Jennie About to Be (11 page)

Who had composed this cynical epitaph? The man who lay in the tomb? There was nothing pious, reverent, or hopeful about it. It appealed to her, yet it gave her a touch of the cold grue, and Nigel was too far from her, walking away down a long grassy aisle.

She went to him at once, trying not to run.

T
HEY DINED
on fresh salmon at an inn in Elgin where Mr. Sinclair was well known. He announced that the Gilchrists were his guests.

“Oh, come, sir,” Nigel protested. “It's too much. You're already carrying us in comfort to Inverness.”

“Silence, lad.” Sinclair lifted his glass toward Jennie. “Let us drink to the bride.”

His wife winked at Jennie and said, “And may your husband never cease to astonish you even after thirty years.”

Thirty years! It was more than her present lifetime.
We'll be grand parents then
, Jennie thought. She could not imagine it. Thirty years with Nigel.
Bliss
.

They drove on toward Inverness. The Sinclairs drowsed; Nigel and Jennie smiled at each other, looked away, were drawn back again, not able to touch except with their eyes and their low voices as they called each other's attention to some sight along the road or out on the firth.

There was more traffic on the way now. Sheep and cows accompanied by drovers and dogs. Riders on horses or garrons, the sturdy Highland ponies; carriages and carts, farm wagons. Walkers: those who looked as if they had errands, and the others who looked as if they lived on the roads. Were these the dispossessed? She didn't want to know, yet she
had
to know, to put her mind at rest, to convince herself that they were like tinkers, who chose that life.

Mr. Sinclair roused from his nap and talked about the Findhorn Sands off to the right, where Findhorn Bay opened to the firth. The sands were devouring everything; they had swallowed a house in one night, pouring themselves through doors and windows.

Jennie gazed out at a new party of walkers, and some of them looked up into the chaise without humbleness. This was a ragged group, possessing a few goats and some thin small black cattle. They carried bundles on their backs, and iron pots dangled atop the loads. There were some babies in arms or riding shoulders or hips. Several of the old people were lame and used crutch sticks, and the seams were dug deep in their faces. They were making such an effort that they had no use or concern for her, and she felt herself blushing with shame at her own comfort.

When the chaise had rolled on past them, the rested horses trotting happily toward their home stable in Inverness, she tried to forget what she had seen or at least to assure herself they had been people of the roads who would have fought any other way of life.

Mrs. Sinclair said, “This is Macbeth's country, you know. Duncan was murdered in the old castle of Inverness, and Cawdor still stands. Of course, Shakespeare was more than a wee bit astray, but then what can you expect from a Sassenach?” She laughed and patted Jennie's knee. “We don't hold that against you, lassie. But Macbeth was a
good
king, you know.”

It wasn't until they were passing Culloden Moor that she fell silent, as if the influences here were too strong even for her, and her husband sank into deep gloom until they were well out of the area.

After that the first glimpse of the old gray town of Inverness roused them all up and sped the horses. Mr. Sinclair shed ten years and began telling Nigel about the Caledonian Canal that was to provide ships with a safe, smooth passage from the western seas through the Great Glen to the Moray Firth, saving them the often deadly voyage around Cape Wrath. For Jennie, Mrs. suggested dressmakers and milliners and praised the Northern Infirmary.

“Aye, the town's grown a bit since Old King Brude of the Picts had his fortress here and Saint Columba himself stood outside its wooden gates. We've had all the kings and the cutthroats. Cromwell, and Bonnie Prince Charlie (but all he did was blow up the castle), and then Butcher Cumberland came after Culloden, the monster that he was. How the poor old town suffered then.”

“Everything looks serene and charming now,” Jennie said.

“It's a grand town to live in,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “Make your man show it all to you and take you out to Loch Ness. You might get a blink of the Monster, though it's no horror. It's never done a body harm; it just wants to be left in peace and quiet, poor beast.”

Addresses were exchanged, and good wishes, and they were set down at the Caledonian Hotel in Inverness.

