Lydia glanced at Jakob, but he wasn't listening. "I do not know how to dance."
The two young ladies looked at each other. They wore lovely fitted dresses in bright colors, ribbons steaming from their hair.
Lydia's cheeks warmed.
"We heard you are from some sort of religious colony."
"Accord," she replied.
"What did you do where you came from?"
Flustered, Lydia glanced at Jakob and back. "I am a baker."
"Did you make the dress you're wearing?" the other girl asked.
"Nein."
A middle-aged couple swirled past them. Lydia's attention was dawn to the woman's blue dress. "Her dress is pretty."
"Mrs. Schelling is an excellent seamstress. Her daughter was, too." The young woman shook her head in a pitying manner, flipped open a fan and fanned herself. "Sad."
Lydia ventured into the snare. " 'Was'?"
"Yes. Poor girl died. So young, too."
"Mrs. Schelling lost a child?" she asked in sympathy.
"Jakob was heartbroken. I don't think he ever got over it," she said in a conspiratorial whisper and exchanged another look with her friend.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, that's Sylvie's mother. Sylvie was the girl Jakob was going to marry. He did tell you about her, didn't he?" She flicked the fan closed and flapped her hand. "Well, water under the bridge. Forget I mentioned it."
Lydia sneaked a surreptitious glance at Jakob, who was listening to the farmer.
The other young woman leaned toward Lydia. "I trust your mother explained everything, and that you're not too frightened about tonight."
"Tonight?"
She giggled. "Your wedding night, of course."
Lydia didn't know what to think. She wasn't going to admit her mother had never told her anything about marriage. Her grandmother had been the one to ease her into the hazy truth.
"Your husband is heading this way. Looks like the party's nearly over. Good-night."
The dancers had dwindled. Many of the women were packing their baskets and crates.
Thoroughly confused, Lydia started at Jakob's touch on her lower back. Ashamed of her reaction, she refused to meet his eyes.
He gave a sidelong nod. "Time to say good-night."
The tables had been dismantled and their planks carried to the wagons. The evening had grown dark, and the children were tired and dirty. It was milking time, and those with herds had chores.
She took the arm he offered, and together they thanked, waved and accepted congratulations until only a handful of friends remained.
Jakob joined the men carrying lanterns to the barn, and Charlotte came for Lydia. Annette met them at the back door. "I haven't seen you for hours. Are you exhausted?"
Lydia admitted she was. Each of the other women carried a pail. They led her upstairs, into Jakob's room, and poured steaming water into a long, dark metal tub shaped like a coffin.
"We usually bathe in the kitchen, so this is a treat for you," Annette explained.
Embarrassed, Lydia accepted the towels and soap handed her, noting the other women's clothing. Charlotte wore a soft skirt in a vibrant shade of green, belted with a sash of the same fabric. Her blouse was snow white, with long, slender sleeves and a high neck edged with delicate filigreed lace. The front was a marvel of tiny tucks and pleats, each stitched into place with shiny white embroidery thread. A row of minute pearl buttons ran down the center into her waistband.
Annette wore another feminine dress with a tiny waist and a white embroidered bodice inset. Both women were lovely and fashionable, and Lydia felt like a mud hen in comparison. Immediately she was contrite. Such vanity!
These women had attended many weddings, seen many brides. Both had experienced marriage themselves. They knew what was expected of a woman. Had Jakob been embarrassed by her dress, her mannerisms, her social awkwardness? Would he find her inadequate tonight, too?
"Kind you both are." Jakob had wanted to marry someone else? Tentatively, she met Annette's tawny eyes and wished she could voice her fear and uncertainty. "I owe you much."
Annette touched her cheek. "You don't owe us a thing. Just be happy, and make Jakob happy."
Make Jakob happy. Lydia watched them leave the room. Laying the soap and towels on the washstand, she idly studied her reflection in the beveled oval mirror. Tall and incongruous, she looked and dressed nothing like the fashionable women she'd seen today.
She thought of that girl's words, asking if she was frightened about tonight and wondered if she was married and speaking from experience. She should have asked.
