Stirring the stew absently, I look over the list again to try and figure out what it is I have forgotten. At our sewing circle the other day, Martha Christensen shared the recipe she received from her cousin in England with us, swearing that it was the finest beef stew that we would ever have, and we all promised to make it by the end of the week.
Finding nothing again, I set the list down and take a sip of the broth to reconfirm that something is missing. I call Ruth over to try it and after a moment she goes out into the backyard and comes back with a bay leaf. Chopping it up finely, she drops it into the pot and I mix it in with everything else. When I taste it again, I know that she's found exactly what it needed. Getting a pen, I go to add one bay leaf to the ingredients when I see that it's already been included. Chiding myself, I put the pen back, wondering how I could have missed it.
When there's nothing more for me to do here, I take the stew off the fire and go to my room where I've left my dress. The past few days I've barely had time to work on it and so progress has been slow, but I'm not in any hurry, I have other Sunday dresses, and I enjoy working on it little by little every day in the bit of free time I have. It's made me much more creative than in the past and I'm sure that everyone will love it once it's completed.
Adam says it's coming along nicely, and is always happy to see the progress. Sometimes in the evening we'll sit by the fire and he'll watch me sew out of the corner of his eye while he reads through Hebrews. He likes the sight of it so much that I leave it out in our room and I catch him smiling as smooths the ribbon down. I can't fathom why he likes it so, but he especially enjoys me delighting in it.
When I the door open, I put it aside and go out to greet him. At dinner, he compliments me on the stew repeatedly and I tell him that Martha gave me the recipe and that Ruth improved it greatly. He says that he can taste my contribution as well and blushing at the misgiven compliment, I ask him not to give me undue credit. After that he relapses into silence, and I'm filled up with dread. I hurriedly apologize for upsetting him.
Staring into his stew, he smiles slightly.
"You can never upset me, Tilda."
"But I always do," I say, surprising myself at my forthrightness. "Forgive me."
Laughing, he finally pulls his head up and his eyes shine out at me.
"For what? I'm sorry for worrying you," he says, covering my hand with his own. "I've just been working too hard."
Although I know he is not being honest with me, I'm afraid of disturbing him further and just nod and ask him to take better care of himself. He says that he will and I pull my hand back to resume eating. The rest of our dinner, he is lively and talks about all that happened at the office and I smile and listen attentively to everything he says, but rarely say much else, for fear I will drop him back into his melancholy.
The next day I'm feeling much better, visiting with my dear Hannah, skinning peaches for a pie and laughing about how poor Mrs. Adams thought she'd lost her bonnet, when she asks me how Adam is doing, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed with everything from the night before and all I've been feeling for the past month and burst into tears. I cover my face and turn away, but Hannah pulls me close and asks if something has happened to him.
I shake my head, but am unable to get a word out. Patiently, she guides me to a chair and waits until I've calmed down and am able to speak again.
"No matter what I do, I can't make him happy."
"Is he cruel to you?"
"No, no, never. He is the kindest person I have ever known. He won't even admit that he's unhappy with me."
Dabbing at my tear and peach stained face, Hannah smiles.
"Unhappy? In all the times I've seen you both he has only ever looked on you with affection."
"A wife knows her husband better than anyone else, and I know he is displeased with me."
"Wives can be wrong. I can't tell you how many misunderstandings James and I have had between each other."
"No, something's wrong. With me!"
"What do you do?"
I relate to her all of my daily routine, save what does not happen between us at night, and unsurprisingly, she finds nothing amiss, but patiently, she moves on, trying to find the root of my insecurity. When she asks me how Adam acts, I admit that he is a gentleman, like my father, and then start to feel foolish. When she sees that I have nothing more to add, she grabs my hand.
"Many young brides feel overwhelmed sometimes, but I promise it gets better."
I agree with her and thank her for listening to me and afterward, we go back to making our pie and I resolve to keep my silliness to myself, but from then on I find myself watching other couples.
Unsurprisingly, there is nothing that is different between us and other couples. The wives attend to the household and are mild toward their husbands, and the husbands, whatever their disposition, work hard outside the home and take charge of the home. But unlike me, they all seem vastly content. Not to say that I am not, because most of my days I am as settled in my marriage as anyone else seems to be, but no matter how I try to rid myself of my anxieties, they cling to me.
With every downcast gaze and every night that passes without him touching me, I feel more and more ill at ease and grow surer that my marriage, at its very beginning, is already falling apart.
Desperate for help, I turn to my mother. Although I'm frantic at the start of the carriage ride, by the time I arrive at her home I have calmed myself down and when she sees me, she does not suspect that anything is wrong. Happy to have an audience, she has me come in for tea and goes on about how well the new draperies she purchased, at a bargain, match the sitting room and calls for one of the maids to fetch me some excess sausages they have.
She is so excited, I know that she must not have met with anyone recently and feel guilty about sharing my problems. I debate with myself about whether or not I should say anything, barely listening to anything she says. When she hands me the sausages and says that it's getting late, I'm startled at how much time has passed and jump up.
My mother walks me to the door and tells me that I should visit again soon when I cut her off. A bit frazzled and my departure imminent, I finally say what I came to ask.
"Mother, are you happy?"
"Hm? Of course I am. Why? Do I look dour?"
I quickly reassure her that she does not and thank her for the sausages, when she opens the door. Then panicking that this may be my last chance to receive any help from her, I ask, "Is your marriage happy?"
"Oh, this again, Tilda?" she says, sighing. "I am quite content and that is all that we can ask for. Now go home to your own husband."
Sitting in the carriage, I know that my mother and Hannah are right. I should be happy, but that still doesn't stop me from feeling trapped and helpless. But at least I know that I must either suffer alone or find my own solution, and while staring out the window I see it in the form of a disobedient child, running around and making his mother give chase.
That night, I lie in our bed, praying for strength and forgiveness. Although I thanked God after our first week of marriage when Adam stopped seeking me out in the dark, I knew then as I do now that I was wrong, but I was selfish, and pretended that Adam must not want it either, but now I realize that he must have known how much I hated it.
When he comes to bed, he whispers, "Good night," as always, then rolls over onto his side, leaving a wide berth between us that neither of us ever cross.
It seems to take me hours to move, and the only thing that gets me to is the fear that he will fall asleep, but listening to his breathing, I know that he is still awake.
I turn my body toward him and watch him for several more breaths before I reach out my hand. I stare at it, wavering inches from him, before I finally place it on his shoulder. He tenses under it and immediately sits up.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say, relieved that he can't see my grimace.
Also pulling myself up, I try again. I put my hand on his.
"Adam."
I expect him to take me immediately, but he's so confused that he just sits staring at my hand, until I lean in and kiss his cheek. It's the first time I've ever done so, but I try to do it like him, light and soft.
And then he draws me close.
It hurts. Not as much as the first night, but still. I try to be silent as I cry.
He holds me after and quickly falls asleep. His arm is under me and I'm afraid that he'll wake up with it numb, but whenever I try to move, he stirs, and I can't let him wake up and notice how wet my pillow is.
I pray and pray that our marriage has been repaired.