"Do you, Abigail Elizabeth Ashe, take this man—" The pastor hesitated fractionally, before delivering the name—"William Manderly, to be your lawful, wedded husband?"
She had already anticipated some form of this question in her mind, but the moment had come, now, to speak, so suddenly, and for an instant her throat closed. Knowing she was going to appear woefully uncertain at the very juncture she wanted to seem convincing and sure, in front of the others. Not that a large group had assembled—on the contrary, there were only two others; the pastor's wife, some distance behind Abigail and off to her left, and Captain Flint, standing impassive, serving in capacity not as officiator but as a secondary witness to their marriage. He'd arrived a little late, after they had already stood up together at the front of the tiny church, and she'd dared to glance back only once to see who it was.
She sensed Billy's slightest of sideways glances—did her hesitation seem overly long to him as well? Pastor Lambrick's eyes were trained with piercing intensity on her expression. She said, almost with a gasp, "I do."
Repeating the question with their names appropriately transposed, the pastor addressed Billy, and Abigail felt a twinge of guilt mingled with pleasure at the calm confidence of his reply. At least he did not seem doubtful. It gave her courage, though she still felt dreadfully self-conscious.
The pastor was continuing with solemn words about their responsibilities to God and each other. She tried to pay attention. The service seemed interminable. The church was ridiculously warm and her dress, lent to her earlier that morning by Mrs. Lambrick, deeply uncomfortable though it had seemed fitting enough at the moment of trying on. Abigail shifted, seeking strength from Billy's tall presence at her side. He had no fancy clothing, but he was clean and, she thought, respectable, no matter what the pastor might think of their pairing. She felt a rush of protectiveness at the thought. Billy came from good people. And they were doing the right thing, even if she was a little terrified.
The conflicting thoughts raced through her mind, confusing her one moment, delighting her the next. She wanted to be Billy's wife. She had no idea what being Billy's wife was going to involve.
The pastor took their hands and brought them together, Billy's over hers. Her hand disappeared under his, and he squeezed her fingers gently, reminding her of last night, when he had brought this proposal to her. Only last night.
She looked up into his eyes. The pastor was saying something about sealing the union. She realized Billy was about to kiss her. But he was waiting, he wouldn't initiate the action if she didn't want, she knew that. She didn't like to do it with the others watching, it seemed so...brazen—even if they were married in the eyes of God and the law upon this moment. But it must be done...She tilted her head up. He leaned in. The kiss was respectful, his lips warm on hers just for a heartbeat or two. They stared at each other, hardly able to believe it.
And then someone was offering congratulations, in the form of prim well-wishes from Mrs. Lambrick and an unexpected, stern embrace from Captain Flint, who gazed at her unsmiling after and wished them both happiness. She murmured words of thanks in response, feeling inadequate, and wanting desperately that they be left alone, and yet, what would they do then? Prompted by a sense of responsibility, Abigail made the hesitant invitation of a meal back at the house, but no one seemed inclined: the pastor and his wife demurred, alluding to other duties, and Flint had, of course, to return to his ship.
Mrs. Lambrick informed them that she would stop by in the next week, as though they were children needing to be checked upon, but as she clearly saw this as a discharge of her duty, neither Billy nor Abigail took issue with it.
Flint, after dispensing a few enigmatic words in Billy's direction on the care and keeping of a wife—which Abigail did not fully understand—mounted his horse and also left.
Billy helped her into the cart they had taken together. The church door was closed, the pastor and Mrs. Lambrick remaining within. The two newly wedded were left to themselves.
The cart lurched forward, its wheels initially sliding rather than turning in the mud created from yesterday's rains. Abigail gripped the bench and remembered her first ride with this man, the day they'd left the beach. Now, not so many days later, she was his wife.
Surely, this was madness.
Surely, this was how it was always to have been.
Billy shifted the reins to one hand and put the other on her knee. She wasn't sure if the gesture was meant to be amorous or reassuring. Rather hoping the latter, she gave him a cautious smile.
After a moment he removed his hand. "Want to go into town?" he asked.
She had not thought of doing so, but, thinking of it, rather than returning to the house immediately and inviting the dear Lord knew what manner of awkwardness, it seemed an appealing prospect. "Might we?"
"We can do whatever we want," Billy said, carelessly. "The day a man gets married he shouldn't have to work."
"And a woman?"
"I reckon we should both be off duty," he said, giving her the sideways grin that made him look so unexpectedly irreproachable. She remembered their kiss of only moments ago, and felt her cheeks warm. She glanced away quickly and sought for something to say. "It is a beautiful day," was all she could come up with.
"Hot," he agreed. "I'll take it over the rain."
"I suppose we need to give attention to the weather, now that we have a...a farm of sorts to manage," Abigail said, wondering if she was sounding too formal.
"Suppose we will."
Had he sounded less cheerful? Or was she imagining it. "And have animals?"
"We could," he said. "I don't know if I'm any good at any of that—helping things grow. Keeping things alive."
He meant to speak lightly, she could tell this time, but still an undercurrent of apprehension had slipped through his words, leading her to rest her hand on his sun-warmed forearm now, and say, "You have kept me alive—all this time."
"Wouldn't have been able to, if you'd been a different sort of woman."
"A different sort?" she repeated, intrigued.
He looked self-conscious. "The sort I thought you were when I first saw you..."
"Helpless, I imagine," she said softly.
"Just—I don't know the word for it. Too good for all of this. Too good to look at me. But then you did and I—shouldn't've got distracted, but..."
