The Vow
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Lindsay Chase
Hannah opened the rearing shed’s door and paused in the doorway, blinking her eyes against the dimness.
“Close that door, damn you!” Reiver hissed.
Hannah just stood there, bewildered. Then her husband rushed toward her, grasped her arm painfully, and propelled her out of the shed. He closed the door gently and whirled on her, his face a furious mask.
“Never do that again!”
Hannah stepped back a pace. “Wh-what did I do?”
“You flung open the door, you little fool! A sudden draft can make them all sick.”
“I—I didn’t know.” Hannah’s cheeks burned.
Reiver’s anger subsided like a passing summer storm, and he ran his hand over his broad jaw as if calming himself. “Of course you don’t.”
“I have heard everyone speak of your silkworms,” she said, “so I thought I’d come to see them for myself.”
He sighed. “And no one warned you to enter the rearing shed carefully?”
“No one did.”
“Come inside then, but speak softly because noise disturbs them.”
Hannah didn’t even dare to breathe when she stepped into the shed, and she lifted her skirts so they wouldn’t swish, for fear of disturbing the creatures. Two of the women she had seen picking mulberry leaves were now feeding the worms.
“They make so much noise,” she whispered, surprised, staring at the pale cream-colored worms feeding in their shallow trays.
Reiver smiled. “Their table manners leave much to be desired.”
“How do they make silk?”
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He gave her an odd look as though surprised at her interest, but said, “In two more weeks they’ll be full-grown and stop eating. Then they’ll begin to spin their golden cocoons. Once the cocoons are formed, we kill the worm inside so it doesn’t break out and ruin the silk. Then we soak them in boiling water and unravel the silk threads.”
“And then you spin it into silk for dresses?”
Reiver smiled and shook his head. “Shaw Silks just makes twists of silk thread right now, but someday…” His voice trailed off, and he got a faraway look in his eye.
“May I see the mill now?” Hannah asked.
He snapped out of his reverie. “Of course. Follow me.”
They left the shed and walked down the path toward the mill, a solitary stone building sitting on the banks of the rushing brook.
Reiver said, “I don’t expect you to take over the mill as well as the household, you know.”
Hannah smiled at his teasing tone. “I don’t intend to. I was curious.” She looked down at her wedding band. “It’s part of my life now.”
“And it will be our children’s legacy.”
The mention of children sent Hannah’s thoughts catapulting to the upcoming night ahead and she shivered slightly.
If her husband noticed her reaction to his words, he said nothing. They had reached the mill now, and he was holding open the door for her.
But even as he introduced her to the two girls winding twists of silk and explained the process, Hannah’s thoughts refused to leave her upcoming wedding night and her husband’s demands.
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Not long after sunset, when the western horizon was still lined with a thin orange band, Hannah retired to the upstairs bedchamber she was to share with Reiver.
She had put on a night shift that had once belonged to her mother, a bit of gossamer white batiste delicately embroidered with blue cornflowers along the yoke. Then she had extinguished the lamp and slipped into bed to listen for the sound of her husband’s footsteps outside the door.
She heard them over the hammering of her own heart.
The door creaked softly and opened, Reiver more an ominous shadow than a flesh-and-blood man. He walked into the room, shut the door, and undressed in a soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor.
He said nothing.
Hannah closed her eyes and lay very still when she heard the bed creak and felt it sink heavily beneath his weight. She waited for him to soothe her maiden’s fears, to murmur sweet reassurances, but all he did was draw closer to her and lift her night shift.
Hannah’s eyes flew open and her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as Reiver stroked and kneaded, his own breathing quickening, his skin hot and damp against hers.
Reiver’s shadow loomed over her like a great black monster. When he entered her with one hard thrust, Hannah cried out at the unexpected invasion and tried to writhe away from him, but his strong hands pressing down her shoulders pinioned her to the bed.
It was over quickly, mercifully. Reiver groaned, shuddered, and rolled off her. Hannah pulled down her night shift to hide her nakedness and turned her back to him, letting tears of humiliation slide quietly down her cheeks.
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Reiver could hear her muffled sniffles, so he knew she was crying, but all he could do was place an awkward hand on her shoulder. While he had enjoyed Hannah’s sweet body, she wasn’t Cecelia. She would never be Cecelia.
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
The following morning Hannah awoke before Reiver while it was still dark.
She washed and dressed quickly, resolving not to spare another thought to her wedding night, as there was nothing worth remembering except shame and pain. But she would survive, as she always had, and endure.
She went downstairs to light the stove for breakfast. It was going to be another long day.
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Chapter Three
Hannah looked out the dining room window at the maple trees tossing in the late-October wind, whirling their bright orange and red leaves high into the air before scattering them across the lawn in a vivid carpet.
Rising from the breakfast table, she noticed the jagged tear in James’s shirt.
