The following morning while Ruth was pinning up her hair, Thomas’s face appeared in the mirror beside hers as he took hold of her shoulders. “Are you still nervous?”
“Yes, but not quite so much now that I know we have a story to tell them that won’t leave us looking like fools.”
“It will take very little time for you to feel completely comfortable with them, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” she said, and he chuckled as he left the room.
About halfway between breakfast and lunch, a hired coach stopped in the drive at the other end of the footpath. Barclay and Bertie were like a couple of children, barely containing their excitement. Thomas managed to remain more composed, but Ruth had no trouble seeing how thrilled he was to see his parents. They all went down the footpath to meet Lord and Lady Arrington as they alighted from the carriage. Ruth held back, preferring to observe from a distance at first.
Bertie held the baby while Barclay helped the coachmen take down the luggage and set it aside to be carried into the house after greetings had been exchanged. Thomas helped his mother step down from the carriage and immediately wrapped her in his arms, lifting her off the ground with a burst of laughter and twirling her around twice before he set her down and helped steady her from her dizziness.
Ruth couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she was glad for the chance to see Thomas’s mother—and the charming way he interacted with her. Yvette Fitzbatten looked a little taller than Ruth, and thinner. Her clothing was fine but looked as though it had been created more for comfort than show, which certainly didn’t surprise Ruth. Her graying dark hair was done up tightly, and pinned to it was an intricate lace bonnet that revealed more hair than it covered. Her features were fine and delicate, and she had a frail look about her that had not been evident in the enthusiastic greeting with her son.
As Thomas’s father stepped out of the carriage, Ruth turned her attention to him. He met Thomas eye to eye, and his gray hair showed only hints that it had once been as dark as his son’s. But it was evident where Thomas had gotten his curls. Quincy Fitzbatten had that same impossible-to-control look to his hair, which Ruth found endearing. Thomas bore a strong likeness to his father in his features, as well. Even though she could see a hint of Yvette in Thomas’s face, he definitely favored his father. The two men laughed and embraced, and Ruth had to remember this was the first time they’d seen Thomas in years, and they had likely wondered if they would ever see him again.
Yvette started up the walk while the carriage rolled away, and Thomas and his father collected the luggage. Barclay had already carried a trunk into the house, and Bertie had followed him. When she saw Ruth, Yvette stopped walking, put both hands to her face, and let out a joyful noise.
“And this must be our Ruth,” Yvette said and hurried to close the gap between them. “Oh, my dear girl!” Yvette said and took Ruth’s face into her hands. “What a beautiful and precious thing you are!”
“It is so good to finally meet you,” was all Ruth could think to say.
“And you, my dear,” Yvette said and laughed. “Although I didn’t know about you until yesterday; still it is grand to meet you.” Putting her arm protectively around Ruth, Yvette called to her husband, who was almost up the walk with a piece of luggage in each hand. “Look, Quin, look. It’s our Ruth. Isn’t she just precious?”
Thomas’s father set down the bags as if he had to do so in order to fully appreciate the moment. He looked at Ruth with intrigue sparkling in his merry eyes, saying firmly, “You are just precious, my dear.”
“It is such a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Ruth said, nodding toward him. “But I must protest your declaration of my being precious. You’ve barely met me.” She lightly added, “Perhaps I have hidden vices or a nasty temper.”
“Oh, I do like her,” Thomas’s father said to him.
“I knew you would,” Thomas said, winking at Ruth.
Quincy stepped forward and took both of Ruth’s hands into his. With full sincerity, he said, “If our Thomas chose you to be his wife, then you are most certainly precious. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
“You are very kind, sir,” Ruth said.
“Now, there’ll be none of that.” He lifted a finger. “Either call me Quin or Papa, if it suits you. But I’ll not be ‘sirred’ by my own daughter.”
He picked the suitcases up again and took them into the house while Yvette held the door.
“You’d best do as he tells you,” Thomas said quietly to Ruth as he passed by, also carrying luggage.
