Saving Grace

by Carolyn Davidson

  He halted for he could speak no longer. His voice was hoarse, his words but a whisper, and his throat ached with unshed tears.

  “I told you I’m nothing but a burden, Simon. You’ve been so good to me, and I can’t even tell you I love you. And you know I do. You must.” Her eyes beseeched him and her face was woebegone with the sorrow that she bore.

  “Do you love me, Grace? You’ve never told me, you know. And now I need your love more than ever before. I need to know that you care for me, that I’m not a weight you must bear.”

  She looked up at him and for the first time since the night he’d brought her here to this bed, she smiled. Not a smile he would have recognized in the past, but a softening of her lips, a movement of the flesh in her cheek where a dimple had remained unseen for many days.

  “Never think I don’t love you, Simon. You are the only reason I awake in the mornings.”

  “Will you do something for me, sweetheart? Please, I beg you with all my heart.”

  “I’ll try. You know that.” And as if she were exhausted from the few words she’d spoken, she closed her eyes.

  “Don’t open your eyes, Grace. Just let me put a bit of soup in your mouth.”

  He waited for endless seconds, a minute or more, and when he’d come to understand that she cared little for nourishment, and it seemed his heart would burst with the pain of it, she opened her mouth. Just a little, enough for a spoon to pass between her lips and teeth.

  “That’s my baby,” he said gently, lifting a scant spoonful of broth to her mouth, a spoonful she swallowed and then her lips closed again.

  “Sweetheart, we’ll wait for a minute and then try again. Will you do that for me?” He struggled with impatience, he fought against the urge to coax her further and his heart merely rejoiced that she had made the effort he’d asked of her.

  And in a minute or so, she spoke again. “All right, Simon. I’ll eat some more.”

  Her lips parted and with a slow, steady hand, he brought the bowl of the spoon to her lips again and watched as she moved her lips. He saw the effort she made when the mouthful lay against her tongue and then rejoiced when her throat moved and the few drops were swallowed.

  “Ah, Grace. You make me so happy. I feel like laughing out loud, sweetheart. Will you let me know when you can try another swallow?”

  She nodded, a barely perceptible movement of her head, but he was aware of each breath she took and such a nod did not escape his eye. He heard the rustle of a garment behind him and turned to look over his shoulder. In the doorway, Ethel stood, tears falling, but her lips were smiling, a look akin to happiness on her face.

  He sat with Grace for an hour, and in all, she ate perhaps half a cup of the chicken broth.

  “That’ll do for now, sweetheart. I’ll let you rest a bit. We’ll try again before bedtime, shall we?”

  She looked at him and he was blessed by the love that shone from blue eyes, his heart receiving the message she did not speak aloud. Her lips puckered just a bit, as if she would pout, and he knew. Knew without words that she would kiss him should he bend to her now.

  “Grace?” He leaned toward her and her hand lifted to touch his cheek. “Grace, may I kiss you?”

  Her lips moved and he bent closer, careful not to infringe, lest she not respond to him. But the hand that touched his cheek moved to the back of his head and she exerted just a bit of pressure there, guiding him where she would, until his mouth pressed gently against hers, until her breath flowed from her lips to his.

  He prayed she would not open her eyes, for he could not halt the tears. For a man who had not shed one tear since he was but a lad, he’d broken some sort of record of late, he decided. And yet, he did not rue one drop that fell, for he’d been blessed beyond measure to have the response she’d offered him, freely and without pressure on his part.

  And so when he undressed that night and crawled in to lie beside her, he dared to reach for her hand, and when she clasped his fingers with hers, he lifted and bent to her. “May I kiss you good-night?”

  “Oh, yes, Simon. Please.” It was almost Grace’s voice again, he thought, weak perhaps, but with the same soft melody in each syllable she spoke.

  He kissed her twice, gently but thoroughly. And then put his head on his pillow. She’d eaten again before he turned out the light and he whispered words of praise in her ear, lying beside her, feeling for the first time that all would be well.

  In the morning, she was awake when he opened his eyes, and her face was but inches from his.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, startled, for she never awoke before he’d left the bed to get dressed. And yet, perhaps she had. That thought bade him lie still and he touched her cheek, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. “Will you try a bit of tea for me, sweetheart? I’ll put milk and sugar in it for you.”

  She nodded, and then opened her mouth a bit, pushing the words out as if it were an effort to speak. “Yes, Simon. If you’ll kiss me first. I’ve missed you.”

  It was an ongoing time of healing. From that day onward, she ate a bit more each time he brought food to her, graduating to scrambled eggs, then milk toast. The day she ate a spoonful of mashed potatoes, all creamed nicely with milk and butter, he rejoiced. And thought for the first time that they would finally make it. And again he sought to coax her.

  “If I help you, will you put on your robe and sit in a chair for a while?”

  Her nod was quick, and he snatched her robe from the wardrobe. Putting it over her shoulders, he guided her hands into the sleeves, then waited till she could catch her breath.

  “Let me help you get up and I’ll tie the belt for you.” She clasped his hands in hers and he lifted her. “Will you sit on the rocker?”

