Abigail realized she'd been polishing the same china cup for a considerable amount of time now, and finally, self-consciously, set it up on its ledge with the others, though there was no one to witness her embarrassment since Billy was still outside. Since returning from their day in town, they'd shared a polite early evening meal together and he'd gone out shortly after, leaving her to the few dishes (a task she was grateful to have), presumably to tend to the horse or garden or perhaps woodpile, though she hadn't heard the axe.

She rinsed the bit of linen in the wash-water and used it to wipe down the table, scrubbing at the smooth wood with more vigor than was probably warranted. Dusk was encroaching, and she couldn't imagine there would be anything keeping Billy out of the house for much longer, not that she wanted him out of the house...he belonged here, after all—and how much more now that he was her husband—and yet nervous anticipation had been building for the past several hours.

Part of the problem was that Abigail wasn't sure what, precisely, she was anticipating. Her knowledge, and thus imagination, of what was to occur in the marital bed was necessarily limited. She recalled that when she'd first envisioned Billy bringing her to New Providence's interior, she'd pictured a kindly female relative welcoming her to the house, and while now, the idea of other company seemed rather abhorrent—at least any awkwardness between them could go unwitnessed—would it not be, in this moment, preferable to have a sympathetic ear, another woman to offer words of suggestion, some information with which to arm herself?

Arm herself, she thought, almost disgusted, it wasn't as if she were going to do battle—but as much as she trusted Billy and was drawn to him, she had a vague feeling that the physical aspect of marriage was a great responsibility, and what if he were to find her (the word inadequate sprang to her mind, and she shied away from it, but it lingered).

Giving the table-top a final scrub, Abigail wrung out and hung up the linen to dry. There was nothing else to do. The room was immaculate. There wasn't even a need to prepare meals for the following day, since they'd stopped for bread and fruit and other foodstuffs before leaving town. Billy had even made some casual jest about her not needing to cook right away. At the time it had seemed ideal, but now she wished she had bread to knead, or a pot to stir; it seemed ridiculous to stand in the kitchen with no task at all. Alternatively, sitting at the pianoforte or with a book would have made him feel uncomfortable, she was sure, for what was he to do at such moments?

She supposed—no, she trusted—that their pattern of living, of relating to each other, would work itself out in time, but at the moment, on their first night, it all seemed terribly fraught and complicated.

Above all, what if he despised being here, with her? Away from his brothers, away from the sea?

She took a breath and reminded herself that if the look in his eyes, earlier, when they'd stopped on their way into Nassau, had been anything to go by, he wasn't at all averse to this new arrangement. To her. At least right now. And she shouldn't try to think so much farther ahead, not when their lives had already changed so quickly in the course of a few weeks.

She heard him at the door, then, and she straightened again, tugging at the worn straps of the apron she'd put on to protect the borrowed wedding dress. He came in, ducking as he always had to because of his height. She met his eyes for a moment and tried to smile. He'd obviously washed up outside, his face suffused with color from scrubbing. He came over to stand beside, almost behind her, while she struggled ineffectively to undo the tight knot.

"Let me," he said, putting one hand over both hers, stilling them. She let them fall, acquiescent, allowing him to work at the strings, very aware of how close he was.

"Are you tired?" he asked, eventually, letting the apron free and passing it in front of her into her hands.

"A little," she said, uncertain if that was the right answer. To say yes would not be strictly true, but to say no seemed encouraging. Almost...flirtatious.

Not that one didn't have a right to be flirtatious, around one's spouse, surely.

This was all so confusing. She folded the apron into a tidy square and moved a few steps away to rest it over the back of a chair. Then turned a little nervously to face him.

"It has been a long day," he said, in a sympathetic, bordering on apologetic way that she appreciated.

Thank the dear Lord, her new husband was no brute, whatever kind of life he had lived until she'd known him. She was grateful. They would be all right—they would be happy—she knew, if they could just make their way through these first few days, or possibly weeks, of married life. She sensed it, saw the promise in his eyes, felt the safety of her own trust in him close to her heart.

"Indeed," she murmured, and, then, worried that she'd sounded too whole-hearted, added, "But a good one."

"We got married," he said.

She smiled. "Yes."

"I can still sleep out here," he said, "if you want."