Ruth stood outside the door a long moment while Yvette’s our Ruth swirled around in her mind along with Quincy’s my own daughter. And Thomas had not seemed at all hesitant or ashamed of them doing so. If anything, he’d seemed proud of her—and this while she was pregnant with another man’s child and their marriage had begun as a charade. But if it had ever felt that way, it didn’t now. In that moment Ruth felt like a part of this family. During the simple exchanges of just a minute or two, she felt loved and secure; she felt as if she belonged. And if she thought about it a moment more, she would dissolve into uncontrollable tears until Thomas would have to come searching for her, and she would need to try to explain. Instead she forced back any need to become maudlin over all of this and went into the house.
Ruth found that the men had taken the luggage upstairs; she could hear their booming voices filling the upper floor with teasing and laughter. Yvette was seated in the parlor and just now saying to Bertie, “Come sit down, my dear girl, and let me see that baby.”
Ruth tried to imagine—in the households where she’d once been employed—the lady of the house being seated with a servant, fussing over the baby as if they were friends. It never would have happened; it wasn’t considered respectable in polite society. But here was Yvette Fitzbatten, Lady Arrington of Brownlie Manor, holding little Warren on her lap and fussing over him, declaring him to be the cutest baby she’d seen since Thomas had been that age.
Ruth moved discreetly into the room and sat down to observe, but both women glanced her way and Yvette said to her, “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing, my dear?”
“He is, indeed,” Ruth said. “We’ve all been enjoying him very much.”
“Ruth helped deliver him,” Bertie told Yvette proudly. “You know how I feel about the doctor here.”
“I do, and I heartily agree,” Yvette said.
“Since I’ve had me own training, I thought we could manage on our own. And we did. But I know it would have been much harder on me if it hadn’t been for Ruth.” Bertie smiled toward her. “She’s as kind as she is capable.”
Yvette took a long look at Ruth and said, “I’d not expect my Thomas to marry anyone less than that.”
“Certainly not, m’lady,” Bertie said.
Yvette smiled at Ruth as if to punctuate that she truly meant it, then she turned her attention to Warren, talking to him in a funny voice and touching his every finger as if to be assured they were all as perfect as they appeared to be.
“I’m so happy for you, Bertie,” Yvette said, giving the baby back to his mother as he began to fuss.
As always when the baby needed feeding, Bertie was quick to unfasten a few buttons of her bodice and lead the baby to her breast. Once he was situated, she tossed a shawl over her shoulder, since the men were likely to return to the room before the baby finished nursing. Being able to nurse the baby with or without men in the room was one of many skills that Ruth was taking note of as she observed Bertie with her baby. The time was creeping closer far too quickly, and in fact she had barely been able to make herself presentable in the dress she was wearing and felt sure that tomorrow she would opt for wearing one of the dresses Thomas had ordered for her to accommodate her increasing size. For reasons she couldn’t define, she hadn’t wanted his parents to meet her with her pregnancy blatantly obvious. They were family, and perhaps once they knew, she would feel a little more comfortable with being publicly pregnant and pretending that Thomas was the father.
Once Yvette was no longer distracted with the baby, she turned toward Ruth and physically moved on the sofa to put herself closer to where Ruth was sitting in a nearby chair. “Now, you must tell me all about yourself, my dear,” Yvette said. “You can’t imagine our surprise to return home and learn that Thomas had come back and we’d not been there to greet him. And then to read his letter and discover that he’d come home to us with the best surprise of all.” She reached a hand toward Ruth, who took it and smiled, a little overcome with this woman’s kindness, but at the same time thinking that meeting Thomas’s parents had made his natural kindness make perfect sense. “Tell me about your family, Ruth,” Yvette prodded.
“I’m one of six children,” Ruth said, “and the only girl.”
“Oh, my,” Yvette said. “What an adventure that must have been!”
“It certainly was,” Ruth said with a little laugh. “They’re all old enough to work in the mines now; two of them are married and the others live at home with my mother.”
“That’s not an easy life,” Yvette said with compassion.
