by Lorin Grace
The last thing she needed at the moment was more to drink. There were other needs at the forefront of her mind, and she was determined that Samuel was not going to help her with them.
“Since you’re still here, I take it you still think we are married.” Lucy tried to move into a different position to relieve the pressure she was beginning to feel.
“We are married.” Samuel used the same steady, low tone he used to cajole his horse.
No change of position helped. Her discomfort grew. Where was the chamber pot? Could she get Samuel to leave so she could find it?
“No. We are not. I think I would remember getting married.” Lucy tried to sit up, but her arms shook with the effort.
“Careful there.” Samuel put an arm around her to support her as she moved to sit at the edge of the bed. He didn’t let go, even though she continued to try to move. “Whoa, there. Where are you trying to go?”
She squirmed. She was far too old to converse about her need to perform certain bodily functions. Without looking obvious, Lucy tried to see where the chamber pot was. She bent over to check under the bed, and the room started to spin. She leaned back before dizziness overtook her. The last thing she wanted was to be tucked back into bed.
“Where is Sarah?” she asked.
Samuel’s gaze drifted up to the ceiling. “Upstairs sleeping. She played so hard this morning she fell asleep over her bread and cheese.”
Lucy squirmed some more.
“Lucy? Is something wrong? Do you hurt?”
What is wrong is I need you to leave so I can take care of myself. And Sarah is sleeping and can’t help me! Lucy wanted to scream, but to her horror she moaned. If she didn’t find the chamber pot soon, her need would be revealed in a most embarrassing way.
“I need, uh… ” She trailed off. “Don’t you have some work in the barn?”
Samuel shook his head. Concern filled his face. He lifted his hand as if to help her but dropped it.
There was nothing for it, Lucy decided. She would either have to confess her needs or embarrass herself even more. She could feel the heat in her cheeks.
“Chamber pot,” she stammered. “Where is it?”
Samuel’s own blush crawled up his neck. He reached to the foot of the bed and pulled out the covered pail.
Lucy glanced at the container, then at Samuel. The heat crept higher on her face. She willed him to leave, but he just sat there, staring at her, his face as red as hers must be.
“Do you need any help?” Samuel did not quite meet her eyes.
Lucy found satisfaction with his need to blush. It served him right. Who did he think he was to offer to help her use the chamber pot?
She started to shake her head, and the room moved. “No,” she rasped.
Ignoring her denial, Samuel grasped her arms and shifted Lucy toward the edge of the bed. His action stirred other feelings deep within her, feelings she wasn’t comfortable with.
Samuel stood. “I think I will get a couple more logs for the fire.”
Lucy watched him leave and let out a sigh. She knew he’d stay close enough to hear her if she needed help, but she was grateful for some privacy.
She pushed the quilts aside and proceeded to take care of necessities, grateful for Samuel’s thoughtful placement of the pot—close enough to both her bed and the wall to allow her to support herself. By the time Lucy returned to her bed, her legs were shaking. She breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had not needed Samuel’s assistance, nor had she fallen or overturned the chamber pot.
As she reached to pull the quilts across her lap, she noticed the embroidery on the cuff of her shift. None of her shifts had embroidered cuffs.
It was her mother’s.
Samuel stomped back into the gathering room, his arms full of wood. Without a word, he retrieved the chamber pot and left through the lean-to door.
Lucy stared at the cuff. There must be an explanation. She recalled bathing Ben when he’d burned with fever. In an effort to cool him off, they’d bathed and changed him. Mama had also done the same for Papa. She tried to picture Sarah bathing her. Impossible. She was too small. Since they were quarantined, it was unlikely Mrs. Wilson had helped. Lucy leaned against the wall and came to one rather disturbing conclusion.
Samuel strode back into the room and replaced the chamber pot. “If you need some privacy again, just tell me.”
Lucy did not look up.
He knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder. “You are shivering. Let’s get you back under the covers.” He lifted the quilt she’d dragged across her lap. Lucy allowed him to lift her legs and maneuver her into the bed. Then Samuel placed a folded quilt behind her to cushion her back where she leaned against the wall.
Was he this gentle while I was ill? Do his hands tingle from the touch as my legs do? An unbidden picture of Samuel washing and changing her came to mind. She needed to know.
“Samuel, did… did you… ?” Lucy couldn’t finish. Samuel sat in the rocker next to her, saying nothing.
“This is Mama’s.” She fingered the embroidery at her wrist. Her face warmed with embarrassment again.
Samuel slid forward in the rocker and wrapped Lucy’s hands in his to stop her from tugging at the sleeve.
“Sweetheart?” Samuel lifted her chin with a crooked knuckle, still holding her hands in his other hand. Lucy still would not look up, so he moved his hand to her cheek and ducked his head until he caught her eye.
“You were very ill. It was necessary to bathe you to cool the fever. Rather than return you to your dirty shift, I put this one on. I didn’t realize this was your mother’s gown. If it upsets you, tell me where to find one of yours.” Lucy pulled her hands out of his and turned her head away, but she missed his touch as soon as she broke contact—a loss she’d rather not explore. She tugged the quilt up to her chin and pulled her knees up and rested her head on them. Her head felt so heavy. She would not lie down for the remainder of the conversation. Lying there would be even more pitiful.
He bathed me! And he’s not apologizing for it—just for getting the wrong shift. Does he really think I am upset about wearing Mother’s clothes? Is he daft? She knew she should slap him. Any virtuous girl would, but she lacked the strength to lift her hand. Even if she tried, it would probably feel more like a pat on the cheek. Not the message she wanted to send. Completely improper. She should be outraged. She should be angry, but instead she felt embarrassed and ashamed. Slapping Samuel for it wouldn’t solve her feelings. This wasn’t like George trying to take liberties under the mistletoe.
Lucy knew what Samuel had seen and touched. She’d always known that someday a man would see her back. She’d hoped it would be Samuel, but she thought she would have time to prepare him, to say something to him before he saw the scars. Or ask Papa Marden to say something when he came to ask for her hand. She wasn’t ready to explain. She wasn’t that strong. She needed to know what he thought. Could he ever come to care for me when he knows the truth? Would he think I deserved it or agree with Papa Marden?
Papa had told her that the scars were Mr. Simms’s sin, not hers, that the punishments had not been because she was evil but because Mr. Simms had been deeply troubled by what he’d experienced in the war. She accepted Papa Marden’s explanation, and his love. But the scars were always there, casting doubt that a man even as kind as Samuel could live with a body as scarred as hers. Men were attracted to pretty women. Not only was her face plain, her back was ugly.
An unbidden tear slipped down her cheek. The humiliation over the need to relieve herself seemed minuscule compared to what she was experiencing now. Maybe if she could keep her eyes closed, he would leave. She buried her face in the quilt to hide her tears.
The bed ropes creaked as Samuel moved from the rocker to the edge of the bed.
&nbs
p; She lifted her head to tell him to leave, but before she could, he cupped her cheeks in his hands and wiped away her tears with his thumbs.
“Lucy,” he whispered.
“You saw.” A sob racked her, and she buried her face in her hands.
What could he do? God, help me! He felt more helpless than he had since riding Old Brown into the yard on that too-still morning. He placed his hand on her shoulder and scooted closer until he could bow his head over hers. Then he wrapped his arms around her quaking body.
“Yes, sweetheart, I saw. You are a beautiful woman.” He kept his voice low and even, just barely above a whisper.
Lucy shook her head and raised it enough for him to hear her. “The scars. You saw the scars.”
The scars? Not the rest of her? Samuel gathered her tighter in his arms. He twisted until he could lift her into his lap and hold her even closer. He laid her head on his shoulder and was surprised when Lucy brought her hands up and clung to his shirt. He murmured reassurances as his shirt became damp with her tears. He called her every endearment he could think of, cradling her as gently as he could and hoping that she would understand in time that the scars did not matter. But her pain did.
