At the top of the stairs there was a closed door to the right that Ruth assumed was the entrance to the private bedrooms and bathing room for Barclay and his family. To the left was a similar door that had been left open. They passed through the door and Thomas closed it. They moved past three closed doors, which he explained were other bedrooms that were likely in need of cleaning, as Barclay had implied. They peeked into a bathing room with a large tub and a stove for heating water, along with an abundance of many other necessities.
“How nice,” Ruth said.
They then went through the open door at the end of the hall, which was obviously the bedroom where they were meant to stay together as husband and wife. A quick glance told her this room was every bit as cozy as the parlor, with a small table and two chairs that seemed meant for sharing breakfast. There were soft, comfortable chairs as well, a little desk, and some book cupboards, along with a large, beautiful bed and matching armoire. The fire burning in the grate and candles lit throughout the room added to the warm effect, now that the sun had gone down.
As Thomas closed the door, he said, “As far as I’ve ever known, my parents have had a good marriage. But they often kept separate rooms, mostly due to their preferences for dramatically different sleeping schedules. My mother likes to sit up late and read and sleep in, often having breakfast in her room. My father is quite the opposite, wanting to go to sleep early and get up at the crack of dawn. They’ve told me that getting their sleep was more conducive to a better marriage, and they seem to exemplify that.” He paused as if to emphasize a point. “If you prefer separate rooms, I’m certain we can arrange it tomorrow and not appear terribly conspicuous—even if that might seem a bit strange because we are newly married; I’m certain we can find a way to explain ourselves—if that’s the way you want it.”
Ruth preferred to be with Thomas as much as humanly possible, but she didn’t feel ready to cross boundaries with him that she knew were expected in marriage. She wondered how to clarify that but simply said, “It is a bed made for two people, and it appears to be rather spacious. I can manage if you can—unless that makes you uncomfortable for some reason.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, mostly because she was feeling tired and didn’t want to stand any longer. An awkwardness descended between them that was surprisingly unusual for what they had been through together today. Ruth wondered what to say and what to expect. She hoped he would take the lead and clear the air of this deepening tension around them.
“Ruth,” he said and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, taking her hand. “I want to make something very clear; I don’t want there to be any room for misunderstanding or any reason for awkwardness between us.” She nodded, wondering if he was referring to the very thing she’d been thinking about. “We are husband and wife, yes. And it appears we will be sharing a bed—which, if nothing else, will waylay any suspicions or questions regarding our hasty marriage. But I want you to know that I have no expectations in that regard. I can assure you I have enough self-discipline and respect for you to sleep in the same bed and mind my manners. Eventually, yes, I want to share such things in our marriage, the way God intended a marriage relationship to be. But I want you to know that I don’t believe the vows we exchanged today automatically give me any rights in that regard. I know you’ve been through a great deal, and I want you to feel ready. I will wait for you to let me know when the time is right—perhaps after the baby comes and you’ve had time to recover.” He looked down, which was his first hint of embarrassment over the sensitive topic. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t be trying to put any time frame on it at all.”
Thomas looked back up at her and asked, “Are you all right with that? If there’s anything you want to say, Ruth, you must speak your mind. We are far more likely to have difficulties between us by keeping our feelings silent than if we talk to each other and try to sort them out.”
“I agree,” she said. “And I promise to share any thoughts or feelings I have in regard to our marriage.”
“Very good,” he said but kept looking at her, as if he sensed there was something she wanted to say now. She was amazed by his insight and glanced at the clock, wondering if they’d even known each other twenty-four hours yet. Just barely, she noticed by the position of the hands.
“What is it?” he pressed.
“It’s only that . . . your kindness continues to . . . surprise me,” she said.
“Why would that be?” he asked.
“I suppose that . . . with few exceptions . . . the men in my life were not kind—in one way or another. It’s as if women are raised knowing they must be kind in order to be considered acceptable, and men can choose whether or not kindness suits them.”
“Was your father not kind?” Thomas asked. “Knowing his brother as I do, I can’t imagine Dawson being anything but kind. He’s very rigid at times, but I always assumed that was due to his position.”
“As I understand it, my father and his brother were dramatically different from a very early age. My father always wanted to be working with his father, out on the farm, taking pride in any little thing he could do from the time he could stand—that’s what I was told. But Uncle preferred his mother’s company and helping with his mother’s work—which was something his father always ridiculed, calling him less than a man and horrible things like that. As the story goes, Uncle left home as soon as he could manage on his own and found work serving in one of the big houses. According to my mother, it made him happy and he’d found his place. My father was at home on the farm, and that’s what made him happy. It’s not so unusual for brothers to be so different.”