“No, but the mines have provided well for my family, in spite of . . .”
“Of what, my dear?”
“My father was taken in a mining accident some years back.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Yvette said. “And your poor, dear mother.”
Ruth only said, “The mine gave us a compensation, which helped immensely, and they are all managing well enough.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Yvette said. “We must arrange to meet your family as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” Ruth said, thinking that it was likely proper; but that didn’t mean she necessarily ever wanted it to happen.
“And tell me about you, my dear,” Yvette urged, and Ruth was grateful for the opportunity she’d had to observe Thomas’s mother with Bertie and to know that his parents were not the kind of people who cared a whit about marrying outside of one’s social class.
“My story is nothing unusual,” Ruth began. “I started working in a manor house at rather a young age, and worked my way up. I went to a different home when a better opportunity came, and eventually I was assisting a lady’s maid.”
“Well, you appear to be as refined as any lady I’ve ever met,” Yvette said. “Not that it would matter to me.” She squeezed Ruth’s hand. “If my Thomas loves you, then nothing else matters.”
“I can attest that she is very much a lady,” Bertie said, “but not afraid to get her hands dirty, neither. She kept the household running while I was recovering. Don’t know what we’d have done without her.” Bertie chuckled. “And she does well at ordering the men about when there’s chores to be done.”
“Good for you, my dear,” Yvette said with a delighted laugh, and Ruth knew by then that she couldn’t have disliked her mother-in-law for any reason. She’d certainly not expected to, but the evidence was comforting—especially given the strain Ruth had felt with her own mother at their last parting.
Hearing the men coming noisily down the stairs, the women ceased their conversation, and Ruth observed the light and comfortable interaction Thomas had with his father. She also noticed that Quin treated Barclay much like an old friend—just as Yvette behaved with Bertie. They were all seated in the parlor, although Thomas took Ruth’s hand and urged her to sit in a different spot on one of the sofas so he could sit right next to her. He kept her hand in his and smiled at her as if he felt no nervousness or discomfort at all, even though she knew they were both about to expound upon the lie he’d begun in the letter he’d left for his parents.
They shared small talk about the people in the village, the repairs that had been done on the cottage and barn, and the birth of little Warren. They also spoke solemnly of Starla’s passing, although Yvette declared that Starla was surely an angel watching over the new baby and his parents. A moment of silence and a few sniffles implied a mutual agreement even before Barclay said, “I’m certain you’re right, m’lady. I’ve thought many times that I wish she were here to see him, and then it occurs to me that she’s likely looking in on him all the time.”
“I’m certain she is,” Yvette said.
Bertie declared that the baby was asleep and she needed to check on some things in the kitchen, and Barclay followed her out of the room, as if they both knew when it was the right time to see to their duties as employees of these people and leave them to their time together as family.
They’d not been gone half a minute before Thomas said, “Now that we’re all together, I’m certain you have many questions. So let me begin by telling you that yes, I did come home earlier than I had anticipated. And when I got it in my head to surprise you, it hadn’t occurred to me that you might be traveling. It should have occurred to me, but it didn’t. So I apologize for my poor timing.”
“No apology necessary, dearest,” Yvette said.
Quin piped in. “It would have been as foolish of us to be sitting at home waiting for you as it would have been for you to think that your return had to be perfectly timed. It couldn’t be helped. We’re together and happy for it.”
“It is so good to see you alive and well, my boy,” Yvette said.
“It is good to be alive and well,” Thomas said and went on to tell them the story of his being wounded on the battlefield, although he was a little less graphic about it than when he’d told Ruth, which she felt certain was for his mother’s benefit. Yvette still wept and thanked God aloud more than once that her son’s life had been spared. Quin said as much himself, and Ruth noted that the love these people had for Thomas was readily evident. She felt immensely privileged in that moment to have married into such a family and wondered why, of all the women who had found themselves in such dire circumstances, she might have been blessed enough to be rescued by Thomas Fitzbatten.
