A Country Marriage

by Sandra Jane Goddard

  Not daring to look back at him, she lay completely still. Gooseflesh darted across her skin but she tried to ignore it, focusing her attention instead on the rafters above her head. Then she heard him sigh; a weary sigh; a sigh of resignation and disappointment; a sigh that told her she had done wrong. Already, she had managed to do wrong. And then she became aware of footsteps followed by what she recognised as the rustle of clothing and the sound of him blowing out the candle. Darkness. Well, thank goodness for that, at least.

  Under the blanket, fear was holding her arms rigidly at her sides and – mortified that he would hear her teeth chattering – she clamped her jaw and bit on her tongue. For a moment or so nothing happened but then she felt the mattress dip and guessed that he had climbed in beside her. But if he had, then why was he now hesitating? Hadn’t he liked what he saw? Perhaps he had been hoping for someone as womanly as Annie, although surely he must have realised from the outset that she was rather shapeless in that regard.

  When she felt the bed covers moving, she sensed that he was turning to face her; not that she was about to look. And then a hand crept across her stomach and settled there.

  ‘All right?’ His voice sounded soft; his concern seemingly genuine.

  ‘Yes.’ Perhaps he was exhausted. Perhaps he was just going to let her fall asleep. Perhaps tomorrow… but no, not tomorrow; it was going to be tonight because his hand was moving from her stomach; was sliding down over her hip and on to her thigh, his fingers frighteningly purposeful. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her leg was being edged outwards and so, swallowing hard, she moved her other knee in the opposite direction. You’ll just know what’s wanted of you. Then his hand slid up over her stomach to her breast. Too taut now even to breathe, she lay motionless, hearing what sounded like a deflated sigh as he lifted himself on top of her.

  ‘I’ll try not to hurt you too much.’ For some reason, thoughtfulness had been the last thing she was expecting. Perhaps, then, it wouldn’t be so bad after all. Something of nothing. But as she felt his hand moving back inside her thigh, without meaning to she stiffened afresh. And then, without warning, there was a fiery smarting as something forced inside her. She bit hard on her tongue, containing what otherwise would have escaped as a cry but even so, tears poured from her tightly shut eyes to run down her temples and into her hair. Then, before she had time to gather her thoughts, there was more pain and she heard him grunt. ‘Try not to resist. It’ll hurt less if you’re not so…’ but although she imagined his words to be well intentioned, she knew that she couldn’t simply relax to his command. And despite the fact that her body didn’t seem capable of yielding, it appeared that he was going to continue trying. The discovery that he appeared undeterred came as a relief, since this was her duty now and to fail him on their wedding night would be unbearable. Think about something else, she told herself, and grateful for the warmth from his body, she tried to concentrate on that instead, surprised to find that, gradually, she stopped shivering. She even felt her shoulders relax a little. ‘That’s better,’ he whispered, bringing his face to rest against hers. His day-old stubble felt prickly against her cheek and scratched roughly on her shoulder and in such proximity, he reeked like the men who spilled out from the alehouse. But at least he was warm on top of her and, she discovered, not entirely repulsive, although his skin was considerably more hairy than she had imagined it would be. Beginning to relax a little further, she briefly thought of putting her arms around him, but before she had summoned sufficient courage, she felt him catch his breath and follow it with a long groan. Was he all right? In the same instant, though, he lifted his head from her shoulder and then, with a peculiar shudder, slumped on top of her, coming to rest heavily on her chest. And just as she was wondering how long he was going to stay there, he grunted and rolled aside.

  Was that it, then? Was she finished with? Aware of the stickiness on her thighs, she slid her legs back together. Was he going to say anything? It seemed not. Should she say something? Given what had just taken place, though, what on earth, would she say? No, if he wanted to speak to her he would and if didn’t, well, that was fine as well. Either way, until he chose to speak, it was probably better that she just remained quiet.