“James, your sleeve is torn,” she said. “Why don’t you change and I’ll mend it this morning?”
James’s face turned pink. “I must have caught it on the loom I was working on yesterday.” He headed upstairs to find another shirt to wear.
Reiver drained his coffee cup and rose. “And I’ll be on my way.”
“Don’t forget your coat,” Hannah said. “It looks chilly outside.”
He smiled. “Married just two months, and already she’s telling us what to do, eh, Sam?”
Samuel grinned. “Our own little tyrant.”
Used to the Shaw brothers’ good-natured teasing by now, Hannah retorted,
“Tyrant, indeed! If it weren’t for me and Mrs. Hardy, the three of you would go around Coldwater dressed in rags.”
Both men laughed.
Hannah rose and followed Reiver, wordlessly taking his brown homespun coat off its peg in the hall and handing it to him when he opened the back door.
She shivered as a blast of crisp autumn air blew in and swirled around her skirts.
Reiver gave her a brief nod and walked across the lawn in his long stride.
The Vow
Hannah stood there in the doorway, hugging herself against the morning chill and wishing he’d have kissed her on the cheek before he left, or at least turn and wave. But he didn’t. He never did.
With a wistful sigh, she turned and shut the door, only to have James materialize before her. With an apologetic smile, he handed her the torn shirt and disappeared out the door.
When Hannah returned to the warm dining room and its homey aroma of bacon and coffee, she found Samuel still at the table, lingering over his coffee as he usually did after his brothers had gone to the mill. In a few minutes he would rise and go upstairs to his studio to paint or work on an engraving, but right now he was content to sit and talk
with Hannah.
“Is something wrong?” he asked when Hannah resumed her place across from him. “You look troubled.”
If Reiver’s passion was the mill and James’s its machinery, Samuel’s passion was people. Not only was he interested in what they looked like—the curve of their cheek or the length of their nose—but also what they felt inside. His curiosity often led him to ask bold questions that had first embarrassed Hannah until she realized this was Samuel’s way.
She feigned surprise and refilled her cup from the pewter coffeepot.
“Nothing is troubling me.”
His pale eyes clouded with skepticism. “Far be it from me to contradict a lady, but I think you are quite troubled, Hannah.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Nothing is wrong.”
Samuel glanced at James’s torn shirt that Hannah had draped across the back of a Windsor chair. “James and I have been burdening you with our washing and mending.”
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Hannah smiled. “You have not.” The smile faded, and her voice grew wistful. “It makes me feel useful.”
Without hesitation Samuel said, “How have you and my brother been getting on?”
She rose quickly. “You must excuse me. I—I have to clear the table. Millicent will be here any minute to do the laundry.” And she began collecting the soiled tin plates that clinked in her trembling hands.
He made no move to stop her. All he said was, “Please don’t run off.”
Hannah paused, set down her pile of dishes, then seated herself. Even though she felt disloyal talking about her husband to his brother, she couldn’t keep her feelings bottled inside any longer.
“He treats me with”—she chose her words carefully—“courtesy and respect.
Indeed, you all are kindness itself to me. But—” She shrugged helplessly. “Reiver is so—so distant. I realize ours is an arranged marriage and that I can’t expect him to warm to me right away. But he always keeps me at arm’s length. And I thought I was adept at building walls.” After she confessed, she blurted, “I know you must think me a foolish, romantic schoolgirl.”
“I don’t think that at all,” he said softly. “I find you intelligent and wise beyond your years.”
Hannah looked out the window at the falling leaves. “I couldn’t bear to have a life like Uncle Ezra and Aunt Naomi’s.” She turned to Samuel. “Do you know that in all the time I was there, I never once saw my uncle touch his wife’s hand, or kiss her on the cheek, or look at her with any genuine warmth?”
“Knowing the pair of them as I do, that doesn’t surprise me.” He grew serious. “Reiver isn’t like that, Hannah. It may take time, but he’ll come around.”
“I hope so.” She looked at him uneasily. “You won’t tell him what I said, will you?”
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“Of course not.”
She felt relieved. She could trust Samuel.
Samuel knew why Reiver was so distant with his wife.
When Millicent, the hired girl, arrived and Hannah joined her to tackle the mountain of Monday laundry waiting to be boiled in huge kettles on the stove, Samuel went upstairs to his studio to work on a new engraving, for winter was coming and with the mulberry trees bare and the silkworms’ life cycle over, the family would depend on his earnings until spring.
This sunny, spacious room was as much his domain as the mill was his brothers’. Here, with the sharp smell of turpentine strong in his nostrils and an engraving plate heavy in his hand, Samuel Shaw gave his visions shape and substance.
But today even the golden autumn light flooding his studio through the overhead skylight failed to motivate him. He couldn’t stop thinking of Hannah’s forlorn face mirroring the hurt and rejection she felt inside.