Lucy’s grip weakened, and her shoulders stopped shaking.
Samuel hoped she was ready to listen. “Yes, darling, I saw them. I will not ask until you are ready to tell me.” He placed a soft kiss on her temple and drew her closer, aware of the tears still falling onto his already soaked shirt.
Shadows moved over the walls as the sun started its western decent.
Lucy stilled and drew back, blinking at Samuel. She traced a tear with her finger. Samuel had not realized he was crying too.
The intimacy of the moment was broken when she squirmed and pushed feebly against him. Samuel turned and set her back on the bed, but he would not leave her alone.
“Would you like some soup now? Ma brought some fresh this morning.”
“Yes, please.” Lucy leaned back, thankful he’d chosen not to pursue the matter. Someday she knew she would need to explain, but she didn’t have the strength right now. The tears had taken away everything. Inside, she’d discovered an emptiness the broth could not fill. Though something had started to fill at Samuel’s touch. He had not been repulsed. And he’d cried, just like Papa Marden had.
While she ate, Lucy pondered. There were no recriminations. No demands for an explanation. No begging for the tears to stop. He’d simply let her be. But he had not let her be alone.
The bowl was almost empty when she realized Samuel hadn’t commented on her scars directly at all. He’d said she was a beautiful woman. A funny sort of lump grew in her throat. Even with Papa Marden’s reassurance that Mr. Simms was wrong to call her ugly and other names she could never repeat, she’d never dreamed that anyone, even Samuel, would call her beautiful. With her scarred back and boring brown hair and eyes, she was anything but that.
Samuel had seen her unclothed. He’d washed everything. Oh, my. Lucy’s mind raced through all the ministrations he must have performed. Impropriety seemed too mild a word. It was beyond indecent. It was scandalous.
But he’d thought she was beautiful. His words filled her like butterflies in a meadow, fluttering and tickling her in places that left her in awe. Beautiful.
Lucy knew she was blushing. She dropped her eyes and studied the quilt. The spoon fell into the bowl, and she raised her eyes to his.
Samuel leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers. “I meant what I said. You are a beautiful woman.” It was as if he’d read her mind.
She felt the heat in her cheeks become more intense.
The sound of little feet on the stairway spared her further embarrassment.
Fourteen
Lucy sat on the corner of her bed against the wall, hands wrapped around her knees. She was too awake to sleep and too weak to do more than think. She had much to ponder. Her thoughts dived and chased about her head like a flock of swallows on a summer evening. As soon as she could focus on one, another would take its place.
She pulled the quilt tighter around her. She wasn’t cold. Samuel left a decent fire before retiring to Ben’s room, but she found the action comforting. Everything had changed. Mama was gone, as were Papa Marden, the baby, and her brother. Tears filled her eyes.
Oh, Mama and Papa Marden, I miss you so much. I need you. What am I to do? She missed Benjamin, too, but she’d shed her tears for him earlier, with Papa. Without Mama and Papa, she felt like half of her was missing, creating a vast, empty place. A void Samuel was trying to fill. But she wasn’t ready to let that happen. Not yet. She needed to feel the emptiness just awhile longer before she could consider filling the hollowness in her soul.
She had no one to ask for guidance and advice. Sarah was too young and seemed to be in favor of this bizarre marriage. Samuel was not a voice of reason or even reasonable when it came to the subject.
After tucking Sarah in for the night, Samuel came down to talk. He sat in the rocker across from her bed and recounted the details of their marriage. The conversation was somewhat awkward from the start, given the revelations of the afternoon they’d both tried to avoid.
Lucy’s face registered shock when she realized she’d married wearing nothing more than her shift. How degrading! Even if no one other than Samuel and Sarah had seen it, her shift was not acceptable wedding attire. It was utterly shameful.