  Thankfully, the burning discomfort felt to be subsiding to a dull soreness now, and she could even feel relief beginning to soften her limbs. But there was another feeling too and strangely, it felt like disappointment. If someone had asked her beforehand what she had been expecting, she would have been unable to answer but in her mind, she had always imagined – or perhaps more accurately, had always hoped – that she would feel differently afterwards. Otherwise, if, as it now appeared, there was nothing but discomfort to be had, then why did people make such a fuss? And why had she been left feeling so discarded?

  Into the absolute stillness, a coarse snoring exploded. He was asleep! Without having said a single word to her, he had fallen asleep. Turning onto her side, she stared into the darkness, wondering how it was possible to feel so empty. Was it perhaps because, other than showing consideration for her discomfort, he had said nothing to her? Was he not supposed to woo her in some way; tell her that she was pretty or that she looked lovely; that he desired her or had been waiting for just that moment? Was she mistaken to think that was what it was all about? He hadn’t caressed her nor even kissed her, and so when he had been on top of her in the darkness, could she not have been anyone? Is that how it was; impersonal and cold? Something of nothing. And where was the pleasure in it? It was always possible that he had enjoyed it but for certain, she hadn’t; in fact, she couldn’t see, even now, what there was to enjoy.

  Carefully, she rolled onto her stomach. The only explanation had to be that she had done it wrong. She had known there was something she was supposed to do; that’s why she had asked her mother. If only Ma could have been honest with her instead of saying that she would know what to do when the moment came because that was clearly a lie; she hadn’t had a clue beforehand and she still hadn’t now, even after the event. Tears tracked hotly down her cheeks. Surely women weren’t supposed to betray each other? Surely, a mother was supposed to offer guidance and counsel on such matters? Even a hint or two might have helped. But no: when it came to the most important matter in her life so far, she had merely talked in riddles. Well, she could be fairly certain that woman Annie hadn’t spent her wedding night in such terror – nor probably even Ellen for that matter. But now, on account of her ignorance, her marriage had got off to a terrible start. After all, to fall asleep without saying anything at all he must have been truly disappointed. So how, now, was she going to face him in the morning? And how on earth was she going to recover his opinion of her when she didn’t even know where she had gone wrong?

  Turning back onto her side, she recalled watching one of the girls in the barn making eyes at a fair-haired lad who had struck her as quite nice-looking. She remembered sensing the attraction between them and being struck by the confident way the girl had looked at him and the nature of the look he had given her in return. Knowing; that’s what it had been and she would wager her wedding dress that those two had fared far more satisfactorily in the hayloft tonight than she and her husband had in this fine new bed. And that, she was certain, was down to her ignorance, for which in turn, it seemed only fair to blame her mother.

  Chapter 2

  The Treacherous Honey’d Moon

  ‘Where do you want your henhouse, then?’

  It was the following morning and Mary was sitting on the doorstep, half her mind taken with watching George splash the upper half of his body with water from the pump, the other half trying to bring order to her thoughts.

  ‘Um…’ It still seemed odd to think of him as her husband; even more so to think of herself as a married woman. She didn’t feel married – even after last night – but more than anything, her greatest regret this morning was that she had been too terrified yesterday to enjoy her own wedding. She recalled seeing him standing at the altar and how
, with the benefit of hindsight, she had actually felt quite proud to be led back down the aisle on his arm. She glanced at him now. In the stark morning light his hair was more chestnut than black, and just now she had noticed that in the brown of his eyes were rust-coloured flecks that made her think of fallen beech leaves. He was tall, too; tall enough that she had to look up to his face, but although broad-shouldered and muscular, was slimly built; the skin on his back and his arms, cob-nut brown. Beyond that, though, he was a stranger; a stranger who, it now seemed, she had agreed to wed with little real thought as to what was involved.

  She frowned. What had he just asked her? Oh, yes: the henhouse. She got to her feet and stood looking about. It was a simple enough question but even a quick glance about revealed there to be any number of possibilities.

  ‘I think it should be here; close enough for you to keep an eye on,’ he was saying, standing in the centre of a patch of grass just beyond the tiny cobbled yard. ‘What do you say to it?’

  She made herself look at the site he was indicating. Stranger or not, she was his wife now and it would serve her well to pay attention to him.

