Stephanie Mittman (21 page)

He seemed to understand her need, and he stepped back, caught his breath, ran his fingers through his hair to straighten it. “I keep pawing at you in back rooms and compromising you in one way or another when I should be honoring you. When I don’t see you, I have all these high ideas—things I’ll say to you, things I’ll do, like presenting you with a rose and kissing the back of your hand and asking if you’ll do me the honor of dining with me.

“And then I see you, and all I can think is how much I want to hold you in my arms and taste your sweet lips and—”

“The question was do you love me,” she pressed, feeling his hands wander over her hips.

“Without doubt or reservation,” he said, letting her go and standing with his arms at his side, waiting for
her to welcome him back to where they both knew he belonged.

“Will you marry me, Seth?” she asked as she slid into his arms and fought the buttons on his shirt until she could touch his skin.

“Leave it to you to have no respect for the proprieties. I’m supposed to do the asking,” Seth said.

“So ask,” she ordered him, allowing him to slip her blouse down over her arms, toss it behind her somewhere, and untie the pink silk ribbon that held her camisole closed.

He pushed the camisole off her shoulders too, so that it hung limply around her elbows and she rose from it the way the pistil of a flower rises within the petals. It was cold in the room, and silent as she waited for him to say the words she needed to hear.

He unbuttoned her waistband and pushed her skirt to the floor. He muttered something about ridiculous bustles, untied it, and flung it only the Lord knew where. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he said, which, while it was nice to hear, was not what she was waiting for.

She crossed her arms, returned the camisole straps to her shoulders and rubbed at her upper arms, trying to keep away the cold, the fear. And when he sat in the big leather chair and pulled her onto his lap, she tried to pretend he’d said more than he had.

“I didn’t want to love you,” he said, shifting her so that she could feel a hardness beneath her that she could only guess about. “I didn’t want to sully you with my misery, and now look at me. I should make you get
dressed, take you for a fine dinner, escort you home safely….”

She made a move to get up, but he caught her and held her closer against him.

“And then I should ask your father for your hand.”

She closed her eyes and let out the breath she’d been holding.

“I want to do this right,” he said, but his hands were everywhere, and she sighed and gasped and encouraged his explorations.

“Believe me, you are,” she said, shocking herself as much as him, raising a chuckle between the deeper breaths.

There was a small cot in the corner of the room. Ansel said that there were times when his father-in-law, Morton Cotter, had been so dedicated that he spent the night at the office. Mostly the kittens slept there now, but she rose and led him over to it.

Seth followed her reluctantly, looking down at the pathetic little cot and feeling himself grimace. His Abby was so fine, and he wanted so to do right by her and not take her here, her first time, on this dingy little cot in this awful little room. While he stood there mutely, trying to tamp down his hunger for her, his need, she pulled a fancy quilt from the bottom drawer of the tall oak filing cabinet and spread it on the cot. Then from the top drawer she pulled two mining candles they obviously kept for emergencies and set them on the little table beside the cot.

“Is this an emergency?” he asked her, trying to take away the seriousness of what they were doing, trying to stop themselves before they went too far.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for this night, Seth. For this moment. I don’t want to wait any longer. I don’t want to risk waiting.”

“Risk waiting?”

“Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring. Love me now, Seth. Hurry, before I—”

“Change your mind?” he asked, his wanting nearly painful as he watched her make a bed for them to share, her back strong and almost bare, her shoulders glowing in the candlelight.

She shook her head at him. “I would make love to you, Seth, if I knew how. Please don’t make me look foolish.”

Dear God, what good had he ever done to deserve Abidance Merganser offering herself to him, body and soul, heart and hand?

“You could never look foolish,” he said, going back to check the little office door and finding to his relief that there was a lock on it. He snapped it shut.

“I’m the fool,” he said when he was back at her side, taking off his trousers and somehow wrapping both of them in the quilt on the tiny bed. “Lie on top of me,” he told her, positioning her so that he could kiss her breasts, could reach her so that he could ready her for what was to come.

She moaned and arched and ground against his touch until he thought he might go mad, and still he prepared her, tried to prepare her, despite her tightness, her innocence.

“Please Seth,” she begged him, clutching at his chest, tears choking her voice. “Please.”

“You’ll marry me?” he asked her, rolling her onto
her back and poising himself above her. “You’ll be mine?”

“I’ve always been yours,” she said softly, her hand tracing his arm, running up his neck, pulling him down toward her.

Beneath him, her body relaxed and she spread herself for him as if all was right in the world.

And he slipped inside her, carefully, slowly, as gently as he could. And she rocked against him, each movement deepening their hold on each other, deepening their commitment, deepening their love.

And when it was over, she lay still in his arms.

“I can die happy now,” she said softly, and the world stopped in its tracks. His head shot up and he looked down at her knowing that he would fight the devil himself before he’d let her go.

“What?” he asked her, fear rising in his throat.

“Not that I expect to,” she said, waving away his worry. “It’s just that a woman is always afraid that she’ll die without knowing the secret—she’ll wind up an old maid who’s never known passion.”

“You? What about Frank Walker? What about Armand what’s-his-name?”

And beneath him she laughed, a beatific smile on her face as she stretched and arched her back, two glorious breasts rising up to pique his desire yet again. “Who?”

And he kissed her quiet, and took her slowly, and this time there was no pain.

There was only joy.

H
OLY
M
OTHER OF
G
OD
. W
HAT HAD HE DONE?
And could it have been as good as it seemed, as right, even after he’d taken her home last night? Afterward he’d come back and flung himself into his chair in a haze of satisfaction, pulled the letter from Dr. Bartlett from his coat pocket and stood ready to face the fact that he would be stuck in Eden’s Grove forever. And it had been so wondrous that he didn’t care, as long as he would be with the woman he loved.