Samuel described brushing her hair two hundred strokes that day. He played with the ends of her braid while telling her. A braid he’d made. She could hardly fathom what the action meant. More than once she’d overheard Mrs. Wilson and Mama titter over Mr. Wilson’s habit of brushing his wife’s hair. Mrs. Wilson said it was how her husband said “I love you.” What did Samuel mean by it? Was he following his father’s tradition? Two hundred strokes? She often left off brushing her hair at fifty.
Samuel reaffirmed the account of the marriage as told by Sarah—a ceremony so strange Lucy could not believe stuffy Reverend Woods had officiated such a farce. Given his abhorrence to common-law marriage, he may have done it to try to prove a point to Samuel’s parents. That the minister accepted a delirious woman’s mumbling at the appropriate moment to mean she agreed before God and witnesses to be a wife was a stretch even for him. Both he and his witnesses were daft. The witnesses had all been Samuel’s family. The other men who came had stayed up on the hill, unable to watch the proceedings. She did agree with Samuel on one point. Reverend Woods was wilier than he seemed. The village wives had been disappointed at their husbands’ tales that night.
What of God? Would God honor such a marriage? God honored some odd marriages. Ruth, Esther, and Rahab were examples enough of that in the Bible.
She recalled her mother’s wedding to Papa Marden in this very house. Lucy had sat in her new dress, doing her best not to fidget despite the stiff, itchy material. She’d listened as Reverend Woods had spoken almost as long as one of his sermons before telling Papa Marden to kiss Mama. The kiss Papa gave Mama had caused someone to clear their throat. Then Papa Marden had turned and swept her off the bench and into a tremendous hug.
Lucy wrapped her arms around herself, longing to remember every hug her beloved stepfather had given her.
Oh, what she wouldn’t give for one of Papa Marden’s hugs right now. No matter how tightly she pulled the quilt around her body, she could not duplicate the feeling. One of Samuel’s hugs would do. Actually, it would more than do. She might never admit it out loud, but Samuel’s hug this afternoon had been better than Papa Marden’s. Being encircled in Samuel’s arms left her feeling safe and warm, just like with Papa, but there was something more.
No. She could not think of Samuel’s arms now. Those feelings would only confuse her. She couldn’t think objectively about their marriage if she wanted to be held in his arms again. All she ha
d to do was cry out and he would come bounding down the stairs to check on her. She could have the hug she longed for in just moments if she wanted.
Lucy’s eyes drifted closed as she tried to imagine his reaction. She knew he would not be happy at being fooled into marriage. Mr. Simms said he’d been tricked, and he had not been happy. And Mr. and Mrs. Wilson had tricked Samuel into marrying her. It had been either risk his mother’s health or be wed. That was not a choice at all. A good man like Samuel deserved a choice, not some bizarre version of a shotgun wedding. Even if she and Samuel had been engaged before. That was over.
She understood why he married her. She would have done anything to save her own mother, even married Mr. Sidewall and mothered his three obnoxious little boys if it would have spared her. Lucy hoped she was a better alternative than the unkempt widower and his little terrors.
Lucy, you are a beautiful woman.
Samuel thought she was beautiful. Her face did not compare with Elisabeth’s or Marybeth’s, but she did not think he was lying. His eye hadn’t twitched, but maybe he’d grown out of that habit.
Lucy soaked in the words as she watched the flames dance in the fireplace through her open door. Papa Marden often told her she was pretty, but, as always, the memory of Mr. Simms describing how ugly she was and telling her that no man would ever want to marry her crept into her reverie. Could she believe Samuel?
A log dropped, breaking the spell and bringing her back to her dilemma.
Oddly, despite having been trapped into marriage, Samuel seemed determined to stay. Her feeble protests were met with a grin or a shake of his head. Little phrases like “our barn” rather than “your barn” peppered his conversation. At one point he’d even mentioned he needed to go to his folks’ house to get the rest of his things. He’d laid claim to her house, farm, and sister, as well as her.