Jennie washed her hair and soaked herself in a tin bath before a glowing coal fire in the grate. It was her first hot bath since the morning of the wedding: huge sponge, rich lather of Pears' soap . . . She'd done the best she could aboard the ship, but nothing, absolutely nothing, could compare with the embrace of all the hot water you wanted and all the time in which to parboil yourself gently, then to rise like Venus from the foam to the embrace of thick towels in a warm room. She hoped Nigel in the next room was enjoying his bath as much.

They hadn't ordered a meal, only baths. The curtains were drawn against the sunset light, windows shut against street noises. The broad bed with lavender-scented linen: what would it be like, their nakedness together in those sheets? Sylvia had prepared her for some discomfort but said it would all be worth it and then had added with blunt northern honesty, “If you're lucky.”

Jennie understood. She remembered the talk around the washhouse when Mary Ann's sister came to help with the washing. Jennie had been fifteen or so, and Mary Ann's daughter was newly married. She was not much older than Jennie. They had played together, picked daisies and currants for Mary Ann's winemaking, and then all at once Violet was “walking out”; was betrothed and unspeakably important about it; was
married
, and Jennie left back in childhood, while Violet was to be mistress of her own little household with the son of Martyn, the shepherd.

The morning after the wedding Jennie had gone out to help wash the blankets by treading on them in a wooden tub of sudsy rainwater. She'd heard Mary Ann's voice before the woman knew she was there, and the anguish in it had stopped her short.

“She's been used something cruel, good little lass that she is, and never one to be caught out under the hedges. Yon stallion was gentler with the mares than Jem's been with the child. Hardly able to move in the morning she was, and she crawled around to get his breakfast, and as soon as he was away to his work, she was away home across the fields, crying out about the hurt and the blood. Shouldn't wonder if he's damaged her.”

Had Jem
beaten
her? Jennie wondered in horror. The sister groaned and sighed in sympathy, and Mary Ann said, “My Will was in a rare old rage, said he'd take him out and cut it off!”

Cut
what
off? . . . Then she'd been discovered, and Mary Ann had driven her away in a fury inexplicable at the time.

What was even more inexplicable was the fact that Violet had gone back to the man who'd used her something cruel and drawn blood. She'd tried to get her father to interfere, but he would not, and Ianthe told her to forget it; it was none of their business.

But when Violet was with child, and showing it, she was placid and smug, walking with her arm in Jem's to church or across the fields of an evening to call on her parents or his. When the baby was born, they both appeared stolidly pleased with it, and from the way Mary Ann and Will acted toward their son-in-law one could almost believe that outcry in the washhouse had never happened.

Jennie tightened now at the prospect of pain, but she had Sylvia's word that everyone didn't start off like Jem and Violet. She rose and stepped out of the bath onto the fleece put there for the purpose and dried herself. They had not yet seen each other without clothes; she hadn't even seen herself completely undressed ever since they sailed on
Minerva
and the seasickness had begun. Mrs. Sinclair had suggested she'd be more comfortable in a nightgown, but at times she'd been afraid they'd be wrecked and she'd be tottering to the lifeboat in only a bit of cambric. Taking off her shoes, her dress, and her stays was as far as she would go. Nigel shed his cravat and shirt at times, but he was always ready to make a sudden dash out on deck.

Oh, we were a pair all right
, she thought. Orphans of the storm. The next long journey must certainly be overland.

She put on a fresh lawn nightdress and a matching peignoir with narrow lace frills at the throat and cuffs and tied with yellow satin ribbons. She rang for the maids to take away the bath, and while she waited, she walked about the room, brushing her damply curling hair. The Grecian ringlets had long gone; she hadn't liked them anyway, she'd hardly known herself with their dangling and tickling around her forehead and ears.

The girls bailed the bath and carried it away. She wondered if they guessed how newly married she was; a nightgown and a frilly peignoir before sundown, no supper ordered—they probably knew it all. She was not embarrassed. She could hardly understand their accents, but they had a solid country look that was familiar, and they were merry in their courtesy toward her, as if they were all equals.