Quin and Yvette were then full of questions about how Thomas had met Ruth and how they’d fallen in love. There was that word love again. He just smiled at her as if it perfectly described everything they felt for each other, then proceeded to tell their manufactured tale of how they’d met and married in Portsmouth. When they came to the part about how they’d looked familiar to each other, Thomas’s parents were thrilled to realize that she was a niece to their long and trusted servant and friend.
“Imagine him not telling us!” Quin said in a tone of teasing.
“He was sworn to secrecy,” Thomas said. “And we all know that Dawson can keep a secret better than the average ten men.”
“That he can,” Quin said.
Yvette asked more questions about the marriage and what had led up to it. Thomas smiled at Ruth and then at his mother. “It all happened very quickly, but you always taught me to follow my heart and to trust my instincts.” He looked again at Ruth. “I’d barely spent an hour with her before I knew that marrying her was the best thing I could do with my life.”
Ruth was taken aback to look into his eyes and realize he was telling the absolute truth. He had no regrets or doubts. She wanted to hold him close and tell him how very much that meant to her, how grateful she was to feel the same, and to have good reason to hope they could share a good and loving lifetime together. As it was, she just smiled, glad to see him smile back before he turned to his parents and added lightly, “Good thing Dawson considered me a suitable match, or we’d have had an uproar at Brownlie Manor to be sure.”
Yvette laughed softly, but Quin apparently thought it was extremely funny. His laughter was deep and hearty and apparently contagious because Ruth found herself laughing as well. And so was Thomas. She loved it when he laughed.
When the laughter finally died down, Quin said to Ruth, “If Dawson gives you any trouble, my dear, you let me know.”
“I’ll try not to be too hard on him,” Ruth said, and they all laughed again.
Ruth considered that a great source of the laughter was simply the joy these people had at being reunited with their son—and the other way around. She wondered if Thomas had imagined this reunion with a pregnant wife at his side, but she chose to think instead of the conviction she’d seen in his eyes only moments ago when he’d declared his belief that marrying her had been the right thing to do.
When silence settled again, Thomas said, “I don’t know if you can take any more happiness in one morning.” His parents both looked at him, aghast and expectant. “But it’s about time you know that you’re going to be grandparents.”
Ruth wasn’t surprised by the way Yvette put a hand over her heart and got tears in her eyes, but she hadn’t expected Quin to do the same. In response to their silence, Thomas put his arm around Ruth’s shoulders and said, “I’m going to take that to mean you’re pleased. And it’s high time you knew. Ruth is about to burst out of the seams of that dress she’s wearing. It was impossible to not tell Bertie and Barclay, but we did want you to be the first to know—as much as that was possible.”
“Oh, my dear!” Yvette murmured and crossed the room to sit on the sofa on the other side of Ruth. She embraced Ruth tightly and said, “You dear, sweet thing. I doubt anything could make me happier.”
Ruth returned Yvette’s embrace and then nodded at her in response, overcome with her own tears.
“This is joyous news, indeed,” Quin said. “It’s high time the halls of Brownlie Manor had more family to fill them up, and what could be better than the laughter of children?”
“Indeed,” Yvette said. “And the crying.” She smiled at her husband. “Babies cry as well, my dear. I’m sure you remember.”
“Oh, I remember,” Quin said. “But this time we’re the grandparents. We aren’t required to take care of the crying. We can just . . . go for a walk, or something.” Quin laughed and added, “Congratulations . . . to the both of you. This is a joyous day!”
“Yes, it is,” Thomas said, and Ruth once again found him looking at her. She returned his gaze for a long moment, until the shame she felt over her secret roiled up inside of her, threatening to smother her joy.
Ruth stood and said, “I’ll let you all do some catching up and see if Bertie needs any help.” Yvette moved to stand, but Ruth motioned for her to remain seated. “No, you’ve been traveling. Visit with your son. Everything is under control.”
Yvette smiled and nodded, and Ruth hurried into the kitchen. Bertie assured her there was nothing to be done except keep an eye on the food to make certain it didn’t burn, and Bertie had that under control. Ruth was secretly glad and hurried quietly up the stairs, wanting to be alone.
