A/N: Groveling apologies for the delay. Real life intruded, big time. I hope this is a fitting gift for you all. This shatters my previous record for word length in a chapter, too.
Reminder – M for a reason. Uh, yeah.
In terms of historical notes, there isn't much here. Mostly about clothes. The Paisley shawl was a real thing, hugely popular. I couldn't resist throwing that in, as a nod to Phyllis Logan.
Oh, and I went on about certain aspects and the difficulties thereof because 19th century and zero sex education, except for what your parents taught you. If you were lucky. And if they knew anything. Aaaaanyway...
The stuff about Sunday I mostly gleaned from the Little House books (Thanks Laura Ingalls Wilder!) when they were all super strict about the Lord's Day. No cooking, baking, or unnecessary chores. Sitting quietly, reading the Bible, basically that was it.
Yeah, I don't think my ancestors went by the rules all the time, either. Seriously, don't newlyweds deserve a pass?
July 1852, San Francisco
The press of his soft lips on hers, his big hands warm on her waist, is absolute bliss. She wants more, more, her body alive under his touch. He kisses her again. The motion causes a flood of warmth in between her legs and a sharp dart of something she cannot describe in her heart.
More.
The feeling makes her moan aloud. Gasping a little at the sound, she pulls back, her face on fire.
Wanton.
First outright flirting with him, then…that.
What would Mam think?
What does Charlie think!?
She looks up at him, worried, but he smiles down at her, amusement visible in his eyes despite the dim light from the window.
It does not reassure her.
"I should go in, good night," she says in a shaky voice, slipping out of his arms. The smile slides off his face.
He grips her hand, not willing to let her go. "Wait, Elsie." He thinks he knows why she is in a sudden rush. "You've done nothing wrong." She does not meet his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to set her at ease. "I'm not offended, love."
His fiancée bites her lower lip, a sign of her anxiety. "If you're sure…"
"I have never been so sure," he says, squeezing her hand. He has no idea the rumble of his voice causes a repeat of the very feelings that began her embarrassment. "Just one more kiss before we say good night?"
For an answer, she returns to his arms. She slides her hands up to his shoulders as he bends to her upturned face.
"Just one more." Her eyes twinkle and he knows she knows neither of them will be satisfied with only one.
Nor are they.
He kisses her slowly, gently, sending her into a dizzying whirl of more.
Whatever more is.
He feels so good against her she cannot help the sighs and hums and yes, the moans that murmur from her lips. From the sounds he makes, he feels the same way as she. She wraps her arms around his broad torso, bringing him closer.
It is then she feels a brush of – what? Well, not his trousers, though the sensation comes from that direction. She hardly has time to wonder at it when her fiancé quite suddenly tears himself from her and turns away, clutching the porch railing.
Her hand finds the wooden trim of the door. Her heart pounds and she swallows, all of her earlier apprehension coming back with a vengeance.
Her corset is very tight around her, and she takes a gasping breath of air.
"Charlie? Did I-"
"I think," he says, his own breath sounding short, "That is quite enough." He turns only just enough for her to see his face. "Good night, Elsie. I love you."
The door to the boardinghouse opens and Mam comes out on the porch. Elsie cannot make any sense of what has happened, confusion, fear, guilt all tumbling together.
Surely she has done something wrong. Why else would he pull away from her?
"Good night," she whispers, before fleeing inside.
He lets out the breath he holds when the door closes. It is plain he has frightened her. Which is the last thing he wanted to do. But his body betrayed him. He can only hope she is not too disgusted with him and his animal instinct-
Charles? Is something wrong?
Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. At least he has calmed down enough to face his future mother-in-law.
No, he says quietly. At least, I hope not. He squeezes the brim of his hat.
Abigail Clarkson stands with her hands folded at her waist. Her face gives nothing away, only gentle concern.
If something is wrong, he tries again, it is my fault, not Elsie's. She has never crossed the line, always behaved well, like a well brought up woman should.
Not like me. I am no gentleman.
The memory of days long past in New Orleans haunt him.
What happened? Abigail asks. Her tone and lilt are so similar to her daughter's, it makes it more difficult for him to collect his thoughts.
He is fairly certain Elsie does not know all the details of the – aspects of marriage. Yet. Of course, he cannot be completely sure. They have never talked about it.
Such things are not discussed.
But how is he to explain what happened to Elsie's mother? For several moments, he almost wishes for the day when Mrs. Patmore confronted him about his intentions toward Beryl. That conversation carried less embarrassment than the one before him.
This one requires a great deal of sensitivity.
Of which he is not sure he possesses any.
Mrs. Clarkson, he begins hesitantly, your daughter is…a beautiful woman. A very beautiful woman. In eight days, God willing, we will be married.
He presses his lips together, willing himself not to squirm.
There are times (breathe, Charlie) when we are together that I do not think she knows the…effect she has on me. She has never done anything improper, he hastens to say. It is not her fault.
He stops, not knowing what else to say, praying Abigail understands what he cannot say. She is a mother, he thinks, and has been married twice herself. She knows about all of this.
It is strange to him that Elsie's mother has a different surname than her unmarried daughters.
To his immense relief, Abigail nods and clears her throat. It is clear she is flustered, but keeps her composure.
I understand. I will talk to her, she says. Tonight. She needs to know these things before she is your wife, and I would rather tell her.
The implication being, of course, rather than Elsie finding out on her wedding night.
Thank you. He puts his hat on, feeling a weight off his shoulders. Good night to you.
And to you, she replies. And Charles, she continues as he reaches the street. He stops.
I know you love her. I expect you to remember that. Be gentle with my girl, she says.
He blushes, clears his throat. Yes, ma'am.
She cannot look at Mam. Instead, she traces the pattern of the patchwork quilt, feeling the stitches beneath her finger.
