"And what about the late Mr. Pamuk? Won't he resurrect himself every time we argue?"

"No"…

The fact is Matthew meant what he said and Mary knew it.

After the reception party, waving goodbye while seated on the train and sharing a late night glass of brandy, they were finally alone. Seated side by side on their honeymoon bed in their nightclothes, Mary and Matthew shyly smiled at each other, waiting and wondering who would make the first move.

It was strange but they found themselves in a tentative embrace and kissing without knowing who took the initiative. It was reminiscent of their first stolen moment together, late at night in the dining room with sandwiches and claret.

Things were more thrilling now since they were man and wife; Mary could feel nervous excitement fluttering inside. It was different than the nervous apprehension she had felt in this same position years ago in her nightdress being kissed by a man.

She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and opened her eyes to look at Matthew; who was so kind to her, who infatuated her (and some times infuriated her), who consistently loved her. Yes this is who she was with, who she had chosen and she wanted him in her arms and in her bed.

Which is why she almost stopped breathing when he gently laid her down and loomed over her. "Oh my darling," he whispered before leaning down to kiss her again.

Mary was wrong; Matthew wouldn't resurrect Mr. Pamuk, she could do that all by herself.