She shook her head, though not very vigorously. "You...you don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to." He came closer again, his eyes fixed on her. "But I want you to feel comfortable."

"I think," Abigail said, though her heart was starting to beat faster, "that as we are now man and wife, we should truly...live as such."

"In the same bed?" he clarified, after a few moments.

"Yes." She felt her face beginning to warm. "I believe...I believe that is how it's done."

"It's done lots of ways," he said.

"Are you very experienced, Billy?" She blurted the question before she had a chance to think too much about it, and then held her breath, waiting for the answer, not certain if he would be amused or irritated by such a direct inquiry.

If he was either, she couldn't tell. "Er—no," he said after a moment. "I wouldn't say that, exactly."

"What...what would you say?" She wasn't sure if she even wanted to continue this line of questioning, but her lack of knowledge was seeming to strike her as more intimidating with each moment that passed.

He made a sound that was something like an uncertain chuckle, and passed a hand over the back of his neck. "Well—I suppose if I had any idea what you wanted to hear..."

"I want us to be honest. I don't want you to say things to...to set my mind at ease, if it is not going to be easy..." She floundered, wishing her face would cool.

"So," he dragged out the syllable. "You don't want to talk?"

"It is getting late," she said desperately.

"So we should go to bed." His expression was completely ingenuous as far as she could tell, without implication of anything involving conjugal relations.

"I suppose we ought." She lifted her chin a little, determined not to seem ridiculous even while feeling so.

"All right then," he said, turning, then turning back to her, then putting his hands on the back of his head again as if he weren't quite sure what to do with them. "Go, ah, go ahead and I'll, yes, come in when you're ready." He strung the final few words together so quickly they almost didn't make sense.

Abigail nearly fled down the hall to the safety (however temporary) of the bedroom, soon to no longer be her sanctum. She closed the door and sat down on the bed, then jumped up again and looked at it. It had never seemed so tiny. Dear Lord, Billy was going to come in and she would still be quite unready. With clumsy fingers she undid the lacings on her dress and stripped it off, then stood, uncertainly, in her undershift, before rummaging for a night-gown from her trunk of Miranda's clothing.

Comfort had won out over propriety through the heat of the previous nights, and she had not been accustomed to wearing the garment which she now pulled on. Still faint with the scent of the lavender buds it had been packed in, the thing completely enclosed her from top to bottom and was as modest as anyone could wish. She hung up her discarded dress on the hook on the back of the door, then pressed her ear to it to know if he were coming down the hallway or not. There was no sound of his approaching step. Abigail darted barefoot to the bed and pulled up the blanket over herself. Surely they would not both fit in this bed! Her heart pounded. She held her breath to hear better. Would he knock? Would he just open the door? She was far from certain which would be more appropriate. Why, with all the books she had read and schooling received on various forms of deportment and...tea settings of all things, had no one ever managed to drop in a word or two regarding this most important moment.

Billy did knock. Just twice, and then he opened the door himself a space, which seemed a good compromise between the options she'd worried about. She was glad she was saved either from answering with words or by actually having to get up and open the door for him. She burrowed a little further down in the bed and tried to make her slight frame even smaller. There had seemed no time to light a candle, but perhaps she should have. The room wasn't dark—the obliging moon was ensuring that.

Billy stood in the doorway for a few moments, and she had an instant's longing to know if he was as uncomfortable as she was, but then with apparent nonchalance he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside before coming to the bedside.

Still gripping the blanket, she blinked up at him, unable to quite read his expression in the shadows.

"You sure you want me in here?" he said, not ungently.

"It is where you belong now," Abigail answered, hoping she sounded as composed as she intended.

He turned back half the blanket and slid in beside her, his warmth an immediate force. The bed creaked as he settled on his side, towards her. She wasn't sure how to make herself any smaller, but she tried, inching as close to the edge as possible.

"You're going to fall out," he said, his voice seeming even deeper, as if it had vibrated out of his chest into the bed itself and transmitted through to her body.

"I am fine," she heard herself squeak, ridiculously high-pitched in comparison.

"Abigail." He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder, turning it into a slow caress of her upper arm. "Can you relax? You're making me nervous."

She was sure that couldn't be true, but even so, it made her let out a tiny laugh.