They had lighted some candles, and she walked back and forth with her shadow for company. As the wedding had become unreal once it was all over, now the sea voyage had moved into the realm of things that had never happened.

Nigel came silently into the room behind her back, when she was standing before the mantel looking down at the fire.

“Jennie,” he said in a low voice. She turned around and saw him outlined in the candlelight. So must some supernatural lover have appeared to a girl who cast ancient spells in her room at midnight. There was a story like that; the girl had been sorry forever after.

But Nigel in a blue dressing gown was no demon lover. He'd held her head while she was sick, and she'd held his, which was hardly the stuff of Gothic terrors. Now he came to her in unsmiling silence, picked her up, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down on it and began to untie the yellow satin ribbons. She didn't take her eyes off his face. It crossed her mind that he must be experienced about this; without watching his hands, she knew they weren't fumbling. The peignoir was laid open, and she was lifted, now helping slightly, so he could get the sleeves off her arms. Her nightgown was peeled off over her head, his hands firmly guiding and suggesting her own motions. She heard him catch his breath. Then he said crisply, “Turn over,” and she did, so that he could take away the peignoir from under her.

She lay passively on her side, away from him, but if her skeleton lay quiet within her flesh, it was the only part of her that was. He knelt on the bed and kissed her shoulder, down her back, the rise of her hip. It was all she could do not to roll over, put her arms around his neck, and draw him down to her. The impulse startled her.
Am I a wanton
? But it was as if she had always known it was there.

“
Jennie
,” he whispered. He turned her on to her back. There was a glisten like tears in his eyes. Then he straightened up, took her peignoir away, and tossed it onto the chair. She stretched like a cat, delighting in her own nakedness and his viewing of it. Yes, she was a wanton, and who'd have guessed it?

He stood looking down at her. “You'll not need much coaxing.”

“No.” Her voice trembled but not with fear.

He began to undo his robe. “Shall I blow out the candles?”

“Not yet. I want you to keep looking at me. I want to look at you.”

“Are you sure?” His smile was endearingly doubtful.

“I'm sure.”

He turned from her as he took off the robe and threw it over her clothes in the chair. The sweep of his back from shoulders to the narrow waist and small buttocks was beautiful; his legs were long, smooth-muscled, neither bandy nor spindle-shanked.

Then he came to her, and for an instant her breathing stopped altogether. How could there be enough room in her for
that
? But Sylvia had accommodated William and said it was good.

“What are you thinking, love?” Nigel said huskily. “I shan't hurt you. I'd die rather than hurt you.”

“I'm not afraid,” she said.

“I'll leave one candle. You're too beautiful to love in the dark.”

“So are you.” She held out her arms to him, wishing she could take him into her at once. She was unprepared for the sensuous shock of flesh against flesh and his hands stroking her body, and for the freedom to run her hands over his shoulders and sides, and over his chest, and down to the flat, hard middle where the soft yellow hair began to thicken. She floated on a summery sea of exquisite sensations that came rippling one after the other, and no end to them. Drunkenly she thanked those upon whose bodies he'd learned how to make love to his wife. But how had she learned to make love to him? There was no doubt that she was a born wanton, and nobody had ever guessed. She laughed against his mouth, and when she did, she felt his tongue slip in, feeling for hers. His hand went from her hip across her lower belly and between her legs. Her breast rose against his, she sighed against his lips, and her legs fell open to him.

It was a long night. She wished for it to be a week of night. Sometimes she opened her eyes and saw the unsteady light from the candle trembling over unfamiliar walls and ceiling, and had the impression that this room existed solely for them in a tower all alone at the top of the world. She rushed past pain, holding Nigel with arms and legs. She remembered him saying over and over in her ear, like a prayer, “Oh, my God, my God.”

Afterward they lay still joined, him half on her, while their heartbeats slowed, and they sank into a near sleep, glued to each other by sweat and their embrace. When he roused up and cautiously withdrew himself, she felt a pang that was more than physical. Why could they not have slept together as one creature?