“No, it’s not. And Dawson is very good at what he does. Few people could run such a large household with as much efficiency as he does. But it’s more than that; he truly is like family to me.”
“As you and your parents are to him; he’s told me as much many a time.” She sighed. “But you asked about my father. I would never describe him as unkind—not in the way that some men are, at least. He never raised a hand to us, and we all knew he loved us. But he was gruff and not very warm. Well, he had moments of warmth and kindness. But more likely he showed his love by making sure we were all fed and cared for and by making sure we knew how to work hard so we could care for ourselves when we came of age. I don’t ever remember him speaking to me particularly kindly; I just knew that he loved me. I think when I was old enough to be drawn to seeking the attention of young men, I must have sought out the kind who were like my father. Don’t they say we do that?”
“I believe I’ve heard such things.”
“I seemed strangely drawn to men who were gruff and lacking in affection. I suppose I just assumed all men were that way, and that underneath it all, it didn’t mean they didn’t care for me. After what happened with Lucius I certainly realized the hard way how very wrong I’d been.” She turned her focus to Thomas. “But you have been so kind to me in every way, and it continues to surprise me.”
“You’ve not known me long enough to see me lose my temper,” he said with a smile.
“And I’m not fool enough to believe that you never would. Still,” she said and briefly touched his face, “you’ve been very kind, and I would be remiss not to tell you I’m grateful.”
“I’m only trying to be the man my parents taught me I should be. I long ago realized they were among the best of people in this world, and I do not take for granted the privilege of being their son. I would never want to let them down.”
“Then I shall very much look forward to meeting them.”
“I dare say they will take to you immediately.”
“Let us hope so,” she said.
Thomas stood up and said, “I will give you some privacy to change for bed.”
“Thank you,” she said, and he left the room.
Ruth had very few possessions, but she did own a nightgown that had been prudish enough to wear around the house in front of her father and brothers and not feel inappropriate. She was glad to have it now under these strange circumstances, which she could never have predicted.
Once changed for bed, Ruth sat at the little dressing table where there was a mirror. She reverently removed the blue hydrangea from her hair and held it to her nose. It looked somewhat bedraggled from the rigors of the day, but she felt excessively sentimental over it and set it on the table in front of her before she removed the pins from her hair and allowed the long braid to fall down her back. Normally she would have unwound the braid, brushed it through, and rebraided her hair before going to bed, but she felt tired and not certain what to expect and decided to leave it as it was for now.
Ruth stood at the window attempting to take in the view, even though it was mostly the shadows of trees and shrubbery in the darkness. Thomas came into the room after knocking and sat down to take off his boots and stockings. He also removed his tie and waistcoat, having discarded his jacket earlier. She was relieved when he climbed into bed still wearing his shirt and breeches, then wondered why she might have expected anything less when to this point he had been perfectly respectable and respectful in every way.
“The bathing room is free now,” he said, “if there’s anything you need to—”
“Yes, thank you,” she said and hurried out of the room, taking her toothbrush with her.
Ruth returned to the bedroom and closed the door, not even glancing at Thomas as she climbed into bed and turned down the wick on the lamp to darken the room. She was grateful beyond words to note what an enormous bed it was in contrast to those in the home in which she’d grown up. She’d often wondered how her parents even had space to roll over without disturbing each other. But in a bed such as this, she felt sure that she and Thomas could both sleep comfortably and peacefully. Despite the fact that the need to share a room had turned out to be a necessity under the circumstances, she felt glad for it. She didn’t want to admit to how lonely she’d felt since Lucius had abandoned her and her mother had turned her out. She’d not had a friend to speak of in a very long time. No one to turn to or talk to. But in the course of a single day she felt as if Thomas had become her best friend, someone she could be honest with and with whom she could feel comfortable. She didn’t want to be alone and wanted to tell him so, but she simply said, “Thank you, Thomas, for everything. Today has truly been a blessed day for me.”
“And for me,” he said, and she wanted to ask what he meant exactly, but her instinct told her it was best to get to know him better before probing too deeply about the truth of his inner self.