Lydia pictured Jakob, tall and agile, dodging the hard ball that afternoon. He was a large man, a man of physical strength and vibrant health. He had a loving family, a comfortable home, a prosperous farm and many friends.
Make him happy? She hadn't the faintest idea how.
Franz and Tom Simms sat atop a rail in one of the empty stalls. "Join us, Jake?"
They passed a jug of corn liquor, and he shook his head. "Aw, come on," Tom coaxed. "It'll take the kinks out."
"Nah. Doesn't settle too good with me."
Franz jumped down and hung the pitchfork he'd used on a hook. "He's afraid he'll get numb and miss out on something tonight."
The two of them laughed, and Jakob shook his head good-naturedly. "I do get numb when I drink that stuff. No thanks."
He remembered the pails of milk near the barn door, and carried two toward the house.
The light was on in his bedroom window. Anticipation gnawed at his insides. She was getting ready for bed. Tonight, when he climbed those stairs and stepped into his room, he wouldn't be alone. Lydia was waiting. His wife. The wife he'd waited so long for. No longer would he lie alone and hear his brothers' hushed whispers down the hall. Never again would he simply dream of the woman who'd one day be his.
Etham Beker's taunts rang through Jakob's head. She is pure. Innocent. She will be obedient and meek, because it is our way, but she will never share your crude desires. She will be revolted.
He wondered what her hair looked like. He imagined her without her proper dress, crocheted collar and cuffs, dared imagine her without anything on at all.
He'd thought about it before. Oh, how he'd thought about it. That aspect of their relationship would fall into place, like everything else. He'd proposed, and she'd accepted. He'd brought her here, and they'd married. Now the time was at hand, and he was annoyed with this uneasiness.
Jakob shook off his misgivings. He wet two dish towels at the pump, covered the pails and set the buckets in the well until morning, when the women could get to them, and rejoined the men. He'd give her—and himself—a few more minutes alone. Now that the moment was finally here, what would she think of a man she'd seen scarcely a dozen times climbing into bed beside her?
How close was her father to being right?
Perched on the edge of the mammoth bed, a white satin sheet folded on her lap, Lydia idly smoothed the corner. It was the first gift she had ever received, and she'd hidden it beneath the clothing in her leather satchel. The precise knots and stitches of embroidered thread told a story of obvious care and love. Intricate roses and tiny doves winged their way into each corner, testifying to time and thought on her behalf. Over and over the question bubbled to the surface of her logical mind. Why would Grandmother expend such energy on a sheet with a distasteful purpose?
Tears stung behind her eyelids at the thought of Grandmother's gnarled hands threading the tiny needle, snipping thread with her silver embroidery scissors and tying knots in acute pain. The night before leaving Accord, Lydia had watched those hands place the snowy-white satin in her own and seen them linger a moment too long, as if letting go were difficult.
"What is this?" she had asked.
Rose Beker had made her familiar, slow way to her rocker. "A maiden-sheet. A bridal cloth. In my family it was the tradition for the bride's mother to make a bridal cloth for her daughter. My mother
gave me one just like it when I married your grandfather."
Lydia had unfolded the slippery fabric and discovered that the cloth was backed with white flannel. The material had fallen open to its full size. She'd blinked in surprise. The sheet was a third the size of a bed sheet, and square, with exquisite stitches at each corner. "Whatever is it for? It is much too small for a cot or a bed."
Grandmother had set the creaky chair to rocking and replied with candor. "For centuries a bride's purity was a necessary virtue. Among royalty, proof of her innocence was required. That was the sheet's purpose. After a time it became a tradition. And a convenience. The cloth protects the linens from being soiled on your wedding night."
Lydia had considered the implication, and a wary uneasiness had gnawed at her calm demeanor. Opening her eyes wide, she'd fought a sudden urge to drop the cloth like a red-hot skillet. "What do you mean? Soiled by what?"
The old woman had given her a tolerant smile. "There is a little blood the first time, child."
"Oh." White-faced, Lydia had imagined the snowy-white cloth stained with her own blood. She'd sagged onto the cot.