Every piece fits together like they should. Like…
Her face flames anew.
So. She scratches the side of her face, biting her lip. So…when he…when just now…
This is impossible.
Mam rocks back and forth in the chair. She is so calm, not showing any discomfort. Becky snores on the other side of the bed by the wall.
On the porch…it…I…did…it didn't hurt him?
Her mother had already told her it did not. But she cannot understand if that were so, why did he move so quickly away from her?
No, Mam says patiently. Quite the opposite, really.
It…it felt nice?
Mam laughs, putting a hand to her mouth to keep from waking Becky. She gets up and sits next to Elsie, reaching out to pull her daughter's braid over her shoulder, her eyes full of love.
Very nice. Lass, he was afraid of what you would think, that you would think him improper.
But you do not? Elsie asks. Mam shakes her head.
No. Perhaps he should have kept more distance from you, but considering how soon your wedding is, that is unlikely. She holds Elsie's hands in hers.
We live in a world ruled by men, she says softly. But you will have more influence with your husband than you might think. Charles adores you, she looks in Elsie's eyes, her expression serious. He loves you, yes, but he also respects you. He will not force himself on you. Not all women are so fortunate.
I know, Elsie whispers.
It is not his attentions that worry her, but her own feelings. Mam listens as she speaks haltingly, trying to explain what she cannot understand herself.
When he kisses me, she says, I don't want him to stop. I can hardly stop myself.
Her mother assures her that what she feels for Charles is natural. And once you are married, she reminds her, there is no reason why you should stop.
They talk late into the night, occasionally breaking into giggles, sharing moments about the men in their lives, how inscrutable they seem one moment, then how open they are in others.
It is very different, Elsie thinks as she drifts off to sleep, to think of Mam as a woman, and not just as her mother.
She is glad of it.
The ride north of San Francisco is a long one, but not without its joy. Charles rides separately on his horse, next to Elsie and her family in their wagon. For a while he lets Becky ride with him. The girl has a very sweet nature, and is curious about everything she sees. Her frustration and his is that she cannot express herself well in words.
Her sudden tempers cause him to be more patient than he ever thought he could be. He is rewarded one evening when Becky refuses to go to bed before bidding him good night. She kisses him on the cheek and gives him an unexpected hug.
It melts Elsie's heart to see the bond between her little sister and Charles. When they arrive in Petaluma, Becky immediately charms Mrs. Patmore, Beryl, and even the infamous Aunt Ida.
Charles makes most of the introductions between the families. He cannot help the smile that breaks across his face when Elsie and Beryl face each other for the first time.
I'm very glad to meet you Miss Patmore, Elsie says as they shake hands. I've heard so much about you.
Hopefully all good things, the Yorkshire-bred woman says. I can't always trust Mr. Carson to get his stories straight.
The two women exchange an amused glance, remembering the debacle of the house. Charles lets out an exaggerated groan.
You're already plotting against me, aren't you?
Yes, the two say simultaneously, causing everyone else including Patrick, to break into laughter.
Good luck Mr. Carson, Elsie's stepfather pats him on the shoulder. Between those two, you are going to need it.
Elsie finds Beryl Patmore a welcome breath of fresh air. She is much as her earlier letter described, though her sharp tongue hides a warm heart.
Being the youngest, I always had to be a bit noisy to be heard, she tells Elsie that evening. You have an older brother and sister, you understand. She lifts Becky onto her lap and slips her another cookie. It's nice to have someone younger to spoil, she says.
With two days to go before the wedding, nearly all the preparations are complete. The morning after they arrive, Charles catches Patrick and Abigail on the veranda of the boardinghouse, their faces worried.
What is it? He asks. Mr. Clarkson turns in his chair.
Richard should have been here already, he says. He was riding after us from San Francisco, but a man alone on his horse should have made faster time than us.
His tone is light, but there is worry in his blue eyes. Abigail squeezes his hand.
Let's not worry unless we have to, she says quietly. Charles adjusts his tie.
Shall I ask after him? He asks. Perhaps John has heard something, he hears a lot of news before anyone.
Yes, please, Patrick says, looking grateful.
Charles never has an opportunity to see John. That afternoon on the same day, Richard arrives at the boardinghouse.
I am sorry I'm late, he apologizes when they gather together at tea. My horse threw a shoe late yesterday, and I had to wait at the blacksmith's in Sonoma for a new one.
You aren't late, Elsie says. We haven't gotten married yet. We are simply glad you're safe.
Privately, she wonders what really happened. It is not that she thinks he is lying, but he seems distracted, far from his usual directness. More than once someone has to draw his attention to the conversation.
If he was in Sonoma, she wonders, why didn't he simply borrow another horse and go back for the other after the wedding?
She asks Richard this directly as they sit in the parlor, under cover of the others' laughter. Becky has pulled a long string around Charles's big hands, and his fingers are hopelessly tangled.
Her stepbrother sighs, running a hand through his hair. Any other woman would be too anxious about her own wedding day to bother asking, he says. I should have known you would notice. I should have thought of borrowing another horse – it would have given me a reason to go back to Sonoma before returning home. As it was, I was only trying to think of a reason to prolong my stay.
Elsie raises her eyebrows. Oh? And what is there that you found so fascinating? I did not know the making of horseshoes intrigued you so, she teases him.
He leans back against his chair, his hands folded across his waist as he stares at the ceiling. It is true, he finally says. Regina threw a shoe a couple of miles south of town. It took me a while to find the blacksmith. And when I did, he was already helping someone else. A woman.
Something clicks in Elsie's memory. Mindful of the others in the room, including Patrick who has just entered, she keeps her voice low.
Is it my turn now, she asks Richard, to tell you that you have that look on your face? Because you do.