Ruth was surprised to feel his hand find hers beneath the covers. He squeezed her fingers and said with the barest hint of vulnerability, “It’s nice not to be alone.”
“Yes,” she agreed and squeezed back. “It is nice.”
She fell asleep with his hand still in hers and woke to find the room filled with daylight, her husband sitting in one of the comfortable chairs she’d noticed the previous evening, his booted legs crossed, as he read a newspaper.
“Good morning, husband,” she said, just loving the way it felt to say such a word and have it connect her to this man. She knew well enough from marriages she’d observed throughout her life that such a connection was often considered an imprisonment of sorts, a symbol of being bound to someone who was unkind, or neglectful, or even someone who considered that marriage gave him the right to control and dictate a spouse’s every move in life. She didn’t know Thomas Fitzbatten well enough to know if he might eventually turn into such a man, but from what she already knew of his character, she considered it highly unlikely. As it was, being able to call him husband meant only freedom from shame and poverty, and a promise of care and security for herself and her children. The very idea of having more children with him only added to the serenity she felt at watching him now and thinking of herself as his wife.
“Good morning,” he said, darting his eyes toward her before he even set the newspaper aside—as if whatever sentence he might have been in the middle of reading didn’t hold nearly enough interest to keep him from turning his attention to her. “And how did you sleep?” he asked.
“Delightfully well,” she said. “And you?”
“The same,” he said.
Before another thought could enter her mind, a sudden bout of nausea reminded her that this situation was not as ideal as she might have wished. As if he’d been more mindful of it than she—and well prepared—he pointed to a bucket on the floor near the bed, saying with a little smirk, “Just in case. And Bertie prepared some food for you and sent Barclay up with it a while ago. He told me his wife understands these things.”
“I dare say she does,” Ruth said and leaned against a stack of comfortable pillows propped against the headboard before she moved the small tray to her lap and lifted off the cover to find buttered dark bread, two kinds of cheese, and some sliced apples. “Oh, bless her!” Ruth said and hurried to eat enough to calm down her smoldering stomach, taking care to remember that she should eat like a lady while in the presence of a gentleman, although his chuckle made her believe that he enjoyed her voracious appetite and would not be disappointed no matter how she ate.
Thomas returned to his newspaper, and Ruth hurried to the bathing room, needing to make quick use of the facilities available—another ailment that had come with pregnancy. She washed up and returned to the comfort of her bed and the delicious food waiting there for her. While she was eating, Thomas said, “Careful that you don’t fill up too much. You wouldn’t want the real breakfast Bertie is cooking to go to waste.” He tipped down the corner of the newspaper and smiled at her. “Although I dare say you’ll manage.”
“Should I be apologizing for my excessive obsession with food?” she asked with her mouth full.
“Not at all,” he said, returning to his reading. “Far better that you and that baby remain healthy and strong than you eat like a bird for the sake of some imagined propriety. Eat away, my dear. There will always be plenty of food, I can assure you.”
Ruth didn’t know why his last comment provoked her to tears, but it did. She was trying to figure out how to hide them from him when he once again tipped down his paper as if to investigate the reason for her inability to keep from sniffling.
“Whatever is wrong?” he asked and set the paper aside, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, where he took her hand as if they had been married for months.
“I’m not sure,” she said and sniffled again, wiping her eyes on the edge of the sheet under which she was lying. “I’ve heard it said that pregnant women cry more easily, and to tell you the truth, I’ve cried buckets of tears—mostly before you came along and rescued me. I’ve managed to keep them mostly in check while I’ve been with you, but sometimes they just . . . spring out of nowhere and—”
“There is no reason to ever hold back for my sake,” he said.
“You might regret that when I have cause to lose my temper,” she said with complete seriousness, but he chuckled.
Then, more seriously, he wiped at her tears and asked, “Why are you crying now, my dear? Is it something I said?”
“I suppose it was . . . your saying there will always be plenty of food.” Her emotion gained momentum. “When my mother learned of my being pregnant, she told me I would starve on the streets and my child with me.” Thomas urged her face to his shoulder and she took hold of his strong arms, relishing the comfort they offered. “I’ve never had cause to believe my mother didn’t love me. She could sometimes be cross, what with all of her worries and caring for a family on her own after my father’s death. In my heart I know she said the things she did because she was afraid for me, but . . . her words have haunted me.” She looked up at Thomas, knowing full well that a steady stream of tears still flowed down her cheeks. “I’ve asked myself if I agreed to marry you simply to be sure that we never went hungry. I’d be dishonest if I didn’t admit that it had something to do with it. But it was so much more than that. Still, even the promise you’ve given me . . . that there will always be enough to eat is . . . no small thing, Thomas. You must know that.”