"Don't let your imagination run away with you, Lydia," her grandmother admonished. "Jakob is a gentle and sensitive young man, and he cares for you. It is simply a moment's discomfort which you will soon forget. But," she'd added with a meditative smile, "it is a lovely tradition."
Now under her still fingers the fabric was damp with perspiration. Lydia glanced down, her confidence wavering, her nerves taking over. She forced herself to stand, lay the sheet aside, peel the down tick and fold the sheets back. With steady hands, she spread the flannel-backed satin across the bed, pulling the top bedding over it.
Jakob's bed still seemed enormous and far from the ground. Even after having slept on it for three nights, she was unaccustomed to its size and height. She undressed and quickly bathed in the coffin-tub before donning her nightdress and braiding her hair into a long plait that hung down her back to her waist. Blowing out the lamp, she lay in the darkness and waited.
With the shade pulled, even the bright moonlight didn't penetrate the upstairs room. This was the latest she had ever gone to bed, and she missed the toll of the bell and the cry of the watcher.
Everything was different, but she'd known it would be. The marriage ceremony would have worked her father into a lather. But the games and joking would have brought smiles to Grandmother's wrinkled face, and her siblings would have swooned at the fried chicken and the pickles and desserts.
Staring into the darkness, Lydia folded her hands over her stomach. She had to relearn her entire life, and yet not compromise her beliefs. Could she juggle the two
Acclimatizing herself was a daunting proposition, but she couldn't turn back now. She'd made her decision. She was different, yes, but she was determined to learn and be accepted. Tonight she would give Jakob no cause to regret marrying her. She'd do her best, even if she had to grit her teeth. Oddly, remembering his kisses, his touches, she didn't think she'd have to.
Against every teaching she'd ever known, she liked the touch of Jakob's lips on hers, his hands on her arm or at her waist, his unique scent....
In the room below, the back door closed soundly. Her heart fluttered, and her pulse quickened.
It was their bedtime custom, she had learned, for the last one in to bank the fires and lock the doors. There had been no locks in Accord.
Two sets of boots sounded on the stairs. One continued down the long hallway after low voices murmured good-nights outside the door. Her mouth went dry.
The door opened and closed, and lanternlight danced long shadows across the papered walls. Jakob rested the lantern on the high dresser before backing up to the wall jack near the door and removing his boots. One by one they hit the floor with a solid thunk. He sat on the bed and took off his stockings. From the corner of one eye, she observed him removing his string tie and shirt.
Lydia felt as though she were balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff. The least provocation would send her plummeting into space. Every panic-stricken nerve in her body screamed silently. His weight lifted as he stood and moved to the washstand. He washed with the warm water she had thoughtfully dipped before her bath.
Jakob blew out the lantern, and it guttered and spat. Thick blackness enfolded them, intense, formless. The unmistakable sound of him removing his trousers was followed by dipping and shifting as the mattress took his overwhelming weight. Lydia's heart thumped up into her throat. She prayed she wouldn't faint.
"What's this?" His voice held mild surprise, and she knew his bare skin had met the cool satin.
Her heart thrummed from her throat into her ears, and red blotches sprang up in the enveloping darkness. Her chest lurched, but she said simply, "A maiden-sheet. My grandmother gave it to me."
"What for?" Pleased that he was as ignorant as she had been, she barely noticed his bluntness.
"For... tonight."
"Oh." Apparently he wasn't as untutored as she, because he asked no further questions, but lay perfectly still beside her. She heard him swallow. The faint smell of firewood drifted across the pillows, and she knew he'd been the last one in, giving her time alone. Was it consideration for her modesty, or was he as unsettled as she?
"Lydia?"
She jumped at her softly spoken name, and immediately felt foolish. "Ja."
The uncertainty in her voice tore at him. A wife shouldn't jump at the sound of her husband's voice. He wanted to reassure her, to take her in his arms and gentle her like a frightened colt. He wanted to tell her they would learn this facet of their marriage together, that he had to learn to be a husband as much as she had to learn to be a wife, that they would discover the way together. His mouth felt as if he'd eaten a bucket of sand, and his arms rested like lead weights at his side.