  She shook her head and took his hand, leaning heavily on his arm. They had gone perhaps three feet, when he scooped her from her feet and carried her. “Where shall we go, sweetheart?”

  “The kitchen.” She spoke the word clearly and when he left the bedroom with her, he saw Ethel’s shadow pass the doorway in the back of the house.

  “Ethel. Pull out a chair for us, please,” he called, his smile wide as he carried his wife triumphantly down the stairway and through the hall.

  “On my lap?” he asked softly, offering her the choice, and to his relief, she nodded.

  “Next time, I’ll sit alone,” she said.

  He held her against himself, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms around her, holding her fast, lest she slide to the floor. Her weight was frightening, he’d decided when he’d lifted her, for she was thin, almost to the point of skin and bones, but he would not mention it, for fear of discouraging her.

  “Is it time for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Breakfast is whenever you want it, love,” he told her. “Right now is fine, don’t you think, Ethel?”

  To which the stalwart housekeeper nodded briskly before she turned to cut a slender slice from a fresh loaf of bread. She buttered it, spread a thin layer of honey atop and then cut it into four pieces and placed it on a plate.

  “My mother used to call these toast slices soldiers when I was small,” Simon said, lifting one to his lips, biting off the crust, then offering her the soft, inner layer.

  They ate the bread, Simon offering her small bites until the slice of bread was eaten. Ethel brought a cup of tea to her, prepared as she liked it, with milk and sugar added, and she sipped it carefully.

  It was too much to hope that she would not tire rapidly, and he was not disappointed when she signaled her need to return to the bed. He carried her in, removed the robe and put her in the center of the bed. Then, as she watched with wide eyes, he took his trousers off and lay beside her, pulling up the sheet.

  “I need you, Grace. Please let me lie with you.”

  She lifted her head and he understood her silent plea, for he slipped his arm beneath her neck and she settled into place, there where she was wont to sleep during the early days of their marriage. An
d in less time than he could have imagined, she was asleep, her mouth open just a bit, her eyes shut and her breathing regular.

  He did not stir, even when Ethel came to the door. For he only lifted his hand and waved and heard the latch close behind her.

  And when the doctor came to call the next day, it was to find his patient on the edge of the bed, robe in place, slippers on her feet and a half smile on her lips.

  “Grace. My word, I can’t believe the change in you. I declare, you have roses in your cheeks.”

  And even Simon could not deny that observation, for she had a glow about her that soothed his aching heart. He winked at her and his lips curved in a wide smile.

  It was a gradual process, for every day did not bring as much progress as those first few. But in two weeks’ time, she was rising for all her meals, making her way to the table on Simon’s arm, and her bones had begun to be covered with a modest amount of flesh.

  At least Simon didn’t have to shake the sheets to find her at night, he told her with a grin. And she smiled back, for somehow in her mind, she apparently had decided to live again. As if the time after her injury had been a period of grieving, now she began a like time of healing.

  Her hair became lustrous once more, gleaming as he brushed it twice daily. Her skin was again as porcelain, glowing in the candlelight at night when he put her into the bed. He left the candle lit for long moments every night, happy to lie beside her and watch her, tempted to press her for more than an occasional kiss, but he would not push her farther than he deemed it comfortable for her to progress.

  And then one night, when he’d blown out the candle and she lay once again with her head on his shoulder, her hand reached to touch his face and she whispered a need he had not thought to hear from her lips.

  “Simon, would you touch me?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  His heart seemed to stop beating, and his breath caught in his throat. “I am touching you, sweetheart,” he said, drawing the words out in a casual fashion, his arm enclosing her, drawing her closer.

  “Simon, don’t be dense. I want you to touch me.”

  He thought her voice sounded snippish, as his mother would have said, and he laughed softly. “Was that an order, ma’am?”

  She was unmoving beside him for a long moment. “Not unless you want it to be,” she said finally.

  “Where shall I begin, Grace? I fear you’ll think me bold should I move your gown aside and brush your skin with my hand.”

  She laughed. No, it wasn’t a laugh, he decided, but a giggle. Grace giggled.

  And so he leaned over her, sliding her from her chosen spot on his shoulder, and his hand was very careful as he loosened the first four buttons on her gown. He’d helped her into that same gown only fifteen minutes earlier, for Grace had progressed to being almost dressed every day, wearing her robe and undergarments. But never in his dressing and undressing her had he touched any part of her body, but to smooth her garments in place.

  Now he felt her breath hitch as the buttons came undone and he spread the bodice wide, revealing the upper slopes of her breasts. She’d gotten beyond a bandage, Belle telling her two weeks ago that the wound needed air to heal, and he’d found that Belle apparently possessed some great store of wisdom, for Grace did not argue with her.

  Now, he leaned a bit closer and his fingertips touched the soft flesh there, where the fullness of her body became a woman’s pride and a man’s joy.

  He felt her skin pebble beneath his fingertips and he looked at her quickly, meeting her gaze, but she only nodded a bit and waited.

  For what he did not know. Could he go further, dare he uncover the skin that rose to a perfect pink bud that had hitherto delighted his eye? Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps she would let him see her, not just feel his hand against her skin.