“There is no need to fear on any count,” he said, and Ruth held more tightly to him, hoping he wouldn’t consider it inappropriate. Married as they were, she had to remind herself that legally and in the eyes of God there was nothing at all untoward about sharing such a tender moment with this man. It was only the short amount of time they’d known each other that made it strange. But he had a way of making her feel so comfortable that even taking the brevity of their acquaintance into account couldn’t force her to feel awkward with the way he held her and whispered tender reassurances.
Ruth didn’t know if it was her need to ease the tension of the moment or her genuine concern for Bertie that took her mind back to what he’d said a moment ago. Either way she drew back and muttered with alarm, “Bertie’s cooking breakfast? She should be doing no such thing in her condition.”
Thomas chuckled. “I had the same thought, but Barclay has assured me she’s fine and he’d already tried to talk her out of it. My secret plan was for you and me to insist upon cleaning all the dishes afterward—although perhaps I should consult you before I go making any such plans, secret or otherwise.”
“It’s an excellent plan, husband,” she said. “I assure you that if you make any plan to which I disagree, I will certainly let you know.”
“I dare say you will,” he said and ate a piece of cheese from the tray nearby on the bed. He then put a piece of cheese into her mouth and watched her eat it.
Thomas told himself to go back to his chair and his newspaper—but he didn’t want to. He was utterly fascinated with his new wife and trying very hard to figure out why. When he’d offered to marry her, believing at his core that it was absolutely the right thing to do, he’d imagined making certain her needs were met while each of them went about their own business. Although now he couldn’t imagine exactly what their own business might entail. He had no predetermined use of his time, and now that she was his wife, there were no restrictive requirements on her time. He realized now that he hadn’t really thought through the details of how their lives would play out beyond their arrival here. He’d known of married couples who managed to spend practically no time together at all, and he’d known the opposite—of couples who could hardly bear being apart. His parents fell mostly into the latter category. With the exception of their often sleeping in separate rooms, simply because of their dramatically different sleeping habits, they were practically inseparable. Thomas had grown up observing them rarely do as much as have a cup of tea without the other one nearby. There were certainly times when his father was occupied with the business of the estate and his mother had other things to do during the hours when he was absent. But in their leisure time, if he went riding, she went along—although that had become less frequent as she’d gotten older and more frail. But if she went for a walk in the gardens, he accompanied her and held her hand. Was it some kind of subconsciously ingrained habit or expectation that made him want to be with Ruth, no matter what their day might entail? Perhaps. But if he found her company disagreeable he surely would have been more than happy to establish habits of separateness for both their sakes.
As it was, Thomas only wanted to look at her and hold her hand and know her every thought. He didn’t want to ever be too far away from her, instinctively wanting to be certain that her every need was met, her every whim catered to. The very fact that she was a woman who was well accustomed to meeting her own needs and never indulging in a whim made the idea all the more intriguing. He cautioned himself against getting caught up in such feelings simply because the situation was new and therefore occupied his thoughts and stifled his boredom. He didn’t want to establish a pattern between them that he would then need to uphold after the novelty of their marriage wore off and he might feel drawn to spend his time elsewhere. He determined that he was intelligent enough to establish some kind of proper balance, and he also felt confident that he could appropriately communicate with Ruth should any misunderstanding or need for change arise.
Thomas left Ruth to prepare herself for the day and found Barclay in the barn, seeing to the animals housed there.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Barclay asked.
“Carry on,” Thomas said. “I was more wondering what I can do for you.”
“I don’t understand,” Barclay said, holding a pitchfork midair.
“I’ve noticed the cottage is in need of some repairs; a coat of paint wouldn’t go amiss. And the gardens are in need of some attention. I was thinking that—”
“I apologize for that, sir,” Barclay said. “We’ve just not quite been able to set things right since my pa passed on, but—”
“Barclay,” Thomas interrupted, “there is no need to apologize. My mention of it was not to criticize. You’ve been caring for your family, and that is by all means exactly what you should have been doing. I’m saying that while Ruth and I are here, perhaps we can help get things in better order so you’ll not have such a burden. I’m certain we can hire some local help for part of the work.”