Once in the bedroom she tugged frantically at the lacings down the back of her dress but couldn’t reach well enough to do any more than give herself a little more breathing room. Thomas had been helping her with them, since she always wore a chemise underneath and she’d never felt exposed, but she wasn’t about to go find him and ask for help while she felt as if something hot and volatile inside her might explode.
Ruth kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed, curling around the mound of her baby, feeling torn and confused. How could she be so thoroughly blessed and feel that everything was so dreadfully wrong? Tears came with force, and she had no strength to hold them back, glad to know that the house was big enough—and the walls thick enough—that she could do so with some privacy. But she jumped and nearly screamed when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Thomas. Her crying had blocked out the sound of his coming into the room and closing the door behind him.
“Can’t a woman have a good cry in secret around here?” she snapped as she turned away from him.
Thomas sat on the bed beside her and said, “As soon as you can tell me why you’re crying and I’m assured it has nothing to do with me, I will gladly leave you in peace.”
When Ruth could only keep crying, she felt Thomas loosening the laces down her back. “Here, at least let me help you. I told you this morning when you put this on it was ridiculous. It can’t be good for you or the baby.”
“I didn’t want your parents immediately seeing that I am enormously pregnant,” she said through a whimper and sat up so that she could shimmy out of the dress. Even though the chemise covered everything to her elbows and nearly to her ankles, Thomas still wouldn’t look directly at her when she wore it with nothing over it. He opened the wardrobe and took out a lovely red print dress that had been hanging there for weeks in anticipation of her growing waistline.
“Here,” he said, then added after she’d taken it from him, “And what was your excuse the day before that? And the one before that? Sometimes I wonder if you wish that you weren’t pregnant.”
Ruth barely had the dress over her head before she looked at him in astonishment, but he still wouldn’t look at her so she stood up and let the dress fall over the chemise. “I’m covered now, Mr. Fitzbatten,” she said with a snarl. “If you would do the honor?”
He fastened the back of the dress while she considered how to respond to what he’d said—and how angry it made her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so upset, Mrs. Fitzbatten.” He mimicked her tone perfectly.
“I would never wish for this baby to not exist, Thomas. I feel it moving and growing inside of me, and I . . .” She started to cry again, and he urged her to sit on the edge of the bed, sitting beside her with his comforting arms wrapped around her.
“Tell me why you’re so upset,” he said, “and accept my apology for being so insensitive. We men are just a bunch of insensitive fools, you know. My mother has told me so.”
“I’m certain she never meant it of you and your father.”
“There may have been moments,” he said. “I can’t say I’ve never been an insensitive fool, and I may yet be again. It’s a wife’s job to point out when her husband is behaving badly.”
“And a husband’s job to do the same for his wife?” she asked and sniffled.
“Perhaps,” he said and repeated, “Please tell me why you’re so upset.”
“I feel terrible having to lie to your parents, Thomas. If my uncle and my mother know the truth, shouldn’t they? Surely you can trust them.” She looked up at him. “Surely they would understand.” At his alarmed silence, she stated the obvious, “You don’t think they would?”
“I don’t know, Ruth,” he admitted. “I need . . . to think about it; obviously I didn’t think it through as well as I should have.” He sighed and lowered his head into hands.
“I meant no grief to come into your life, Thomas. If I could have—”
“Listen to me, Ruth,” he said, turning toward her. “I chose to do this. Do you think for one moment that I regret that choice?”
“You don’t seem to,” she said, “but . . .”
“Ruth,” he said, turning on the bed to take hold of her hands. “Tell me what you think, now that you’ve met them. You’ve brought up a valid point, and we need to consider it. But I need to know what you think; I need to know what you want.”
Ruth couldn’t take her eyes off of him while she pondered his question, and then she turned her gaze downward, unable to look at him at all. The truth swelled inside of her, along with the answer to his question. But the strangeness of the situation had made it so difficult to talk about—even though she knew it shouldn’t be. He’d never given her reason to be afraid to tell him the truth.