He turns his head sharply towards her. Please don't tease me, he whispers. It's not like that. It's not like Malcolm, or you with Charles.
He puts a hand on his face for a brief moment. She is recently widowed, he murmurs. Still in full mourning, all black clothes. And it was clear to me right away that she deeply loved her husband. I would not expect her to look at anyone else right now, much less a strange man she doesn't know.
But…even as sad as she was, she was beautiful. I…could not take my eyes from her.
What is her name? She lives in Sonoma, I expect, Elsie says. She would not dream of giving Richard a hard time, not when he looks so lost.
Or found.
I got from her conversation with the blacksmith that she is a Mrs. Crawley, Richard says. And yes, she lives in Sonoma. The reason I stayed was because I was trying to find out more about her. The day got away from me, so I spent the night there and rode over today. Her late husband was a doctor. As is her father, and her brother. She has a child, a young son.
An ironic smile crosses his face. It seems inevitable that I would be drawn to a woman with knowledge in the medical profession, he says. I heard from the owner of the tavern where I stayed that Isobel Crawley also serves as the local midwife. Well respected in the community, if somewhat opinionated. That's what Mr. Reynolds said, anyway.
She sounds like a strong woman, Elsie says, unable to stop herself from smiling. When I get a chance to go to Sonoma, I'll try to introduce myself. If you want me to.
Would you? I would like to know what you think of her, he says. He sits up in the chair, his eyes sparkling. You could be a spy for me.
Call me whatever you like. But now I'm curious about her myself, she laughs.
"What's so funny?" Charles comes over to their corner, finally free of Becky's string. Elsie takes his outstretched hand.
"Life. Just life."
Charles looks from her to Richard, but the doctor only smiles and gets up, leaving his chair empty. He sits down next to Elsie.
"What were the two of you talking about?" He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand.
"I'll tell you later, but not now," she whispers, a gleam in her eye. "Besides, I don't know if anything will come of it. But I hope so, for Richard's sake."
"How very intriguing," he murmurs. "Very well, keep your secret. I'll know it soon enough."
"You'll know more than that," she replies, before she realizes what she's said. She claps her other hand to her mouth, a rush of pink blooming on her cheeks. "Oh dear, I don't know where that came from!"
He laughs, loving this side of her. He kisses her hand and enjoys the hitch in her breath when he does so.
"You must think me terribly improper," she breathes from under her eyelashes.
"Never," he says, his voice firm. Leaning forward, he brushes the back of her hand with his lips again. "I rather enjoy it. You can be as coy as you like with me."
It is times like these when he is glad of the others' presence.
Only two more days.
The morning of her wedding, she is awakened by Mam's voice, followed by Becky flying onto her bed.
Careful! Beryl's voice booms from the doorway. Don't hurt your sister! Mr. Carson would skin me alive if the bride arrived in pieces!
Laughing, Elsie sits up, giving Becky a big hug and kiss. There is little chance of that, she says over Becky's shoulder. I am not made of glass!
Of course not, you are a Hughes woman. You're made of stronger stuff than that, mo nighean, Mam says, coming over to the bed. Did you sleep well?
Yes. She pulls the end of her braid out of Becky's hands and kisses her sister again on the cheek. She cannot ignore the softness in Mam's eyes, or the tears that shimmer in them.
Come with me, Miss Becky, Beryl calls. The youngest Hughes climbs off the bed and goes with her.
Don't cry Mam. Please. Elsie hears the wobble in her own voice. This is a happy day.
Aye, it is. Abigail takes a deep breath, steadying herself. She traces Elsie's cheek. Your Da would be so very proud of you, of the woman you are, she whispers.
Despite her happiness and her resolve not to cry, Elsie gives in to tears. For Da, who she somehow knows is watching. For David, who she is sure is watching with her father. For Margaret, who is far away but who is so close in her thoughts, and in her heart.
For Malcolm, who if not for the imminent arrival of his second child, would be here.
She embraces Mam. For several quiet moments, they share grief, as well as the bittersweet taste of joy.
Well. Mam finally says, wiping tears from her face while Elsie does the same. Shall I bring you some tea, and something to eat? It would not do for you to be hungry. Not today.
Yes, please. Elsie cannot help but laugh at the way she and Mam both pull themselves together at the same time. And bring some for yourself, if you haven't had some already.
She, Mam, Becky and Beryl enjoy a lively breakfast made by Mrs. Patmore. After, Mam goes to dress Becky before coming back to help her elder daughter.
Is Patrick with Becky? Elsie asks while Mam tightens the laces on her corset.
Her belly flutters with the thought that Charlie will loosen them later.
Yes, and Richard also, Mam answers her. They're downstairs in the parlor. Together, they pull Elsie's dress up – pale grey, with the bell-shaped skirt, the short sleeves and rounded neckline.
It is a dress meant to be worn again, for later occasions.
Setting a comb into her hair, Elsie lets out a breath. It is not a complicated design, but she likes the way her hair is pulled up, off of her neck.
This is for you. Mam lifts a shawl out of a small trunk. Elsie's mouth drops open in shock.
Where did you get that?
Her mother smiles, holding up the fabric, pulling it around her shoulders.
Where do you think? Scotland! It comes from Paisley, of course. Your Da bought this when you were still a child. I've carried this for a long time, Mam sighs. Do you remember the one Margaret wore on her wedding day?
Yes, Elsie says, the vision of her sister as clear as though she stood before her. But this one looks so different! She weaves it through her fingers.
Of course it is, Mam says. This one suits you, not your sister.
It does. Its background is a dark purple with reddish tones, which contrasts with her dress quite nicely. The intricate repeated pattern throughout, resembling the curve of an ocean wave, is a dark blue, underscored by thin lines of bright gold.