Barclay had managed to stick the pitchfork in the ground and was leaning on it, but he seemed to have gone dumb. Thomas simply asked, “Would that be all right with you, Barclay?”
“’Tis your cottage, sir,” Barclay managed.
“And I could not ask for a finer man to watch over it,” Thomas said and left Barclay to his chore, taking mental notes regarding what needed to be done as he returned to the house. Given the circumstances, perhaps his idea to come here had been inspired. And since that decision had been closely tied into his idea to make Ruth his wife and take her away for a while, he felt added peace over that being inspired as well.
Breakfast was delightful, especially since Thomas insisted that Barclay and Bertie join them. They talked and laughed, and Thomas saw a new side of his wife in the way that she conversed so easily with these people—not just because she understood the workings of the serving class but because she had a completely artless way of drawing them into easy conversation and getting them to talk about the real feelings and challenges associated with the passing of Barclay’s father, of his mother’s failing health, and of Bertie’s frustration in having her pregnancy cause such limitations when she felt far more at home keeping busy. It seemed the more he learned about Ruth, the more impossible it became to deny that the hand of God had surely been present in bringing them together. Even now—not even married twenty-four hours—he was already thinking that he couldn’t have handpicked a woman more perfect for him if he’d had several dozens to choose from.
Ruth continued to solidify his beliefs on that count when, after breakfast was finished, she insisted that Bertie put her feet up on an extra chair and keep Ruth company while she cleaned up the kitchen. She told Thomas that he needed to go and see what Barclay might be doing and give him some help.
“We’ve got women’s work to do,” she said, waving her hand toward the door as if she were quite accustomed to ordering him about. “Now get out of here and make yourself useful elsewhere,” she said with playful severity.
Thomas helped Barclay create some order in the barn while they made a list of supplies they needed from town. The men returned to the house to find the women sitting with the elderly Mrs. Barclay in her upstairs bedroom, the three of them laughing like a gaggle of little girls. The laughter finally quieted when the women realized the men had entered the room, and the elderly woman held out her arms toward Thomas in a motherly way that warmed him. She had helped care for him during his visits to the cottage for as long as he could remember. And she was so glad to see him that tears filled her aging eyes and she touched his face as if to be reassured she was not hallucinating.
“And you’ve got yourself a lovely wife,” she said to Thomas.
“I do indeed,” Thomas said, glancing briefly toward Ruth.
“Does she know what a fine catch you are?” the woman whispered in a teasing way, as if Ruth might not be able to overhear them, even though they both knew she could.
“I believe it is the other way around,” Thomas whispered with another glance at Ruth, which revealed a rare hint of shyness.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t marry one of those snooty young misses who was always vying for your hand,” Mrs. Barclay said. “I doubt such a woman would have cared much for the likes of us.”
“Which is exactly why I never would have married such a woman,” Thomas said. He hurried to change the subject. “I hear you’ve not been feeling well.”
The old woman made a scoffing noise. “I’m older than a tree; a woman’s got a right to be down and out when she’s lived three lifetimes and more. Doctor says I’ve not got long, as if it might take a trained eye to know that. But you mustn’t worry about me, Master Thomas. I’m ready to meet up with my sweet Mr. Barclay on the other side just as soon as the good Lord sees fit to call me home. Until then, I’ve got such fine children to care for me. And who could ask for more than that?”
“Indeed,” Thomas said and kissed her frail hand. “After living three lifetimes, who could possibly ask for more?”
Thomas heard sniffles in the room and quickly turned to see Barclay and Bertie both wiping their eyes. He was a bit surprised to see Ruth wiping hers as well—until he recalled her confession to being overly emotional. He kissed Mrs. Barclay’s brow and wondered if he might one day be privileged enough to pass away from this world surrounded by loved ones to care for him and knowing he would be met with love on the other side. She was certainly right. Who could ask for more than that?
* * *
Days passed quickly, accompanied by a stretch of fair weather. Thomas kept busy helping Barclay with some needed repairs to the house and barn and diminishing the unruly accumulation of weeds that were being the most bothersome. The two of them took the wagon into town for supplies, a variety of things that were needed for both the animals and the household. While there, Thomas made arrangements for some temporary hired help to do some repairs on the roof of the house and to give both the house and the barn a fresh coat of paint. He saw a few people he knew from his youth, and all who remembered him wished him well in having returned safely from serving his time in the military. And Barclay was quick to inform others that Thomas had gotten married and was expecting a child, which always brought a hearty round of congratulations from anyone nearby—whether they knew Thomas or not.