Samuel rolled down his shirt sleeves, grabbed his coat, and went in search of Reiver.
He found him where he knew he would, in the mill with its humming reeling looms and feminine chatter, supervising one of the girls soaking and unwinding the silk threads from the last of the cocoons.
Today Samuel didn’t return the girl’s appreciative stare or her bold, flirtatious smile. He walked up to his brother and said, “Reiver, I’ve got to talk with you.”
Reiver scowled in annoyance. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“This is important.”
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Reiver gave him a look that plainly told him nothing was more important than what he was doing.
“It’s about Hannah,” Samuel said, watching his brother’s face closely for any sign of concern.
Reiver hesitated. “Let’s go outside.”
Once outside, they followed the brook until they were out of earshot of the mill.
Samuel stopped and confronted him. “You’re still seeing Cecelia Layton, aren’t you?”
Reiver placed his hands on his hips. “What business is it of yours?”
“You’re married now.”
A sardonic smile twisted Reiver’s mouth. “Don’t go all pious on me, Sam.
You’re a man of the world. You’ve had your share of mistresses.”
“But I’m not married. That’s the difference between us.”
“Just because a man is married doesn’t mean he has to give up his mistress.”
“If you want her so badly, why didn’t you marry her instead of Hannah?”
Samuel snapped.
Reiver turned and gazed out over his land that had once belonged to Ezra Bickford. “You know why.”
“Stupid me, how could I forget? Your precious Racebrook land.”
His brother stepped back a pace and regarded him strangely.
“What’s gotten into you, Sam? Why are you so concerned about Hannah?”
“I’m fond of her.”
“You know why I married her. I didn’t hear you raise any objections when I told you and James what I intended to do.”
Samuel fought to keep his anger in check. “Now that she is your wife, at least show the poor girl some affection. Beyond bedding her,” he added.
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A dull flush crept up Reiver’s face and he lowered his head like a bull about to charge. “Has my wife been talking about our private life to you behind my back?”
“She didn’t need to. I’m not blind.” Samuel jammed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the horizon of colored trees. “Do you remember how Ma and Pa were with each other? How he would hug her when he didn’t think we boys were looking? Do you remember how Pa would listen—really listen—
when Ma spoke, and how her eyes would follow him wherever he went?”
Reiver’s lip curled in a sneer. “All I remember about Pa is that he was always drunk. If Ma’s eyes followed him, it was to make sure he didn’t pilfer the money we boys brought home.”
“They loved each other in spite of Pa’s weakness,” Samuel insisted. “You just never saw it.”
“How could she love him? He was a drunk who never worked two days together in his life! He lived off the money we boys earned, or have you forgotten?”
“I’m not here to argue about Pa. I’m talking about Hannah.” Samuel paused.
“She’s falling in love with you.”
That caught Reiver by surprise. “Did she say that to you?”
“She’s got too much pride for that. I doubt if she even realizes it herself. But I know women well enough to recognize the signs.”
Reiver said, “You spend too much time with women, little brother. You’re getting as soft as they are.”
That old childhood insult failed to sting Samuel, but he had to resist the strong urge to smash his fist into Reiver’s face.
When he saw that he couldn’t get a rise out of his brother, Reiver turned to return to th
e mill.
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Samuel caught his arm. “You have to give Hannah a chance. And she’ll never have it if Cecelia’s still a part of your life.”
Reiver shook his hand off. “You spend too much time thinking and talking, Sam. I don’t want to fight with you. I’ve never told you how to run your life, so don’t start trying to run mine. And if you tell Hannah about Cecelia, you’ll regret it.”
With that threat poised like drawn daggers between them, Reiver stalked off toward the mill, his broad back stiff with anger.
“Blind, thickheaded fool,” Samuel muttered to himself. He leaned into the wind and headed back to the house. He had an idea.
He found Hannah in the parlor, seated in a wing chair by the window, intent on mending James’s shirt.
She inspected her fine, almost invisible stitches and smiled in satisfaction.
“There! It’s finished.”
Samuel looked around the room to make sure Mrs. Hardy or Millicent wouldn’t interrupt them, then said, “Hannah, would you pose for me?”
Her hand flew to her chest in surprise. “Me?”
“Yes. I’d like to sketch your portrait, or make an engraving. You may give it to Reiver as a Christmas gift, if you’d like.”
“Your family celebrates Christmas? Mine did, too, but most New Englanders don’t.”
“My mother was from New York and insisted we celebrate the holiday just as she did when she was little.”
“Do you think Reiver would like such a portrait of me?” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.
“I’m sure he would. And we would want it to be a surprise, so we wouldn’t tell him.”
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“When would we start?”
“Tomorrow morning, as soon as he goes to the mill.”
Hannah’s expression grew wistful. “My mother sat for her portrait just before she died. It was never finished.”