  And so he touched her more firmly, brushing back the gown a bit, revealing her breast to his eyes, almost to the soft pink crest. And there he paused, waiting. For what, he knew not, but again he waited for a word of guidance.

  And it came. “Touch me, Simon. Please.”

  There was no need to ask twice, for he had hungered for just such a moment. For over a month, nearing two, he had ached to hold her curves in his hands, to love her as a husband would. And now she was willing to allow his touch. For more than that he would not ask. Not tonight. But she had given him leave, and so he pushed the gown lower and slid his hand beneath her breast, the left one, the uninjured side, for he feared she might flinch if he touched her right breast, there where cruel mouth and teeth had bruised and torn her flesh.

  He bent over her and his lips kissed her with consummate care, at first only pressing his mouth against the soft skin, leaving the pink crest to tighten and pearl into a tempting berry. And then he opened his mouth, his lips and tongue aching to feel that small bit of flesh against them.

  He bent to her, his lips barely brushing her skin. “Tell me if it’s too much, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you.”

  A small laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, Simon. I know that. But you’re making me ache. I need you. Please. Not like it was before, but just to let me know you still want me.”

  He groaned and his mouth closed over her, his tongue touching with delicate movements against the place where he had been wont to suckle and draw the tender flesh into his mouth. “All right?” he asked, his voice husky, the ache in his loins almost unbearable now.

  “Oh, yes.” Her sigh was long and sweet, and she held him there, her hand on his head, lifting his free hand to her mouth, blessing it with soft touches of teeth and lips and tongue.

  He lifted from her and she seemed to withdraw. “You don’t want to touch me where he…where he hurt me, do you?”

  “Sweetheart, don’t ever think that. I just don’t want to upset you or frighten you. I’m aching to touch you everywhere I can reach on your body, but I won’t do anything to cause you distress.”

  She met his gaze and frowned. “I’m distressed right now, Simon.”

  “Then stop me if you don’t like what I’m doing, Grace.” He took a deep breath and wished for a long moment that he had some female to speak with, some motherly soul who would know all the answers there were to understanding a wife. For at this moment, he was at sea and his boat was leaking.

  With agile fingers, he undid the buttons beyond her waist, and then lay the bodice even wider, exposing both of her breasts, watching as they changed before his eyes, the crests puckering even more, the flesh becoming taut and full. He leaned to her, his mouth careful, and he kissed her again, opened his mouth against her flesh and drew in small increments against his tongue. He moved to the right breast, uncovering it completely, lifting it to see the healed place where the cruel, open wound had caused her such pain, and blessed the scarred spot with his tongue.

  His hand held her rounded breast higher, exposing the tender underside, and he kissed her there. First one side, then the other, and he used his skill, learned at her side, during weeks past, giving her the pleasure he knew she’d enjoyed in the early days of their marriage. Finally he suckled gently at the tender place where one day his son might take nourishment from his mother.

  “Simon. Simon.” It seemed she could only speak his name and that in a hushed whisper that brought chills to run the length of his backbone.

  “I love you, Grace. As no other man has ever loved a woman, I love you.”

  “And how many women have you loved?” she asked, her eyes teasing him.

  “None before you, love. And only you for the rest of my life, and perhaps beyond.”

  “I knew that. I just wanted to hear you say it.” She spoke solemnly, as though some great and mysterious event had occurred. And perhaps it had, he thought. For his wife had accepted his touch, had allowed him to love her as a husband, and should she so desire, he might soon be offered the privilege of taking her body once more as his own.

  Of owning her freshness, the sweetness of her woman’s flesh, the scent of her feminine being. A
nd for that he was willing to wait, until she should open herself to him and asking him to cover her, offer him the gift of her love.

  It was a day of celebration, an afternoon of pure happiness when Grace said she would like to sit with him on the swing. He deemed her strong enough, helped her with her underthings and dress, then put soft slippers on her feet. With her hand on his arm, he led her from the front door to sit beside him on the green swing.

  She inhaled deeply of the air, sitting in the shadow of the porch roof, the September sun shining in unmatched brilliance, for her joy in the day was complete. Simon by her side, the sound of a horse passing on the road in front of the house, the shout of children at play nearby. There was a feeling of normalcy, a sense of the commonplace about this day, and she rejoiced that it should be so.

  Happy that the pain and horror of her ordeal had passed, her body was healed, her heart well on its way and Simon was beside her, his warmth sustaining her.

  A horse stopped by the gate and a man lifted himself from the saddle. Uncle Joe, her silent heart cried, and she smiled as he made his way to the porch, lifting a hand in greeting, then allowing his gaze to meet hers. Tired eyes touched upon her, a lined face seemed to gain new life as he watched her for a moment, and Joe drew closer, offering his hand.

  She took it between her own, greeting him with an uplifted face, for she yearned for his kiss of greeting. She was not disappointed, for he bent and pressed his lips against her forehead, uttering soft words that told her of his concern for her.

  Simon called out, his voice carrying from the porch into the house. “Ethel, would you bring some refreshments, please? Grace’s uncle is here.”

  An answering sound of agreement reached their ears and Joe settled himself on a white, wooden chair that fit the body with a comfortable shape.