Keeping her eyes focused on the floral pattern of her dress, Ruth spoke from her heart. “I want our story to be true, Thomas. I want us to have met in Portsmouth, to have fallen so quickly and deeply in love that we couldn’t get married fast enough. I want this baby to be yours and for everything in our lives to be as perfect as it seems.” Now that she’d said the difficult part, she looked up at him. “But it’s a lie; we’ll always be living a lie. And what can be worse than lying to people you love and respect? How can you live your life, allowing your parents to believe a lie about something so vital and important to them? And what if this baby is a boy? Don’t think I haven’t thought about what that means. Can you truly stand by and allow a child with no Fitzbatten blood to inherit everything your father will leave to you? Including a title? Can you? Because I don’t know if I can! There,” she finished firmly, “that’s what I think.”
Thomas looked deeply into her eyes, as if he were trying to measure everything she’d just said. “I do need to tell them the truth,” he said. “I can see that now. I just . . .”
“Don’t know how?”
“I just . . . have to do it—as difficult as it might be. But . . . there is something I need to do first. I only need a little time . . . to think . . . to pray, certainly. But I will tell them soon, I promise.”
“I need to be with you when you do,” she said, and he looked as if he might protest. “I must!” she insisted. “We are husband and wife. We are in this together.”
He nodded before he embraced her, and she could feel hesitancy and fear in the way he held her. But she also knew he would do the right thing. She wanted to be close to his parents, and she knew she never could be if they didn’t know the truth. She could only hope and pray that when they did know the truth, they would still feel about her the way they did now.
* * *
Ruth observed that lunch went smoothly while Thomas asked question after question of his parents about their travels and didn’t give them a moment to notice that both he and Ruth were a little on edge. After they’d eaten, Quin and Yvette both declared the need for a nap, which they admitted was often their habit even when they hadn’t been wearing themselves out with travel. Ruth helped Bertie in the kitchen for a while, and Thomas went out to the garden to pull weeds from around the rose bushes. When Bertie no longer needed her help, Ruth found him there, his sleeves haphazardly rolled up and his waistcoat unbuttoned since the day was warm.
“Are you thinking or praying?” she asked, standing above him.
“I’ve been doing both,” he said.
“Would you prefer that I leave you alone?” she asked.
“No . . . thank you. I think I would now prefer some company.” Ruth knelt nearby and began pulling weeds as well. He added, “You don’t have to work in order to keep me company.”
“And you don’t think I need something to occupy my hands every bit as much as you do?” she countered. She picked up a little pair of clippers that he’d left on the ground and began removing all that was no longer useful on one of the bushes.
Thomas stopped pulling weeds and brushed the dirt from his hands, suddenly no longer needing to keep them occupied. While he carefully considered all he’d been pondering, and his hope that God would guide him and help propel him forward, he sat on the ground to simply watch his wife as she clipped away all that was dead and dying on the rose bush that was currently the product of her tender care and pruning. How could it be that he had married a woman so impulsively and yet had grown to respect and admire her more every day? And her declaration in regard to his parents had only made him respect and admire her all the more. How could it be that he believed his heart would irrevocably break if he were to ever lose her or see her harmed in any way? What kind of magic had brought them together and made him feel this way?
He was so entranced with his study of her beautiful face and tiny hands at work that he was startled when she laughed and looked up, saying with glee, “Oh, my! I’ve not seen one like this in such a long time; years maybe.” She laughed again, her dampened mood completely absent. “It’s beautiful.”
“What?” he asked, turning to see what had her attention.
