce some shortbread like her mother had always done. She turned the pages of her mother’s recipe book, reading the handwritten notes and remembering the time she’d spent with her in their Allentown home, the smell of cinnamon and cloves in the toasty kitchen, her mother’s white apron with bits of sugar and flour where she she’d wiped her fingers, and the welcome gust of cold air when her father opened the door carrying whatever supply her mother had sent him looking for.
Two weeks’ worth of daytime had flown by as they had worked in the cabin and on their property to prepare for a winter that was already upon them. Eleanor had continued to stay at the hotel at night while Beau stayed in the cabin, guarding their homestead. They had finally unloaded the end of the boxes and trunks from her family’s wagon, and she’d spread out the bedding her mother had packed along with a quilt hand-sewn by the members of their church as a parting gift to their family.
She bought flour, sugar, lard, and salt for the larder near the sink and bacon, a few apples left from the fall harvest, and cream in a metal tin that she was thinking she’d have to store outside, up and away from animals but cold enough to keep them. She’d just put a tablecloth and one of the new lamps she purchased on the small table they would eat at when the door opened.
“I’m muddy, Eleanor. Come hand me the cream and bacon and give me a kiss. I’ve found a springhouse,” Beau said.
“A springhouse?”
“It’s not far from the cabin. The steps are rotted but the door is solid, and there are even shelves in the stone and hooks to hang a ham or buckets of milk.”
She handed him the bacon. “I’m going to use the cream and bake us some shortbread for Christmas. What is that?” she asked when she looked down at the ground.
“Pine. I cut some pine branches for you. I’ll bring it in when my shoes are clean.”
She kissed him and smiled. “Pine?”
“You were talking about how your family always decorated the church with pine and whatnot. I thought you might want to do the same here. I hacked down a small tree like the German folks from your father’s congregation.”
Eleanor looked up at him with glistening eyes. “Yes. I would like that very much.”
“It is Christmas Eve,” Eleanor said to her husband as he stood leaning back on the closed door of the cabin. “I would rather not go into town if you do not mind. I’ve woven the soft pine together to drape on the mantel and must finish cleaning the turkey you shot so that I can roast it for our dinner tomorrow.”
“We’ve both been working very hard with moving in. I’d planned for us to take a meal together in town and there is something I want you to see.”
Eleanor looked up at Beau. He was upset or nervous, she wasn’t sure which, but only found herself admiring his broad shoulders and thinking of him without a stitch of clothing, crawling in bed with her last night, their first one together in their home. He’d made slow love to her, whispering his intentions in her ear and trailing her neck with feather kisses, as she ran trembling fingers over every part of his body. She woke up that morning wondering where her flannel nightgown had gone and blushed again with the remembrance. Where would she be without his protection? Surely she could turn the lamps up and prepare the turkey when she came home.
She pulled her bonnet from the hook by the door and shrugged into her woolen coat. “Will you read more to me this evening?”
“I will. Your father’s store of books will entertain us through a long winter.”
The day was crisp and clear, and she leaned on her husband’s arm. “What a fine day. I am glad we are taking a holiday together. We have both been working very hard.”
Beau pulled the wagon into the stables and talked with the stable master, Theodore Wilkins.
“Good day to you and Merry Christmas, Beauregard!”
“And to you, Theodore. I have not introduced my wife to you, have I? This is Mrs. Gentry,” Beau said. “Mr. Theodore Wilkins.”
“Merry Christmas! Please call me Eleanor,” she said and smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“I’ve been telling Mrs. Wilkins that there are newlyweds at the old Ferguson cabin. She told me she’d like you to join us for a Sunday dinner when the weather is good.”
“That would be wonderful,” Eleanor said.
“Whatever makes my bride happy is fine with me,” Beau added.
“And you’d best remember that as the years go by,” Mr. Wilkins said with a laugh and a slap on Beau’s shoulder.
“He is still here, is he not?” he asked Mr. Wilkins.
“Yes, he’s here. The man is talking of moving on and taking him to the next town, though. If you want him, I would advise speaking to the man soon.”
Beau guided Eleanor to a stall in the back of the stables. “He is a Morgan. A stallion that is a direct descendent of Figure, the original Morgan, through Figure’s son, Woodbury.”
The horse was huge compared to Bristol or even Nellie, and he stood still looking over Beau and her as if he were crowning them the winners. Eleanor held out a hand, heard Beau’s hiss of disapproval and the horse nicker and nudge her fingers.
“You are thinking of buying him?”
“If I can make a deal we can afford and you agree.”
“Are you selling him, Mr. Wilkins?”
“No, ma’am. A man came through town a few weeks ago and has been stabling him here and l
ooking for a buyer. He won him in poker game in Philadelphia and is down on his luck. He has the papers to prove the horse is, indeed, a Morgan through Woodbury and has a letter from the Morgan family as well.”
“How much is he asking?”
“One-hundred and twenty-five in gold or a hundred in silver,” Mr. Wilkins said.
Beau tipped his hat to the stable master, pulled her arm through his, and walked her down the street and up the wooden boards leading to the door of the restaurant near the hotel. It was crowded inside with guests and noisy as customers spoke to each other about Christmas plans at church and home. Eleanor was glad then that Beau had brought her to town. There was a festive atmosphere, full of anticipation and the pleasurable meeting of neighbors and friends. She listened to two young girls asking their mother time and again what special treats she was making for the next day.
“What are you thinking, Eleanor?”
“Those girls remind me of my youngest sister, Ruth,” she said softly. “So happy and carefree.”
“As I wish you were right now.”
“I am happy. Happier than I ever thought I might be, but that does not mean I am not missing my family.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. “But you are my family now and I am yours. Our marriage is a gift I am so lucky to have.”
“I’ll never replace your mother and father and sisters.”
“No. And I realize it will take some time for me to heal. I had been numb to their deaths to some degree, worried about my own survival and how I would carry on. Just lately, I’ve been thinking about them so much more. Perhaps it is the holiday approaching or that I am so happy, and maybe feeling guilty for being so, but that is not right. The guilt, I mean. My parents and sisters would have never, ever begrudged my survival. Oh, I am feeling emotional and talking too much. What of this horse?”
Beau seemed satisfied to change the subject. “I think if I can get the man down to ninety dollars in silver, we should buy him with your father’s money.”