Well, for the moment he hadn’t cared. It had been wondrous. It had been sublime. Abby had felt so right in his arms that he was amazed that he could have waited so long to make her his own, and he wanted her again. Now. Always.

Only now there was a tiny wrinkle in his plan. How could he have known that Dr. Ephraim Bartlett would agree to come take over his practice? No one in his right mind would want to leave Massachusetts General, leave Boston and the civilized, advanced East to come to some two-bit town that, as Reverend Merganser
was quick to point out, didn’t even have a goddamn church?

And not only did the fool want to come, he
was
coming! Stopping to visit family along the way, the good doctor would be in Eden’s Grove in just over a fortnight.

Well, Abby had said she’d follow him anywhere, hadn’t she? Would she really leave her family, her home, and go …

Go where? He had no plan. In a fortnight’s time he’d have no job. A fine husband he’d make Abby, to whom he wanted to give the world.

He wondered if she was next door at the
Herald
yet, and was willing to bet that she wasn’t. She’d have poked her head into his office first, he was sure. She’d have brought him some fresh-baked muffins and a warm smile. And no matter how uncertain the future was, as long as she was in it, it’d be just fine, he was sure.

He heard the footsteps on the sidewalk, but he knew they weren’t hers, and he knew they weren’t bringing good news, so when James Denton opened his door, he had more to worry about than how he would support Abidance.

“Jim?” he asked. “There been some change?” He couldn’t bear to ask if the baby was dead, didn’t figure Jim would come to him but to Mr. Liming, the undertaker, if the news was that bad.

“He won’t take nothing, Doc,” the man said, the stoic facade that he’d kept for Seth crumbling there in his office, falling away and leaving a broken man standing with his arms stretched out toward Seth for help.

“I’ll get my bag,” was all he could say.
I’ll come and look, and I’ll see to Caroline. And then I’ll tell you both to pray for a miracle, and I’ll come back here and I’ll pray, too
.

“Appreciate it, Doc,” Jim said, as if he were doing the Dentons any sort of favor at all. “I know you got others to see, and …”

“I’ll follow you in my buggy,” he said, grabbing his hat and bag and hurrying Jim out of the office, glancing through the windows of the
Herald
and wishing he could see a sign of Abby to keep him going.

He had lost so much in this life—his whole family—and his faith. And one little slip of a girl had the power to give him back all of it—a family, with a bunch of kids who would climb his legs and sit on his shoulders and who he could tuck in at night; and the belief that with her in his life everything would somehow be all right.

He followed Jim Denton out to his farm, wishing he could make it all right for the Dentons, and for everyone else in Eden’s Grove, knowing he couldn’t, and praying that maybe Dr. Bartlett could.

“So how are you feeling?” Abby asked Emily after she’d taken off her coat and made herself comfortable—as comfortable as she could be on the settee in Emily’s parlor.

“Excited,” Emily admitted, her face a little flushed. “A new baby is always exciting, don’t you think? I mean, inside me right now might be the next president of the United States!”

“Or at least the next editor of the
Herald’,’
Abby said, working on a smile.

“Are you all right?” Emily asked, her eyebrows lowering in concern. “You’re looking like I was feeling when I woke up—like I feel every morning these days.”

Oh, dear God! She’d wanted an answer and now she had it.

Emily put her hand over Abby’s. “Are you feeling all right?”

“How soon after …” How did one ask a question like this? She should have asked her mother. Or Prudence. Prudence would know. But Pru and her mother would be horrified, and Abby was not about to risk her father’s finding out. She fiddled with her skirt, balling it up until Emily stilled her hand.

“Abby, honey, whatever is wrong?”

Abby took a deep breath. “How soon after you and Ansel … made your baby,” she said with her eyes closed because she just couldn’t look at Emily and ask, “… did you start losing your breakfast?”

Emily was really quiet. So quiet that Abby could hear the clock ticking on the mantel, counting off the seconds.

“Well,” Emily finally said slowly. “I can’t really say for sure. It’s hard to know exactly when the baby began, if you know what I mean, which I’m guessing you don’t. Contrary to what your mama probably told you, every time you let your husband have his way, doesn’t mean you wind up with a baby, you know.”

“I know that,” Abby said, trying not to sound testy.
“But how soon …” She covered her mouth as the nausea rose again as it had in the morning.

“Abby! You don’t think you’re … honey, you know you have to do more than just kiss a man to—”

“Emily, I’ve been sheltered, not cloistered!”

“Are you saying that Frank …” Emily asked.

“No! Of course not! I’m simply asking how you know if you’re pregnant,” Abby finally managed to say.

“Well, whoever it is that thinks she’s pregnant ought to go see Dr. Hendon and—”

“How hard is it for you to tell me how soon you started heaving up your eggs, Emily? Is this some secret that women aren’t supposed to share? I need to know if I could be with child. And I need you to tell me.”

Emily got up and drew the drapes closed. She shut the parlor doors and put a chair in front of them before she came back to sit beside Abby on the settee.

“Abidance, listen to me. For a woman to become pregnant she has to be intimate with a man. Not just kiss, not just touch. They have to lie naked together and he has to—”

“I know what he has to do, Emily. I know what it feels like and I know I’ll be doing it again, but I didn’t think that I could get into trouble on the first time.”

“Don’t cry, honey,” Emily said, wiping tears from Abby’s cheeks, tears that Abby hadn’t even felt. “You haven’t done it again, not since the first time?”

Not since the first time?
It had only been twelve hours or so, and she had had to go on home.