The Paisley shawls are well known, and much sought after by women in two hemispheres. That Mam carried one with her, across an ocean then a continent, waiting for this day overwhelms her.
Beryl comes in as she tries to compose herself. Oh no, crying again? The flame-haired woman asks, though her voice is kind. Becky and the men downstairs would like to see you if you're ready. They have a surprise for you. You look beautiful, she adds when Elsie turns, clutching the handkerchief Mam hands her.
Thank you. What is the surprise? I'm not sure I can handle another, she jokes as the three leave the room.
I can't say. Beryl's face is impassive, her lips pinched together. Mam holds Elsie's elbow as they descend the stairs to the parlor.
When she looks up, she is very glad of the support.
Malcolm!?
Her brother's boots are dirty and his coat carries a layer of dried mud from the road. But she doesn't care about any of that as she leaps forward. He catches her and spins her in a circle, like he used to when she was younger.
I never…how…what about the baby!? And Josefina? She feels as though her heart will split in two from joy. That he would ride eighty miles just to be at her wedding!
From Mam's expression, she is equally astonished. Malcolm sets Elsie down and hugs his mother. His broad smile mirrors his sister's.
You have a grandson, he says to Mam, who covers her mouth with her hands. And you have a nephew, he grins at Elsie. Born a week ago. He and his mother are well. They and Sofia send their love.
The lad's name is David James, but we call him Jamie, he says. Josefina's mother calls him Jaime.
Jamie, like your Da, Patrick says softly. He'd be proud.
And your brother. Richard holds Becky's hand. It is quite a day! Now, I don't mean to hurry everyone along, but-
The groom is waiting, Beryl says. More importantly, the parson. He might leave if we don't get there soon. She tries to look stern, but her eyes are soft.
Elsie walks outside, between Mam and Malcolm. Patrick helps her and the other women into the wagon, and they set off.
They are married in the front room of Reverend Davidson's house. A church building would have been preferred, but the congregation in Petaluma has not yet built one.
Charles cannot take his eyes from his bride. When they stand facing each other, their hands joined, he feels as though his life is beginning anew. She looks at him as he repeats the vows. She almost looks too serious, but he knows she is listening intently, cherishing every word.
As is he.
It is a relief when John hands him the small gold ring. He nearly kept it in his pocket earlier in the morning, but his friend had insisted on doing his part.
Across an ocean, across a continent, he has carried it. Once he thought of retrieving it from its small box. But something kept him from lifting it out to sit in his hand in New Orleans.
On a foggy morning in San Francisco months ago, he had opened the box and found his mother's wedding ring.
Now on a bright morning, with the sun sparkling through the window onto the floor, he slips it onto Elsie's finger.
It fits perfectly.
Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee…thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes…
They all gather back at Aunt Ida's boardinghouse for a meal prepared by the Patmores. For once, Charles has to force himself to eat.
And not too quickly.
With her family, it is usual for Elsie to sit for hours, to catch up with all the news.
She has to remind herself to not show her impatience.
Fortunately, John and Malcolm offer to drive them to the house when it is not yet mid-afternoon.
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves...
Their home sits on a hill, gleaming white in the sun. Its walls are made of adobe. It is two stories, with wide porches running the length on the upper and lower floors.
The newlyweds wait on the lower porch while her brother and John carry the last of their belongings inside. The two men emerge, and smiling, make their farewells.
The wagon shrinks in the distance. They watch it until even the dust settles back onto the ground.
"Well," Charles says softly, "Do you want to see the inside?"
"Very much," Elsie replies. She is beyond grateful for his poise. That he does not seem to want to rush her.
Though she is certain he wants to.
She would not mind if he did, despite her nerves.
He rubs his fingers together, hoping she does not feel the sweat on his hands. He is sure she can hear his heart beating.
She is a little surprised, but glad, when he picks her up and carries her inside.
The floors are wide planks and the walls are whitewashed. There are flowers everywhere, little touches made by Mam and Beryl. He tells her that they came two days before, when she was finishing her dress. She gasps aloud at the cast iron stove in the kitchen.
"I thought I was finished with surprises today," she holds a hand to her chest, her eyes wide. "I was wrong." Her eyes shining, she smiles at him. "You didn't need to get me that!"
"I thought you would like it," he says, hoping he has not overstepped the mark. "Instead of having an open fire."
"I love it," she moves closer and puts a hand on his arm. "I never thought I would have one."
He places his hand over hers. "Now you do. If there is ever anything I can give you, let me give it."
She closes her eyes at the feel of his hand cupping her face.
His breath is warm, as are his arms around her.
The room itself is very warm, although with them pressed together, she thinks it may just be him.
"There's one more room to see," he murmurs against her forehead.
Wondering at the size of the wooden headboard, she runs a hand along the bedspread while he leans in the doorway of their bedroom.
Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death…
They kiss slowly, only lightly holding each other's arms. He is desperate to not push her too fast. To frighten her.
She slides her hands from his elbows up to his shoulders, then reaches up to touch his face. Letting out a gasp, he breaks away, looking down at her. There is a rosy flush to her cheeks. She lowers her gaze from his, biting her already plump lip.
The sight makes him moan aloud.
He kisses her again, harder, deeper, with an urgency she can feel.
More.
Once she had stood on the deck of a ship, above the powerful waves. It had frightened her. The feeling of being carried away. What she feels now is nothing, nothing to that.
But she doesn't want to stop, either.
Charles's hands slip down from her waist to span her hips. It is not the first time she detests the many layers between them – the long pantalettes, the stiff crinoline of her skirt.
It is the first time that she knows she can actually do something about it.
Breaking from him, she holds onto him, her hands on his back. His color is high, and he, like her, seems to be having trouble getting his breath back. She sits on the bed, gesturing at her feet.
"Could you help me? With my shoes?"