Something eerie and remarkable and strange enveloped him with wonder as his eye caught the butterfly with bright blue wings flitting around over the bush that she’d been tending to, as if it might be inviting her to play. How could he ever forget the last time he’d seen such a butterfly? The bright blue wings were rare and unmistakable. He’d been in the garden at Brownlie Manor with Fletcher and Ernie, feeling terribly low and sorry for himself. And the butterfly had come, seeming to bring with it a message in the way it had lighted in front of him as if to stare him down. Something good will come to you, he’d been told. And it was not many days later that Ruth had appeared in his life. He didn’t believe in magic or mystical things. But he did believe that butterflies were God’s creatures, just as men and women were, and he couldn’t deny—though he could never explain without sounding crazy—that the blue butterfly had seemed to bring him a message that day that had given him hope. And now a butterfly of the same breed was here, many miles from Brownlie Manor, delighting his wife with its fluttering dance.
Thomas wanted to tell her about his thoughts, and perhaps eventually he would. For now, he was content to simply watch and take in the moment. He’d known even before she’d come outside to join him exactly what he needed to do—or rather say. And he knew it had to be done before he could face his parents with the truth and the necessary conviction to make them believe him. But now, rather than feeling any concern or even fear over what he needed to do, he felt entirely calm and at peace. Caught up in a sensation that was almost magical, he was taken aback to hear Ruth say, “It’s the same color as the flower you put in my hair just before we were married.”
“So it is,” he said, wondering why he’d chosen that flower from the many different colors available in the bouquet.
“Which matches the stone in the ring you gave me,” she added, still watching the butterfly as if she dared not look away. The little creature finally seemed sa’tisfied with its exploration of that particular rosebush, and it flew quickly up and away, gone from sight in seconds. Ruth turned to him and asked, “Did you plan that?”
He said facetiously, “I am capable of a great many things, my darling, but I have no control over butterflies.”
She laughed and held her hand toward him to display her wedding ring, as if he might not remember what it looked like. “Did you pick the blue flower because it matched the stone in the ring?”
“I wish I could say I’d been that clever,” he admitted, taking her outstretched hand to kiss it before she returned to her work. “Although . . .” he drawled, “maybe I picked the blue hydrangea to match the butterfly so that this moment would remind you of our wedding.”
“That would be clever,” she said and laughed again. Oh, how he loved to hear her laugh!
He continued to watch her until she turned to look at him and asked, “Why do you sit there and stare at me? You aren’t getting very much done.”
“Sometimes a man’s thoughts are so overwhelming that it’s impossible to do anything but think.”
“And what of a woman’s thoughts?” she asked, setting the clippers on the ground before she sat to face him.
“I can only speak for myself,” he said.
“Then tell me what you are thinking about so seriously, Thomas Fitzbatten. You told me you needed to think, but now you look absolutely resolved—and dare I say cheerful?”
“I would say that’s accurate—of you as well as me.”
“I just . . . believe everything will be all right,” she said.
“So do I,” he admitted. “But there is something I need to say.”
“I’m listening,” she said, and he hoped that speaking his mind would not darken her mood. He felt suddenly vulnerable with the idea of sharing his thoughts with her, but at the same time he desperately needed to speak them. And he knew it was right.
“I love it,” he forged ahead, “when we can just be together this way. I love the way we can talk and laugh over everything and nothing. I love how quickly we’ve grown to be so comfortable with one another. I love the way we can work side by side at any task and feel as if it’s always been that way.”
She smiled, which he considered a good sign. “I love it too,” she said, and he sighed. So far so good.
Becoming more serious, he added, “I don’t want any of that to change, Ruth. You have become my best and dearest friend, and I want it to always be that way.”
She took his hand but said nothing, even though she seemed to silently agree. And he pressed on. “I think that something in me fears . . . saying what I really want to say . . . because it might . . . change what we’ve come to share.”
Her countenance darkened as if she now realized the seriousness of what he was trying to get at. “We have agreed to be honest with each other,” she said. “If you hold back things you wish to say, is that not some form of dishonesty?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Or is it just discretion? Wisdom, maybe. Or sensitivity in knowing that the re might be a right time or a wrong time to say certain things.”
He saw her shoulders rise and fall as she drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Are you leading up to whatever it is you need to say to me before you can tell your parents the truth?”
“I believe I am.” He couldn’t deny it.