"Hey." He shifted closer, and she felt herself tense again. "Just kiss me, all right? We've done that before, haven't we?"

Only if the quick, respectful touching of their mouths together before others in the sanctity of the church counted. But she put out a timid hand to find his face, ran fingers cautiously over his lips, worked up the courage to bring her mouth there.

He made a pleased sound, which emboldened her to continue, not that she really had any specific idea what to do, but it didn't seem to matter. They kissed, until her stomach felt warm and alive and she felt comfortable enough to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him closer still.

And then there was no end of blankets and clothing and material in the way of getting closer, and his hands were everywhere, but she was nearly as curious, now, to find out what this all led to.

He muttered something against her neck that sounded like "we can stop if you want—" but he did not sound convinced.

Too self-conscious to answer in words, she tried to keep up with what his hands were doing, letting hers run over his chest, his back, his biceps. This husband of hers was made of muscle. To discover, as she explored, that her touch could make him shift and shudder just as his was affecting her, was irresistible in its own right.

He paused, on elbows over her now, searching her eyes in the light of the moon, asking an infinitely-old question without words. She stared, mesmerized, barely able to catch her breath, much less speak; uncertain too, of exactly what was about to happen, and yet welcoming it.

Oh. As their bodies joined, she held her breath, fighting the confusing discomfort as it washed over her like a wave a little too high, and then it was bearable—perhaps even possibly enjoyable, but it was difficult to be certain—

And at some point he was whispering words of concern in her ear, but she was too overwhelmed to do more than reply with a few weak kisses against his jaw, and slide her arms around his neck when he moved to her side.

She knew he wanted her to say something, to confirm that all was well, but she couldn't, not just yet.

After, when his hand had stilled its warm circles against her lower back, Abigail carefully untangled their legs and slipped out of the bed—needing a moment to find herself again, whole and separate—and though he stirred, sitting up, saying her name in uncertain apprehension, she put out her hand to his chest. He stayed obedient to the gesture, and she slipped away.

The moonlight was enough to see by as she came to the main room, where the kitchen coals still burned. She eased into a chair, rearranging her crumpled nightdress which had, somehow, stayed on throughout their bed-tumbling.

She was warm, every body part feeling simultaneously alive and suffused with languor. For herself, she wasn't yet certain that what they had done was all there was to it, though it was relief to be enlightened at least thus far. And further relief that, if the expression on his face at that moment—(that moment!)—was to be trusted, he certainly had not found her inadequate.

She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, suspended in a state somewhere between distraction and contentment.

Eventually, she registered the sound of the bedroom door opening and knew Billy was coming to find where she'd gotten to. He came out half-wrapped in the blanket, stopping beside her, and put a light hand on her shoulder. Abigail took his hand, curling her fingers around his. He stared down at her, scanning her face. "Are you—all right?"

She nodded, still not quite trusting her ability to speak and be convincing. He dropped into a crouch so they were more level, and put his other hand to her cheek. "Did I hurt you?" he persisted, low, and the anxiety in his voice warmed her stomach.

"I'm well," she reassured, slightly embarrassed. "I am...quite well."

He exhaled, and his shoulders dropped a touch. "Come back to bed?"

"Soon," she murmured, giving him the smallest smile.

He rose, and with a parting squeeze of her hand, left her to her thoughts.

Later, having almost fallen asleep in the chair to the soft crackles of the dying embers, she uncurled herself and returned to the bedroom. Her husband wasn't sleeping; he shifted and made space for her, holding the blanket up for her to slip in beside him. She curled willingly against his chest, feeling his arms close around her.

"Billy," she murmured, even later still.

"Mm." He was alert.

"Is this enough? Am I—enough?"

He made a sound of...she wasn't sure. A laugh, a scoff perhaps. And then his silence sobered. "Listen," he said, meaningful, and she held her breath for a moment, again. "If one of us isn't enough, it's not you."

She considered that, uncertain if the statement required refuting, then decided she must take it as affirmation of his satisfaction, rather than self-directed criticism. But the declaration made her shy again, so she said no more and pressed herself still closer. And that, he perceived (rightfully) as an invitation to explore, and so passed the last moonlight hours until the new day, and with it, the beginning of their future.