While Thomas and Barclay kept busy during the days, Ruth seemed content to be left to assist Bertie in doing whatever she might need help with in the house. At mealtimes when the four of them were together, they’d share reports of what they’d accomplished. Bertie felt badly about how much Ruth was doing, but Ruth was all aglow with feeling useful, and she rather appeared to be enjoying herself. In Bertie’s condition it was much easier for Ruth to go up and down the stairs to see to Starla’s needs, and it was evident Ruth had taken quite a liking to the old woman—and the other way around. Bertie and Ruth had apparently become good friends, with much in common and a great deal to talk about.
Bertie bragged about how Ruth had done most of the cooking since Bertie could hardly get on her feet anymore without “waddling like an old cow,” and Thomas couldn’t help being impressed to realize that his wife was more than a fair cook. When Barclay commented about Thomas finding a wife who could cook, Thomas pretended to have already known of her competence, and Ruth just smiled at him the way she did when their mutual secret was so gracefully avoided.
Thomas’s favorite time of day was in the evening after he’d taken advantage of the bathing room to clean himself up; he’d return to the bedroom wearing fresh clothes that he would sleep in. Usually he would find Ruth sitting in front of the mirror performing what he now knew was a nightly ritual with her hair. The hair that he would have described upon meeting her as average brown proved to be anything but average when she set it free. At first she would remove more hairpins than he could count that held her hair coiled tightly against the back of her head. With the pins absent, a thick, silky braid fell down her back, and he wagered that it nearly came to her waist.
Thomas usually sat in bed with a book while she took care of her hair; that way he could discreetly watch her but pretend to be reading should she chance to glance in his direction. But the words on the page held no interest for him as she untied the ribbon at the bottom of the braid and efficiently unwove the plaiting that kept her hair in place. And then she brushed it. From top to bottom, over and over in long, efficient strokes, she brushed and brushed. There was a practiced efficiency to the task that was typical of her personality. But there was also a beauty to it that was so thoroughly feminine and fine. He could almost believe she did it solely for his entertainment, except that she’d obviously been doing it years before they’d ever met. And since they’d not yet known each other a week, he knew it had absolutely nothing to do with him.
When she considered her hair sufficiently brushed, she quickly wound it again into a long braid to keep it from tangling while she slept. The only break he’d noted in her routine regarding her hair was on the days she washed it. Then she performed the ritual earlier in the day when heating and carrying the water was more convenient. Given that he’d offered to help her with the water, he’d seen her hair wet and realized that the beautiful waves were not natural but rather a result of her hair drying while it was plaited. In its natural state her hair was like a length of satin. And there was absolutely nothing average about it.
But then, there was absolutely nothing average about Ruth. She was as kind as she was hard working. While she was not one to keep an opinion to herself, he’d never heard her utter an uncivil word to anyone—not even a rude woman they encountered when he took Ruth into the village for a little outing to acquire some much-needed clothes. He insisted that she get new everything, to which she protested and he won. In the end she couldn’t hide her delight over the new dress and shawl she wore as they left the shop. She was equally thrilled with the other items they’d ordered. She simply said, “You’re too good to me, Thomas. Should I not feel guilty for being taken off the streets by such a fine gentleman and then lavished with an abundance of gifts?”
“No, you should not!” he told her. “You’re my wife and I will buy you whatever I choose.” He made a scoffing sound, realizing he actually felt mildly insulted. “And I did not take you off the streets.”
“Seems so to me,” she said.
“And it’s time you put all of that behind you,” he insisted. He added more softly, “Your kindness to Bertie and Starla—and to Barclay as well—is worth a thousand new dresses.”
“It takes no effort to be kind to them, Thomas.” Now it was she who sounded insulted. “Do you think I do such things to earn your favor?”
“No,” he said and took her hand. “Which is exactly the point.”
Ruth seemed confused on the point, but he changed the subject.
The following day they attended church, and Ruth admitted while they were on their way to the village chapel that she was nervous.
“There’s no need to be,” he said. “Just be yourself and all will be well.”
In a tone that was slightly teasing but mostly accusing, she said, “Is that why you bought me this new dress, Thomas? So, I’d not embarrass you at church?”
