His Mail-Order Bride. Tatiana March
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remained on her feet, hugging her arms around her body.
“Why don’t you put your coat on?” he asked.
She rubbed her arms, shivering. “The wool fabric is itchy.”
Thomas paused. He glanced back toward the bedroom. He’d intended to save his bridal gift for when he knew for certain she would stay with him, but it didn’t matter. Today was the proper day for giving marriage gifts.
“Wait here,” he said, and strode off into the bedroom.
He knelt by the linen chest at the foot of the bed, lifted the lid and searched inside. He pulled out the crocheted shawl and paused for a moment, smoothing his fingers over the soft texture of the fine wool. It was the only token of love he’d ever received, not counting the fact that he had been born. On the morning he’d said goodbye and walked out of the house that final time, his mother had hurried after him.
“Take this,” she had whispered. “I made one for you too, like I did for your brothers. For your bride.” She’d cast a fearful glance back at the house, where her husband’s shadow fell across the window.
“He doesn’t know I made it.” She’d drawn a breath, and Thomas had heard a sob in her voice. “I wish I could have been...stronger...that I could have defied him...but I couldn’t...not even for you.” She had looked up with a plea in her eyes. “You understand, don’t you?”
Thomas had taken the shawl, slipped it into his bag. Not a saddlebag, for they wouldn’t even let him have a horse to see him on his way.
His mother had clung to his arm. “Tell me you understand,” she’d begged. “Tell me you forgive me.”
Thomas had looked down at her from his height. Small and dark, like everyone else in the family, she’d stared up at him with tear-bright eyes. He would never understand, and he didn’t have it in his heart to forgive his mother for not loving him. Perhaps the man he’d grown into might possess the strength to forgive, but the child he’d once been and whom he still carried inside him clung to the hurt.
But he’d said it anyway, even though it was not true.
One final act of love for the mother who had never loved him.
“I forgive you,” he said, and asked God to absolve him for the lie.
Kneeling by the linen chest, Thomas lifted the shawl to his face. In the first two years, the scent of the rose water his mother used had clung to the wool. Then he’d made the chest and the spicy scent of cedar wood had replaced the scent of roses.
He pushed up to his feet and went back into the parlor. He shook out the shawl. It was patterned in earthy colors, rust and moss green and the rich red hues of maple leaves in the fall. He moved to stand behind Charlotte and spread the shawl over her shoulders. His arms circled her for a second before he pulled away.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It’s a wedding gift for my bride. My mother made it.” As Thomas spoke the words, a tiny edge of the old pain chipped away. Perhaps one day forgiveness would come.
“The custom is that I should give it to you in the morning after our wedding night, but I can see that you are cold, and our marriage isn’t a traditional one anyway.”
Charlotte fingered the soft wool, not meeting his eyes. “It’s lovely,” she said. “And very warm.” She glanced up at him. “Thank you.”
Thomas nodded. They needed to talk about it. Their wedding night. And all the nights that came after. But such a conversation might be easier for both of them if he waited until the darkness let them hide their thoughts from each other.
* * *
Charlotte clutched the shawl tighter around her. Night was falling, but she didn’t feel ready to meet the challenges the darkness might bring. The longer they remained in the parlor, talking, the longer she could postpone facing those challenges.
“I believe I’m hungry after all,” she said, and recalled the task that had sent her out to the well earlier that evening. “I was going to make coffee.”
She darted over to the kitchen counter, her bare feet soundless on the timber floor. The pail was full of water. An iron pot filled to the brim sat on the stovetop. Thomas came to stand beside her, nodded at the pot. “That’s water for washing. I didn’t light the fire yet. I stopped to sit on the porch steps for a moment.”
“Let me do it.” She nudged him aside with her elbow.
Obediently, he eased back, but instead of sitting down at the table, he settled a hip against the edge of the tabletop and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. Watching her. As if to inspect her household skills and pass judgment on them.
Charlotte glanced down at the pile of firewood and pursed her lips. The front of the stove had three hatches, one big, two small. She bent down, opened the biggest hatch and threw a few bits of firewood inside.
“That’s the oven,” Thomas said. “The wood goes into the smaller compartment on the left.”
Charlotte swallowed hard, nodded, removed the bits of firewood and placed them in the smaller compartment on the left, just as he had told her. She could see a round pit in the metal bottom of the compartment and guessed that the firewood, as it burned, would collapse into the third compartment beneath. That must be where a low fire burned for baking and where the ashes gathered for removal.
“How are you going to get the fire started?” Thomas asked.
She looked at him over her shoulder. He pointed at the small pieces of bark gathered in a metal bucket beside the firewood. “Kindling.”
Charlotte nodded, rebuilt her pile of firewood with kindling at the bottom and glanced once more over her shoulder, her eyebrows arched in question.
“You need to stack the wood loosely, to allow air to circulate in between. Wood stacked in a tight pile won’t catch flame.”
She nodded, did it all over again.
Thomas pointed. “Matches are on the shelf.”
Rising on her toes, Charlotte searched the shelf, found the small metal tin and clipped it open. Her eyes narrowed in victory. Something familiar. Papa had used matches to light his pipe, and she’d used them for candles. She snapped a match free from the row, looked around for a piece of sandpaper to strike it against but saw none.
Any abrasive surface would do. Her eyes darted from object to object, settled on a heavy cast iron frying pan sitting on the counter. Eager to demonstrate her competence, Charlotte shot one arm out and drew the match across the belly of the frying pan.
“No,” Thomas shouted, but it was too late.
The flame sparked, and blew up from the frying pan like a dragon’s breath. Charlotte screamed and jumped back. Strong arms closed around her, lifting her off her feet. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, Thomas inspected her hands.
“Did you burn your fingers? Show me! Show me!”
Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but they were tears of misery and frustration and helplessness, not tears of pain. Charlotte clenched her hands into fists to keep away his probing fingers. “I’m fine,” she muttered.
It took a moment before the intimacy of their position registered in her mind. She was dangling in the air, anchored against his chest. A thick forearm cut like a band of steel across her waist. Thomas was looking down over her shoulder, his head bent next to hers. She could feel the rough stubble on his jaw rubbing against her cheek.
And yet, despite the hold that emphasized his superior strength, his touch was gentle. It was clear that he could subdue her without effort, but something in his manner told her he would never hurt a woman. She need not fear that he might take her by force. The realization eased her terror, but a new kind of tension crept in its place.
Slowly, Thomas