They lay side by side beneath the coverlet and the awkward blackness. The only words that came to mind were those of her father—admonishing words, piercing Jakob's hopes more deeply now than they had the day they were spoken. He was afraid to go too quickly, afraid to impulsively rush in and frighten her. The soul-subduing voice rang through his head: She will be obedient and meek....
Jakob lay thinking how small she was. Not tiny—in comparison to other women, she was tall. She was fragile-boned next to his strapping frame, and delicate-skinned. And innocent, so innocent.
Jakob hesitated, afraid of making a wrong move. The man was supposed to lead, to have confidence. He was almost certain she knew nothing of what was to happen. It was up to him to put her at ease and pave the way for her acceptance, but what did he know? The weighty responsibility clashed with desire that had escalated all day; his mind and body dueling for victory. He had to learn to be a husband.
It was imperative they get off to a good beginning. He swallowed again and wished he could see her face, tell her with his eyes how he felt. Words could never lend the emotion he wished to convey.
"Lydia," he said, forgetting he'd said it before. "What I feel for you is good. I want to share my life with you and make a home for us together. I want us to be happy. I'd never hurt you. Do you know that's the truth?"
She remained silent.
"Are you afraid of me?"
Her breast thumped erratically as though there were a wild bird trapped inside. Her hand, clamped on the edge of the down tick, cramped. "Not of you."
"But you're afraid?"
His sensitive question brought tears to her eyes. "Ja," she whispered.
"Me too." His words hung in the cavernous blackness overhead.
"You?" she asked. Whatever did this imposing, steel-sinewed man have to fear? She needed to rearrange her thinking to imagine Jakob afraid of anyone or anything. His image, tall and solid, browned by the sun, came to mind. He'd even stood toe-to-toe with her father, facing him without flinching! "Whatever are you afraid of?"
Flat on his back, he directed his quiet words to the darkness above their faces. "That you'll hate me. That you'll learn
to... that I'll be unacceptable."
A bittersweet drawing at her throat brought a lump bobbing up. Her cheek muscles contracted, and tears rolled down her temples into her hair. A confidence. Voicing his fear proved his trust in her, and she sensed he'd never before been so painfully honest with anyone. "Never could I hate you, Jakob. I chose to be your wife."
Her voice trembled. How strange that trying to reassure him comforted her.
His bulk shifted and he turned toward her, his breath against her face. "I think we're only nervous. It's probably normal."
She struggled to interpret the underlying message in his words. "This is—uncommon for you, Jakob?"
His voice, when he rediscovered it, was no longer quiet. "Of course!" The words shot out before he caught himself. "What'd you think? I sleep with women all the time? I waited for you."
She stumbled over her next words. "I do not know—I just thought—I thought, since you are an Outsider, that..."
"That only Harmonists have morals? That all men are alike and can't control themselves?"
She'd made him angry. Mortified at his bald words, she regretted having doubted his integrity. Was that what she thought? "Es tut mir leid, ich verstehe nicht—"
"I can't understand you."
"Sorry, I am sorry. Forgive me—"
"Oh, Lydia." He groped until he found her hand at the edge of the tick and drew it to his face. "There's nothin' to forgive. Let's not argue over something as special as this." His lean cheek, beneath her palm, was warm and decidedly firm—a wondrous new sensation. The slightly rough texture it had taken on since his morning shave was discernible as his jaw moved against her fingers when he spoke. His thumb guided her wrist in his easy grasp, and he turned his face into her palm. Firm lips brushed a kiss into her damp flesh, and a shiver ran up her arm into her shoulder and spread throughout her body. Her senses thrummed.
The lengthy caress changed hues, and his tongue slipped out to taste her petal-soft skin. Her hand jerked in his gentle hold, and a gasp escaped her lips. She slid her hand to his warm neck, and Jakob lowered his face and kissed her cheek, as sweetly as he had after the reverend pronounced them man and wife. "Thanks for today," he said into the damp hair at her temple, his breath summer-warm.
Cheryl St.John - [Neubauer Brothers 01] Page 9