"Of course." He removes his coat and sets it aside on a chair. Then he uses the bootjack to take off his boots, before kneeling to help untie her cumbersome shoes.
She rests her hands on his shoulders, but quickly moves them up.
She has wanted to touch his hair since the first morning he visited her.
"Elsie," he smiles up at her, and her heart gives a jolt at his endearing smile, the gleam in his eyes. "You are very distracting when you do that."
"Oh," she says, letting go of the softness in her fingers. "I'll stop if you want me to."
"Don't stop, I just wasn't expecting it." He bends his head again to untie her shoes. She wraps a finger around one long curl and lets it go, brushing her thumb along his hairline.
He makes quick work of her shoes. One, then the other is set aside. Then her socks. She gasps when he touches her bare foot. Taking her hands, he helps her stand.
The floor feels blessedly cool.
She is warm, so soft against him. He can feel each ragged breath she takes, all the more when he moves aside an escaped tendril of hair and finally presses his lips against the tender skin beneath her ear that has tortured him for weeks.
"Ohhhh…" The sound comes out a half sigh, half moan. His own body reacts at once, and he jerks forward, his hands pulling her even closer, sliding from her hips to her back, then down to caress the curve of her bum.
Her sighs and moans continue as he ravishes her neck with his mouth. The little flick of his tongue causes her to squeal, a high-pitched cry in his ear. She pushes him back a little. Her hand on his chest, her own chest heaving. He steps back immediately, worried he has gone too far.
"I'm sorry-"
"Charlie," she huffs out a breath, the corner of her lip turned up, "I…I'm fine…I just can't breathe."
"Oh." Thank God. "Let me help you," he unwraps the beautiful shawl from around her shoulders. He would like to know where it comes from.
Someday.
Not now.
"I'm not sure you're helping there," she says as he drapes her shawl over his coat on the chair. Her tone is dry, but one of her eyebrows is raised in a fetching manner, and her suggestive grin nearly makes him come undone on the spot. He swallows.
"You are teasing me."
"Yes." She laughs shortly, but presses a hand to her belly with another sigh. "I really cannot draw a decent breath…"
She turns around.
His breath in her hair, his hands with hers, the soft fabric of her dress coming down, her petticoats with it. She turns a little, only to rest her hand on the bed for balance as the pantalettes come off. It is as though the glow inside is reflected on the surface of her skin.
It is not embarrassment, not really, that causes her to blush. But she has never felt so much of the open air on her skin, except when she bathes. And for as long as she can remember, she has done so alone.
It is broad daylight, the late afternoon sun golden through the white curtain at the window, and her husband stares at her.
"You are so beautiful," he whispers in awe. She sees it in his eyes and hears it in his voice. To cover her shaking hands, she reaches up and takes the comb out, shaking her head slightly to let her hair down.
The long breath of air he lets out makes her look him in the face again. His mouth is open, and his eyes are dark.
More, they scream silently at her.
She comes forward and undoes the buttons at the top of his shirt. He stands still, letting her work. His collar and shirt come off. She takes another hesitating step forward, her hand hovering in front of his bare chest.
She can feel the heat of him.
"Touch me," he whispers, and she does, rubbing the curly black hair, feeling his heartbeat. He leans forward and kisses her again, open-mouthed, his hands on the back of her bare thighs.
Her fingertips dance across his chest. There are so many sensations flooding through her she can barely think coherently – his nipples, hard beneath her fingers; his tongue and hers, searching, pressing; his hands squeezing her bum, how good it feels for him to touch her like this, everywhere; the hard, insistent jab of him through his trousers, knowing that it means he wants her as a man desires a woman, and the absolute thrill, the jolt in her belly, that she does this to him.
And that she wants him, too.
"Do you trust me?" he suddenly asks, breathing into her mouth. His hands now on her shoulders.
"Yes," she says, wondering how her voice sounds so deep. "I trust you."
He turns her around in his arms and begins undoing the work of the morning, the laces of her corset. With every one undone, he presses another kiss to the nape of her neck, her back, and down. By the time the garment falls forward into her hands, she feels on the edge of tears.
His touch, she thinks, will drive me mad.
If that is his intention, I am well on my way to the madhouse.
"Get into bed," he says, leaving a hard kiss on her shoulder. She clambers in, turning over onto her left side, facing him.
The only garment covering her is her shift.
He slides his suspenders off, then unbuttons the top of his trousers. When he removes them, she bites her lip to keep in a gasp.
He sees the look, the hint of fear in her face. Climbing into bed, he pulls the quilt over himself and reaches out to trace her face.
"Come here," he whispers, scooting her closer. Kissing her, he relaxes a little when she wraps her arms around him. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Mmmm, I know," she murmurs. Her heart hammers. She had been fine before, willing and curious to see him, to enjoy being his wife in every way.
But he is so…big.
She does not want to be afraid, or to make him think she is, but she knows he can feel the tension between them. She runs her fingers through his hair, glad at least that with them lying together she can reach more of him. He sighs, a smile on his face.
"That feels good, thank you," he whispers. So she keeps at it, massaging his head. When she pulls his head forward to rub the back of his neck, he wraps his arms around her and slides down slightly.
Before pressing his mouth below her chin.
"Tha gaol agam ort," she cries out through half-lidded eyes. He does not stop kissing her, his hot mouth pressing, sucking on her neck, her collarbone. His hands move beneath her shift, one on her hip, pulling it around his, and the other beneath her thigh.
She calls out in a language he doesn't know, and the sound inflames his desire even more. Moaning aloud, he finds the top of her breasts and sucks hard, the thin fabric wet. Keeping one hand beneath her thigh, he moves the other to her breast, to draw her nipple into his waiting mouth.
What is he doing to her, his hands everywhere, his touch driving her mad and then he takes her breast between his lips and she makes a sound that is nowhere close to modest.