Abigail was caught between sympathetic embarrassment for knowing exactly what he was talking about (since they had been mutually distracted upon their initial encounter aboard ship) and wanting him to say more about how he felt; to say precisely how his feelings had progressed from that day, how he was seeing her in another light.
And yet, she had heard something that needed clarifying. "I'm not too good," she said, uncertain what she was arguing for. Or against.
"You are, though. Not prideful, I don't mean that—" He squinted away into the sun for a moment, letting the reins in his hand slacken a bit while the horse plodded on ahead dutifully. "You're braver. Than I thought."
He looked at her directly and she was flustered by the compliment, by the blueness of his eyes. She ducked her head and felt herself smiling, recalling that yesterday—how could it possibly have been only a day ago?—that she had flung a loaf of burnt bread at him.
"What?" he said, noting her expression.
"I was thinking of yesterday, when you walked in the door."
"Ah." His tone was carefully neutral.
"I didn't mean to throw something I had spent so much effort on. It was just what was at hand."
They both laughed a little, and he said, "I'm glad it wasn't something more dangerous. I certainly wasn't expecting that particular reception."
"You were expecting a particular kind, were you?" Abigail spoke piquantly, surprising herself.
"I thought you'd be happy to see me. You always were before."
"You left me a ribbon," she said.
His face turned all confusion. "I thought you'd like it. Simple...pretty...put me in mind of you. I know I got you that"—he gestured at her shoulders, apparently having temporarily forgotten the word for shawl—"thing, before, but I was almost out of coin. After I paid for the supplies."
Her stomach sank and suddenly she felt horribly small. "Oh, Billy, I didn't mean that I didn't like it, I just didn't want—I just wanted—it was there instead of you." Her voice trailed away at the end until the word "you" came out little more than a whisper.
He stared straight ahead of them down the road, she could see out of the corner of her eye, though she was trying to keep her own gaze focused on her feet on the floorboards, wanting indeed to shrink down into the bottom of the cart and perhaps vanish altogether in that moment. The admission made her feel utterly vulnerable, and she didn't know what she wanted him to do—pretend she hadn't said it, and keep on as they were, slowly making their way into the town, or simply take the confession for an apology, and tell her it was all right...
"Whoa." Billy pulled the horse back. The cart wheels rattled to a stop. For a few full moments, they sat thus, neither moving. The horse twitched his tail placidly.
Billy brought one knee up and turned sideways on the bench, rather discommoding Abigail since his legs were so long, to face her. He reached out and put a warm hand on the edge of her chin, turning her so she had to look at him.
"You missed me." His voice was wondering. Partially incredulous. With a touch of rakishness thrown in, she could see that in the slight curve of his mouth.
Though she was quite out of her depth and had not the merest idea how to bring this conversation back into the realm of polite appropriateness (and start them riding onwards again) Abigail decided to be honest and say with some petulance, "Of course I did."
His hand lingered by her face, near her ear, the rough skin of his knuckles causing tremors to run up her limbs, then he ran his fingers through a curl of her hair, releasing it at its end just against her breast. Abigail swallowed, aware suddenly of the heat, of how dry her throat had just become. Though she had flung herself into his arms once, had lain beside him for a few moments while he slept—and even this very morning they had shared a kiss in the church—this still felt the most intimate moment thus far. Perhaps it was the intensity in his expression.
"I," he said, "missed you."
"Oh," she said, barely audible even to her own ears. It wasn't quite how she meant to respond. Words seemed so very ineffective, so unavailing. And then she added, also without meaning to, all in a rush, "We should probably be on our way."
"We should," he conceded, and amid the tiny storm of emotions that were confusing her, she realized he'd sounded regretful, and she felt a responding jolt of consternation—wondering if she'd just irrevocably damaged the building attachment between them, if they would now have to start again to get to this point.
Soon the lush greenery of the interior was falling away, and the landscape altering to scrubby, windswept trees indicative of the coast. As they closed in on the outskirts of Nassau, Abigail sat up straighter, aware that in the weeks she'd been alone at the house, she had missed the sounds—though perhaps not the smells—of civilization. She found a handkerchief in the folds of her skirts and put it up to her nose, trying to be discreet, as they rolled along.
"Want to get something to eat?" Billy inquired, with a wry glance when she coughed.
"No, I think I would prefer to walk. Along the beach?" Abigail said hopefully, thinking of the fresh sea air.
"The beach," he said, his lips parting while he hesitated in forming words. "Er...walk. On the beach."
"Yes, you know." Then she realized he possibly didn't grasp the concept of a promenade; it would more than likely seem pointless to men unaccustomed to leisure time, as much as sitting in a drawing room might.
"If—you like," Billy said, halting the wagon as they drew up to the farrier's where they had stopped on their previous visit. He tied up the horse to the hitching post while Abigail waited for him to help her disembark—not that she needed to, the cart wasn't such a distance from the ground, but she cherished it, the way he always came, reaching for her hand, and just now how he swept her a little to the side, out of the way of the muddiest ruts. She straightened, holding his forearms to steady herself, and also because she liked the feeling of their taut warmth under her palms.
They smiled at each other, neither sure what the other was seeing.
"Right," Billy said eventually, jerking his head in the approximate direction of the ocean, still some way through the town. "Shall we?"
Abigail nodded. She slid her arm through the crook of his elbow, because now, for the first time, it was appropriate to do so in public. They moved down the street together, and a happy pride was beginning to kindle in her heart, as she hugged the arm of the man now her husband.