  ‘There’s sense in that,’ she agreed.

  ‘Then I’ll set to it. But first, let me show you the rest of the place.’ He was beckoning beyond the outbuildings, where the grass sloped down to a single row of fruit trees and when he set off, she picked her way after him, surprised by how cold the dewy grass felt to her feet. If only she had thought to put on her boots.

  Ahead of her, she saw him duck beneath a cherry tree.

  ‘This ain’t been cut back for a good many years,’ she remarked, snapping a twig from its spindly growth. ‘See how brittle and dry the wood is?’ She raised her eyes to look at him. Had she really just criticised the state of his fruit trees?

  His expression, though, seemed more one of amusement than anything.

  ‘Aye, from the look of them I’d say they’ve been let go for two or three years, easy.’

  Well at least he didn’t seem to mind the criticism. Either that or he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘And these raspberries need cutting down hard, too. Same with them blackberries,’ she remarked, pointing across to a hostile-looking mound of thorny growth. ‘And by rights, now’s the time to be doing these goosegogs but quite where the old wood is, I couldn’t say.’ She bent low. Goodness they were a leggy mess; there was an entire afternoon’s work there alone.

  ‘Aye,’ she heard him agreeing.

  What else, she wondered, had been let go so badly? Further down the slope, she could see a small, level square of land that had clearly once been used to grow vegetables. She headed towards it, the movement of her skirt setting adrift seeds from the dandelion clocks standing wraithlike in the morning sunlight. Looking about, she idly snapped off a waist-high stem of rhubarb. The odour from it was still tart and enticing but the innards looked woody and inedible.

  ‘This is where we need to start,’ she announced, letting the rumpled leaf fall from her hand. ‘If we dig this over now, then the frosts will do the hard work for us—’ But what on earth was she doing, telling him where to start? Even ignoring the fact that he was no doubt perfectly capable of working it out for himself, it wasn’t her place to tell him anyway. Wasn’t her mother always saying that she didn’t know when to hold her tongue? She hung her head. Make quick with regret; yes, that was the best thing. ‘Forgive me,’ she began, risking a glance towards him, ‘I’m used to ordering about the little ones and so I forget sometimes…’

  ‘No call for forgiveness,’ he said, coming to stand alongside her. ‘I’m just grateful you know your way around a vegetable garden. See, when I found out you were a carpenter’s daughter, well, I didn’t think you’d be up for the poor sort of life I had to offer, you know, on the land. But word was that you knew how to get on with things. So if first impressions don’t deceive, then you’re just what this place needs.’

  She watched him wave an arm over the small plot. It might have been nice if he had said that she was just what he needed, rather than what the place needed but well, it was a start.

  ‘Aye, well maybe I should be getting stuck in then.’

  ‘Please, don’t let me stand in your way,’ he replied, grinning back at her.

  *

  With a rickety garden fork that she found in the woodshed, Mary set to work on the overgrown vegetable plot. If nothing else, it was a relief to be left to her own devices. She liked that there was no need to make conversation and very little chance of doing anything wrong. Digging was digging. Weeds were weeds. They might be hard work but they didn’t demand an opinion or require from her some sort of behaviour that she didn’t yet understand. Not that she was going to let her thoughts wander off down that route again. Last night was done with and so far he had made no mention of it. And tonight, well, she would cope with that when it came. For now, though, she would just drive her fork down into the leafy growth and watch the clouds of weightless crane flies whirring away in search of new shelter. She would lift away the mounds of soft foliage and send ground beetles scurrying over the disturbed earth, their suits of armour shimmering green-black in the light. Tangled roots would cleave without a fight, while airy-headed dandelions and grey-brown tufts of prickly milk thistle would yield to her determination to achieve something. Only the nettles, with their cursed stinging hairs would she treat with any respect; the mounting pile of their lance-shaped leaves bringing to mind the vile-tasting nettle tea that her mother saw fit to steep by the gallon. In front of her a grey-mottled garden spider with a body as intricately patterned as its web sped across the newly bare soil; and as she tugged at a tangled mat of creeping buttercup, a cock robin came to alight on a nearby clod of earth and watch patiently for a worm or two to be exposed by the tines of her ancient fork. Yes, for a moment, it was such a relief to be able to set aside the whole troubling business of getting married and with it, her preoccupation with fathoming the behaviour expected from her.