Nor does she care right now.
There is wetness between her legs, and when Charlie pulls on her shift, she removes it in haste and tosses it – somewhere.
She'll find it later.
He gathers Elsie into his arms, her arms around his, and they kiss and kiss and kiss until he pushes slightly on her right shoulder and she lays back, her head on her pillow. Then he leans over her and resumes where he left off. Lavishing one breast, then the other one. As he does so, he lays one hand flat on her belly.
"May I…may I…" he wants to simply touch her, to please her and to pleasure her, but he feels he has to ask. "…may I touch you?"
One hand slides up her thigh, and she feels the weight of him. On the surface of it the question makes no sense, but she is in no doubt as to what he means. Mam never told her about him touching her there, not with his hands anyway, but the last thing she wants right now is to think of her mother.
She nods, pressing his head into her belly. "Yes." He sighs and moves up to give her a short, sweet kiss on her lips.
The feel of the hair on his chest against her bare breasts is the most wonderful feeling-
His fingers, oh his fingers in her folds, where no one has ever touched her, not even herself. Her body moves of its own accord, her hips thrusting forward. She has never moved like this before. But it feels so good, so right.
As if she was always meant to be here with this man, her husband, her Charlie.
"More," she moans, her breath coming faster. "More, a ghraidh-"
Her heat, her wetness, the scent of her. Forget the vineyards outside, he is drunk on Elsie. His wife. His woman who writhes beneath him as he touches, searches, feels the slickness of her, her wetness on his fingers, oh God, she is incredible, moving her hips up in time with his hand, he presses a little harder and she moans, a long desperate sound of want, of need, of more-
His touch is harder, more insistent, and it is what she needs, yes, more of it, yes, he slips one finger inside her and despite the strangeness of it, it feels so good, it is what she wants and yet she needs more, something more, and he curves his finger and his thumb brushes something near the top of her folds, hidden from sight and and and and
She keens, arching her back, shattering beneath him. It is a sight to behold and he knows he will remember it for the rest of his days, her hair wild, her mouth open, her lips swollen as she bucks against his hand, increasing the friction in between them.
He waits to remove his finger until she lays huddled under the blanket, her breath coming out in puffs against his shoulder. She turns her face away from him into the pillow.
"Are you all right?" He pulls a few damp strands of hair off her forehead.
She is. But she has never felt so uncontrolled and as good as it felt, she feels rather ashamed of herself. It is humiliating that Charlie married her thinking she was a well-brought up girl, when just now she's behaved more like some harlot.
"Elsie?"
He sounds worried. It makes her feel worse.
"I…" she swallows, trying to collect her thoughts. "I'm sorry," she whispers, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Whatever for?" He brushes them gently from her face, his thick eyebrows furrowed.
"For…for what I said," she says. It isn't really what she means. For flirting with you. For the sounds I made. For the way I moved. "I should not have behaved so."
The thought that she is ashamed of herself hurts his heart.
"Love," he says in a tone that makes her look at him, "you have nothing to be sorry for. I want you to be happy, and I know you want me to feel the same."
She watches his face closely for any sign that he is simply trying to appease her. There is none.
Then she feels a stab of guilt for another reason. "I-I didn't even think about you," she chokes, her tears returning. Isn't it the first duty of a wife, that her husband gets his pleasure? Mine does not – should not – count.
Mam did not tell her that, but she has heard the lesson from a hundred places. From the stern matrons that somehow always know the morals of everyone in town, the preachers who rail against the wantonness of women.
Not even married a day, and I am a failure.
Charles is incredulous. "Of course you thought of me! Do you not think I am happy?" He gently cradles her face in his hands. "Elsie May, you have made me the happiest man in the world. And there is nowhere I'd rather be than here with you."
He hugs her close, rubbing her back, and the movement calms her.
As well as reminding her of other parts of him. She raises her head from his chest. "May I…touch you, Charlie?"
Leaning on his elbow, he smiles. "Yes."
At first her face is serious when she lays her hands on his chest. He closes his eyes as she grazes her fingers over his heart, over the dark nipples.
She is very glad he is not ticklish when she slides a hand over his belly. He leans towards her, and the muscles of his abdomen clench together. Swallowing hard, her heart beats faster at the sight. He is so strong.
He is beautiful, she thinks as she rubs the back of his neck, caressing the shell of his left ear with her fingers. He hums in pleasure, his eyes fluttering open. He stops her ministrations by kissing her, a long slow gift.
"I love you," she murmurs, enjoying the feel of him against her. She craves his touch once more. It is a surprise to know that giving him pleasure brings it to her as well.
That is what he meant earlier.
"I love you," he repeats. He runs his hand down her side to rest on her hip. She takes the moment to gather her courage and reaches between his legs.
If I enjoyed it, then he should as well.
His eyes pop wide open and he lets out a gasp of air. "Oh."
The sound makes her smile.
This part of him, held in her hands, is soft, the skin hot to the touch. As she massages him, it hardens beneath her fingers, and she feels a twinge low in her belly.
She keeps going, moving faster as he seems to like that.
Until he suddenly puts his hand over hers, pulling her fingers from him. "Stop," he pants, his chest heaving.
"Did I hurt you?" she asks, feeling sick, knowing she did something wrong again. He shakes his head.
It takes a great deal of willpower to force coherent thoughts into words, then to form them on his lips. "No, you did not hurt me," he says deliberately, hoping he makes sense. "That-it feels so good, and I have to stop now-"
He licks his lips. He wants her, needs her desperately, but wants to keep his promise and be gentle with her. "Here," he rolls her onto her back again and kisses her again deeply.
She moans against his lips, nipping the bottom one with her teeth. He kisses her again, harder, his hands moving from her breasts to her belly, to her hips then under her legs. He is only half laying on her.