“You look lovely in the dress, wife. But I wouldn’t care if you wore rags to church. One of these days perhaps you’ll figure out what kind of man I am.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” she said, and he chuckled.
Following the service, they encountered a few people who showed less-than-subtle disapproval over Thomas’s choice of a wife—but he’d expected as much and actually felt some pride in getting such a reaction out of those people. He told Ruth so on their way home and was glad to hear her say, “Oh, I don’t care a bit about what people like that think of me, so long as you don’t.” She smiled at him and added, “It was nice to be at church and not feel so all alone.”
“Yes,” he said and smiled back, although their smiles faded long before they stopped gazing at each other, “that was nice.”
After church it was Ruth’s idea that they take Sunday dinner up to Starla’s room so they could all share a fine meal with her. Barclay helped Bertie up the stairs and made her comfortable, and Starla’s face lit up at the announcement of their plans. After a few trips up and down the stairs by those who were able-bodied, they all sat around Starla’s bed, and Barclay spoke grace over their meal, including a sincere thanks to God for his mother and all the good she had brought into their lives. They all chimed in with an enthusiastic “Amen” and shared a good deal of conversation and laughter, not only while they ate but long afterward. Starla ate very little, which had been typical for a number of weeks, according to Bertie. But she reveled in the company, and her eyes looked half the age of her frail and weakening body.
The following morning Barclay found his mother dead. She had a peaceful countenance that implied she had gone to sleep and never awakened, and it had likely been hours before morning when she’d left, since Barclay had found her skin already very cold.
Thomas felt the weight of his own grief at Starla’s passing, but he couldn’t comprehend that of Barclay, who had already lost his father. Thomas offered to take care of arrangements with the vicar and the undertaker, and this man who was usually hesitant to take help from anyone readily agreed.
With Barclay and Bertie left to their grieving—and Bertie’s necessary rest—Ruth took over the running of the household with an efficiency and drive that left Thomas somewhat stunned. He never caught her sitting down unless she was eating or brushing out her hair. But the day after Starla’s death it rained as if the sky itself were grieving, and Thomas searched the entire house for his wife, wanting to ask if there was anything he could do to help. He finally caught a glimpse of her out the kitchen window, and was taken aback by what he saw.
Thomas stepped quietly outside, not wanting to alert her to his presence too soon and deny her this moment. If he had to guess, he believed the rain had spoken to something inside of her and had lured her out into this downpour, and she was oblivious to how completely wet she was from head to toe. With her face turned to the sky and her eyes closed, she sobbed and heaved, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The depth of her grief implied that she had known Starla for a lifetime; it also prompted his own tears that had been hovering just below the surface since word had come of Starla’s death yesterday. But he stepped into the rain, and the downpour quickly disguised them.
“Ruth,” he said, at the same time gently setting a hand on her shoulder. She was startled only a moment before she took hold of him and cried and cried. He just held her and let her cry, understanding without any words why the bathing downpour of rain had a soothing effect in light of such grief.
“Why do you cry for her so deeply?” he asked and pressed a kiss into her very wet hair.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know. She was so kind and good, and the love that Bertie and Barclay have for her makes it evident how well she loved them. Perhaps I just needed to cry.”
“In the rain?”
“It seemed fitting,” she said and held to him more tightly.
Minutes passed before she spoke again, saying, “I’m so glad we were here, Thomas. What would they have done? Bertie grows more uncomfortable every day, and Barclay can hardly put a thought together.”
“I agree,” he said. “I’m very glad we’re here. And you do very well at keeping everything under control.”
“As do you,” she said.
He wanted to point out how well they worked together, managing to see that everything was taken care of without hardly having to communicate over who would do what. He wanted to tell her that an hour didn’t pass without him thinking that his decision to marry her was the best thing he’d ever done. But it had been so short a time, and trying to put a voice to such words made him fear sounding like a fool. He’d been carefully taught the difference between love and infatuation, but now he wondered if he was infatuated with his own wife. He thought of her continually, and when he wasn’t with her he wanted to be. She did everything that impressed and pleased him without even trying, and she was mesmerizingly beautiful. When he looked at her now he didn’t see anything average or ordinary. He could only see the promise of his life stretching out before him, with her always at the center. He was blessed to already be married to her, and to know that she would always be with him. But whether or not what he felt was love—or anything akin to it—deserved far more time and consideration.