She asked with severity, “Have you been keeping secrets from me, husband?”
“And if I have?”
“I could not deny that we are guilty of the same failing. Perhaps for the same reasons.”
While he couldn’t be certain they were talking about the same thing, her words gave him the fortitude he needed to go on. “I cannot hold it inside any longer, Ruth. I must tell you that . . . I did not expect this.”
“This?” she echoed as if she feared he might admit to having some repulsion to their marriage.
“I expected that . . . over time we would . . . gain some degree of affection for each other; or at least I hoped for it. I did not expect to feel the way I do . . . and after so short a time.” He chuckled to cover a sudden nervousness. “But how could I expect something I’ve never known before? For all that a person may hear things described and talked about, until it happens to that person, the explanations of others can’t possibly have any real meaning.”
She sounded mildly nervous herself when she said, “That sounded awfully vague and hypothetical, Thomas. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re trying to say?”
He knew she was right. He just had to get to the point and pray that it didn’t change anything between them. “I don’t want to offend you, Ruth; I don’t want to frighten you or put distance between us, because I’ve grown to depend upon your company so completely. But I have to say what I feel. I just . . . find myself wondering . . . every day . . . how it could be possible that I chose a wife so impulsively . . . and that before even a season has passed . . . I have grown to love her and need her beyond anything I ever comprehended possible.”
Thomas held his breath while he heard her sigh loudly. She looked down, and his heart beat wildly with fear and expectation. He’d sensed her feelings for him in the way she looked at him, the things she said. But he wondered now if what she felt did not equal all he’d just confessed. He feared his confessions would create an awkwardness between them that he would find unbearable.
While looking at the ground, she asked, “And . . . you felt the need to tell me this . . . before we speak to your parents.”
“Yes, Ruth,” he said. “If we are going to be completely honest with them—and with each other—then I need to be able to tell them how I really feel. And I couldn’t say it to them until I’d said it to you.”
Ruth finally looked up at him with tears on her face. He wondered about their source until she said, “How well you have put words to my own feelings, Thomas.” She shifted onto her knees and put a hand to his face. “As long as we are making confessions, there is one more thing I have to say. The thought has rumbled inside of me for so many days now.”
“Say it,” he challenged in a husky whisper.
“Oh, Thomas,” she murmured, “if you do not kiss me, I fear that I will die. And I don’t mean in the way you’ve kissed me before; I mean the way a husband should kiss his wife. Like a plant in need of water, I thirst for your kiss, Thomas, and I feel as if I will wilt and shrivel into nothingness without it.”
While he was checking his mind to make certain he’d heard her correctly, he saw a sparkle of sincerity in her eyes, and a smile lit up her beautiful face. “Because,” she said in little more than a whisper, a sound that reminded him of the movement of that little butterfly taking flight, “I love you, as well, Thomas.”
He took her face into his hands and heard himself laugh with relief before he realized the sound had come out of his own mouth. “You do?” he asked.
“Oh, Thomas,” she continued in that breathless whisper of a voice, “I knew before we stood before the vicar that I would grow to love you, and I was praying you would grow to love me. As desperate as I felt, I could not have spoken such vows with any conviction if I’d not felt something already, if I’d not believed it was possible.”
Thomas echoed what she had said only a moment ago. “How well you have put words to my own feelings, my darling Ruth.”
Now that he’d said what he’d needed to say, and she’d told him what he’d hardly dared hope for, he had no reason not to heed her request. He pressed his lips to hers, meekly at first, as he’d kissed her many times. He then pressed his hand into her hair, not caring that he might leave it mussed and pull it loose from its pins. With no regret behind him and only hope ahead, he kissed her as if the little butterfly had left a portion of its magic behind; he kissed her as she’d asked—as a husband should kiss his wife. Her response was intoxicating and soothing to his spirit, making him believe that his life had only truly begun when he’d first seen her lovely face, or perhaps when he’d looked into her eyes that were anything but average. He loved her, and she loved him. Now he could face anything.