She loves the press of him against her. His manhood is heavy on her thigh. As their kisses grow more heated, she pulls at him, willing him closer. Her legs fall open naturally.
She tries not to think about if it will hurt.
He takes it slow, sliding the tip of him inside her. She tenses, and he waits for her to relax before pushing further. His entire body screams for release but he will not hurt her.
It stings, burns a little. He is so very big, but she lets out a breath, letting herself relax. She wants him to enjoy this, enjoy their love, because he has waited so long and has been so patient with her. His tenderness brings tears to her eyes.
Gradually, he moves until he fills her fully. Looking down at her, he breathes out "All right?" and she nods.
Then he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. She lets out a little moan, which one glance tells him it is in pleasure and not in pain. He pushes again, more a thrust this time, and the sensation of him inside her loosens his grip on his control.
"Oh God," he swears aloud. She feels so good, his Elsie feels so good around him, and when he thrusts again, she moves her hips up to meet him.
The sting has gone away, replaced by this new feeling of him, all of him, inside her. It feels nice, she supposes, but when he pushes the second time, it feels similar to when his finger was inside her, and she moans.
There is a rhythm to it, one which they both have to learn. It is not his first time, but nothing he has experienced in the past has ever come close to this. "Elsie," he breathes, thrusting again.
This is not an affair, a release from a bad day. Something only to satisfy myself.
She is my wife, and I am her husband.
He comes at the thought, thrusting once more, harder, spilling into her. She feels the difference, the rush of him inside, the cry that erupts from his mouth.
Then he kisses her, and she holds him, holds him inside her until he softens.
There is a small basin of water that he brings her, along with a cloth so she can clean herself. He falls asleep when there is still light in the room, and she drifts off before the last light of the day has faded.
Waking in the night, Elsie does not at first remember where she is. Charlie's arm is wrapped around her waist, and from his breathing, he is deep in slumber. She carefully untangles herself from him and gets out of bed.
She cannot find her shift in the dark, so she pulls on his shirt. She does not want to visit the privy naked.
Sitting in the tiny structure, she gives into her tears and weeps, leaning her head against the wall.
Is that all there is? What he did with his hand, that was – oh, that was marvelous. And he didn't seem to mind. But when he took his pleasure…
At least it didn't hurt. Much.
By the morning, she has slept further and is calm. She is married now, a wife, and there are so many more things to worry about than that.
He mentally berates himself for several days for his lack of control. He wants to bring her to pleasure, but when he is inside her, he loses himself. And his mind.
He tries to make up for it by telling her every day that he loves her. How beautiful she is. That the meals she makes are delicious.
Well, two of the three are true, anyway.
The first Sunday after they are married, they go to Sonoma for church. Their home is nearly halfway between the county seat and Petaluma, but slightly closer to the old mission town.
She sits in the hard wooden chair. The Episcopal minister in this little mission is very earnest, but she doubts there is anything he can say that will draw her attention to God.
The night before, Charlie had altered their love-making. Holding himself above her, he had rolled his hips forward, and the feel of him had increased her pleasure…
And it was all for naught. She had had the feeling of a cresting wave, one that never thunders onto the shore.
The maddening thing is that she feels this way even when they are not in bed together. She had watched him on the hillside, walking among the growing vines. Brushing down the horses. Splitting wood, then picking it up, the muscles in his arms bulging.
A girl coughs behind her. Elsie fans herself, glad of the heat in the small room.
No doubt her husband is paying attention to the sermon.
The minister's voice drones on. Various words worm their way into his mind. The sinless Son of God…man's fallen nature…hear now the words of the prophet Isaiah…
Charlie, his wife had cried the night before. The sound of his name on her lips had caused him to spill himself. Before she had her pleasure.
Again.
Does she have the slightest idea what she does to him? He had seen her feeding the chickens as he was coming out of the barn two days ago, and he had stopped dead in his tracks just watching her.
It isn't fair that he is so happy, and she…well, she is not unhappy, but she is not as happy as she could be. And it is his fault.
Today, he vows to himself. Today it will change. You will find your control, and let her find her pleasure. Or touch her again. It worked on your wedding night…
It can't be today. It's Sunday, for God's sake!
Damn.
He closes his eyes, says a quick prayer for forgiveness for even thinking the swear word. He does not ask for forgiveness for lusting after his wife, because he knows he will be fighting it all day.
This long, long day.
A trickle of sweat tickles the back of his neck. He risks a side glance at Elsie out of the corner of his eye.
She is breathtaking, even in the sensible dress and hat that obscures her hair. He swallows, forcing himself to focus on the lectern, the beams in the roof, the minister gesturing. Anything.
They talk for a while with others after the service. He feels a surge of pride introducing her as Mrs. Carson.
She cannot help but smile when she points Charlie out to one of the ladies. She does listen closely to the others chatting when one mentions Mrs. Crawley, but nothing more is said of the woman and Elsie does not want to pry.
When her husband brings the horses around, she is glad to leave. As nice as it is to talk with others, she would rather be home.
She hopes he does not notice the hitch in her breath when he takes her hand to help her into the wagon.
It is too bad it is Sunday, she thinks. She cannot even weed the garden, or sew curtains or anything to take her mind off Charlie. She squirms on the seat on the ride home, trying to put off the niggling feeling that will not leave her alone.
Mam never said anything to her about desire, either. That it would follow her, like dirt clinging to her feet. That she would want him so terribly at the most inopportune times (like today), is something she is not prepared for.
She rather envies that he can take the horses into the barn, unhitch them, and feed them. At least it gives him something to do. He comes into the house long after she has changed into her everyday clothes (and rid herself of her uncomfortable shoes) and set out the bread and cold ham.
He steps into the kitchen. Elsie stares off into space, her thoughts far away.