  After a while, she stood up, and straightening her back, glanced up the slope to George’s staccato hammering and the growing frame for the hen house. He seemed nice enough, it was just that, well, he was a full-grown man and he knew about… things… whereas, she, she was totally unprepared for just about every aspect of living with him. Thanks to her mother drumming it into her, she had always understood the importance of finding a good husband, but now that by all accounts she had done so, she was faced with a new and seemingly higher hurdle; that of how to be his wife. Of course she knew how to cook and clean; like so many other things, her mother had seen to that but she knew so little about him that the possibilities for getting it all wrong were endless. She rested on the fork, her face feeling pink from her exertions and her hair tumbling into her eyes. Well, she was pretty much on her own now, so all she could do was try her best and hope that it would be enough for him.

  For a while, she worked on, the area of cleared soil increasing and the pile of weeds mounting until, deciding that there was sufficient, she made a bonfire. Not surprisingly, it was slow to catch and so she stood watching it, drawing breaths and inhaling the sweet smell of crushed vegetation and the rising scent of the damp earth. Spring may smell fresher but there was something about the scent of autumn; brown to spring’s green; tangy to her sweetness; decay where there had been renewal. Yes, if there could be such a thing, then autumn was a brown smell; dark and pungent and clinging now to the inside of her nostrils such that she was certain she could taste it in the back of her throat.

  With a thin plume of smoke now starting to spiral satisfyingly upwards, she turned her gaze to the meadow beyond.

  ‘You’ve done well there.’

  She turned sharply. Somehow, she had missed the sound of his approach. That was the trouble with daydreaming.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Not too badly.’ She watched him casting an eye over the cleared plot. Pa. The smell of him – of sweat and of sawdust – made her think of her father and triggered a sudden ache to be back at hom
e, standing side by side with her mother, helping to prepare dinner.

  ‘Not too badly at all, I’d say.’

  While his praise was welcome, it wasn’t going to fill the hollow that had settled somewhere in her stomach. Ridding herself of that, she was beginning to understand, rested solely with her.

  ‘Hard work with this old fork, though.’ It was an observation she really only offered as conversation.

  ‘Aye, I can see that. Tell you what then, why don’t we stop awhile and go and see if Pa will lend us something sturdier?’

  Lord; now what had she done? Her skirt was caked with dust and her hair must be almost as bad. But to make a fuss would surely be worse.

  ‘Course. Fine. Although maybe I ought to just splash my face.’

  ‘You and me both,’ was his reply as they turned to head back up the slope to the pump.

  *

  She had been looking forward to seeing the inside of the farmhouse. Of course, he had told her about it – quite a lot about it, in fact – during several of the half-dozen Sunday afternoons when he had walked over to Nettley Wood to see her; to court her, as it had subsequently turned out. And now, here she was, walking down the hill as part of the family that owned in it. It was still hard to believe that their wedding – the event at the heart of all the talk and anticipation of the last few weeks – had finally and actually come about.

  They were nearing the ford now, it being the point at which the steep, moss-covered slopes of the farmhouse roof – wedged securely at either end between substantial chimneys, their scalloped pots posing at precarious angles – disappeared momentarily among the treetops. A few steps further on, though, when they turned from the lane onto the track, gaps in the beech hedge started to afford tantalising glimpses. There were pale, creamy-grey elevations; a flat, shallow porch overshadowed by the dense foliage of a damask rose that appeared to be in competition with a tangle of ivy to be first to the eaves; a pair of stone-mullioned windows either side of the front door, their tiny diamonds of glass offering disjointed reflections of the rampant garden, while on the floor above, three sets of casements acted as heavenly mirrors to the white-mottled blue of the sky. Certainly there was nothing like it in Nettley Wood.