Never mind their little Sunday luncheon. He wants to drag her to the bedroom, tear her clothes from her exquisite body, and ravish her until she has no voice left.
"Charlie?"
Startled, he jumps. She smiles, her eyes twinkling at him. "Would you like some water?"
She already drank some.
She almost wishes for the cold winters of Argyll. But there is no relief, no respite from the fire consuming her. She hands him a cup, resisting the temptation to rip his shirt off his broad back, to unbutton his trousers, and to watch him reach his pleasure until he shouts in her ear.
Like he did three nights ago.
He drinks the water, glad of the moisture on his dry lips. She is looking down, her fingers pressed together, her ring glinting on her finger.
The cup drops to the floor with a heavy thud.
In one swift motion, he propels her against the wall by the door to the hallway. His mouth is on hers, heavy, hard, and the shock of it is sharp, but oh, the way he kisses her makes her delirious.
She moans, yes moans, her lips parted to let his tongue claim hers.
"It's Sunday," he rasps, dipping his head to taste her neck.
"Yes-I know," she manages to sigh, raising her knee so his can move between hers in the folds of her skirt.
"We-we should stop," he gasps. She is flush against him, the wall at her back.
"Do you want to?"
The question catches him off guard. It isn't a question of wanting, but whether they must. He straightens up to look her in the face. Propriety and desire war inside him.
Honesty wins.
"No," he rumbles, his face red. She will think him impious, what a terrible Christian on the Lord's Day, to want this-
"I don't either," she half-whispers. Her eyes are dark.
He lifts her off the floor into his arms as they kiss. Her skirt and petticoat billow up, and he pulls at them, even as she wraps her legs around him.
Fumbles for the buttons on his trousers before she frees him.
Her corset restricts her, he knows, but she does not seem to care a whit about it. He gropes under her skirt, finds the slit, and-
"Oh God, Charlie, more!" she cries out, her back arching against the wall. Her wetness is on his fingers. But that she takes the Lord's name in vain now, here, is what moves him to take her, to join them.
Her cries echoing in their home.
She is close, he can feel the muscles of her sex tighten. He thrusts again. His arms holding her up. She rubs against him, frantic. His manhood, him, filling her.
She means to ask him for more, but she feels as though she is on a cresting wave, the power of it building. And she cannot find the words for what she wants. I want you here now more yes don't stop don't stop don't stop DON'T STOP DON'T STOP-
He thrusts into her harder and she keens a long cry of release. Gasping, he thrusts again. His own shouts mingle with her joy.
She is his, and he is hers, and they are one being.
There is nothing but him. When he yells, her voice spirals higher as she feels the thunder of the pounding wave, the ecstasy of reaching the shore.
Of him, her husband, her Charlie, her lover, pouring himself into her.
He hears her shatter again, and he laughs. This is what he wanted, oh this, to give his wife, his Elsie, his lover pleasure, to share it, like they now share a home, and a vineyard.
A name.
They spend the afternoon in their bedroom, in glorious decadence. After they make love a second time, she walks back to the kitchen and collects the uneaten food, bringing it back for them to eat in bed.
She does not bother clothing herself to do this.
They eat, sometimes feeding each other. When a bit of jam drops from her finger to the top of her breast, he insists on licking it off.
Before letting her pull him on top of her, again.
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Her hand ghosts on his back.
"Where are you going, Mr. Carson?"
Chuckling, he piles the plates and picks up the biggest crumbs he can see on the floor. Best not make it too easy for the mice.
"The kitchen. Only to put these away, Mrs. Carson."
She lays sprawled on the bed, her pale skin flushed, a dreamy smile on her face. There is a mark on her right shoulder, another under her left ear.
Her collarbone is dotted with the marks of his fervent kisses.
He doesn't know it, but he carries several scratches on his back. Most have already scarred.
A small chunk of hair is missing from the back of his neck, too.
"Mmmm," she sighs, murmuring under her breath, her thumb on her lip. The way he gazes at her from the doorway, she can see the adoration in his eyes.
He has called her beautiful before, but now she knows it.
She already sleeps when he returns. Smiling, he pulls up the quilt and climbs in next to her.
The shadows on the walls tell her that the day is far gone when she wakes. Blinking through heavy eyes, she feels for Charlie, but he is not in bed with her.
"Here, Elsie." He sits in a chair by the wall reading a book, his boots askew on the floor.
"Did you-" she clears her throat, feeling fuzz in her mouth. "Did you milk the cow?"
"Yes, and had the horses drink, and…" he rattles off all the chores that they would normally do on a Sunday.
"You could have woken me," she says, though she is happy he didn't. She feels so warm, so luxurious, so blissfully sated.
And it would have been highly inconvenient to put her clothes back on. She notices with appreciation he only has his trousers on, his suspenders pulled over his bare shoulders. She suppresses a moan thinking of him in the barn half-clothed.
Someday...
"I didn't want to wake you," he says quietly, turning the page.
"Thank you. What are you reading?" she asks as he gets up and climbs back in next to her. "That's not the Bible."
"No," he grins. "It's Sonnets from the Portuguese. Poetry."
"Portuguese? You never told me you learned that language!"
He laughs. "It's just the title. Everything is in English. The poet is an English woman, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Have you heard of her?"
Elsie shakes her head. He taps the page.
"This one reminds me of you." He clears his throat and reads it aloud.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light…
She is in tears by the end. "Oh Charlie," she whispers, "I love you."
"I love you," he pulls her into his arms, brushing his lips on her forehead. "I never dreamed I could be this happy, Elsie, truly. When you found me that night in San Francisco, I knew I never wanted to be apart from you."
"Nor I you," she embraces him tightly.
They fall asleep tangled together, the book at the end of the bed, open to the poem's page.