The Marriage Bed (4 page)

"It's work I'm longing to do."

"You don't know beans about little ones, Olivia," he said, setting down the pipe and reaching blindly for the pouch of tobacco, his eyes on her. "You were the baby and now you want to take three stragglers in like they're a litter of lost mutts. Jeez."

"It's not as if I've never been around children. Ask the boys if I'm not a wonderful aunt. Ask Bess and Remy if I wasn't a help when I lived with them. And I'll thank you not to take the Lord's name in vain, if that's what that word's supposed to mean."

"Well then, since you're such an expert, do what you want. But don't expect any help from me," he said, his teeth gripping the pipe stem so that his words hissed from his open lips.

"You won't have to have anything to do with them," she promised, unable to keep the smile from her face.

Children. Oh, God in heaven, she was going to have children! A houseful of them. In the morning she would go back to the little shrine and give thanks. "I'll take care of everything," she said, wondering if she couldn't set the boy up in the kitchen instead of the cold barn.

Spencer stared at her for a long moment, long enough for her to feel self-conscious, and then shook his head and turned to open the highest cabinet in the kitchen. From it he pulled a bottle of that awful whiskey he kept bringing into the house. She'd thrown out several bottles in the early months of their marriage, but they were always replaced, and she'd had to shut her eyes to his weakness or they would never be able to save a penny.

She had no problem with his drinking beer and wine like everyone else in their community. She wasn't some kind of temperance woman, after all. But while the beer and wine were for gaiety, the whiskey was for sorrow. And what it did to him . . . that was another matter entirely.

"Guess this calls for a celebration," he said without any joy. Without bothering to offer her the opportunity to decline, he pulled the cork from the bottle and, tilting his head back, took a long slow swig of the stuff. He grimaced at the taste but took another swallow, nonetheless,

"Spencer, I don't think . . ." Olivia started.

He raised his eyes slowly up her body, from the hem of her well-worn navy wool skirt upward, taking in her waist, settling blatantly on the swell of her breasts for a moment, and then struggling to focus on her face. "Go to bed, Olivia," he said, raising the bottle once again to his lips.

"Bed? But we haven't even had supper yet. I've got fish stew from last night that I could ..."

"Go to bed, Olivia. Now." His voice was ragged and his gaze returned once again to her breasts.

"Don't be ridiculous. The sun's hardly set. I've made us some genoise. I'll make us some dinner first, and if you'll just put away that bottle. . . ."

He took one last gulp and put the bottle down, then headed for the door and grabbed his jacket. He cast a long look in her direction and opened the door.

"Spencer?"

He shook his head. Without turning to look at her, he asked, "Are you going to go to bed?"

"No, Spencer, I . . ." she said cautiously, not liking the way he was threatening her.

"Then I've got to go out, Olivia. I need some air."

"Are you that angry with me?" she asked him, wondering if she hadn't pushed him further than he could willingly go.

He laughed. Not a drunken, sloppy laugh, but a tight, sad noise that came from deep in his chest. "No, Olivia. I'm not mad. Leastwise not at you." He stood in the doorway with his shoulders slumped, staring at her sadly. "Don't wait up for me, Livvy-love. I'll be very late."

It was cold when he opened the door, but even colder when it closed and she stood in the kitchen of their home, alone, his words ringing in her ears. Had he called her Livvy-love? He hadn't called her that since she was twelve years old and he had stolen a kiss behind the barn.

But that was before Kirsten had come into his life. And left it.

Damn him! Two little words and he'd managed to fan the fire of hope that kept burning in her chest no matter how hard she tried to put it out. For three years he'd poured cold water on her hopes and dreams and plans for the future. And just when she'd made peace with his coldness, his distance, he up and called her
Livvy-love
. And then walked out the door.

Don't even hope, Olivia,
she warned herself.

But a smile found its way to the corners of her mouth.

He's gone out for hard drinking, of all things,
she reminded herself.

But the smile remained there, just the same.

Chapter Two

The sun seared Spencer's eyes right through his lids. He squeezed them more tightly closed, but just moving his facial muscles hurt like hell. Inside his mouth a fire raged out of control, but his lips were sealed with the same glue that attached his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Whatever he had eaten the previous day was working its way up from his stomach through his chest, and he rolled over as slowly as he could and stuck his hand beneath the bed to find the chamber pot to puke in.

His hand smashed hard against the porch floor, sending a jarring pain up to his elbow. Of course. He wasn't in his bed. He had spent the night on the porch settee, afraid of what might happen if he crawled into the warm bed he shared with Olivia.

"You awake?"

He shielded his eyes from the rising sun that threatened to blind him and opened one gingerly. The shadow of a heavyset man leaned against his porch railing. "Remy? That you?"

He saw the shadow's head nod and searched the floor with his hands until he found his glasses.

"Something wrong?" he asked, blinking until Remy came into focus.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Remy said. He looked to be leaning casually on the rail, but his voice was so tense that Spencer forced himself to sit up.

The excesses of the previous night moved along with him and he gagged, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You reek, you know," Remy said with more than a little disgust dripping from his voice.

"You come here just to tell me that?" Spencer asked. His head was swimming, but the rest of his body was going down for the third time.

"I came here because I heard you had quite a brick in your hat last night," Remy said. "Then I find you spent the night on the porch. Olivia finally throw you out?"

Spencer grimaced as he tried to right himself on the settee. Maple Stand was too damn small a town for a man like him. A man spent just one lousy night drinking whiskey instead of beer, corn juice instead of wine, and before he was up the next morning his neighbors knew all about it. Wasn't it bad enough he'd have to face Olivia? Did he have to take on her damn brother, too?

"Olivia must be cross as two sticks," Remy said, his voice betraying the shift from anger at Spencer's actions to pity for his condition. "Must have been quite a night."

"Yeah, I guess," Spencer said, sitting up and settling himself on the bench at last. It had been quite a night, indeed. He'd begun drinking to forget and when he was drunk enough not to feel the pain, he continued drinking to remember. Of course, remembering brought a new round of pain that needed to be forgotten. And so it went for longer than he cared to recall. He was grateful, in the end, that Curly George knew the way home without needing to be guided.

"I ought to broach your claret, you know. Right here and now. Loosen a few teeth and maybe jiggle those brains straight."

"Great, Remy. You do that." He leaned back against the newly sewn pillows on the settee and closed his eyes. "If I'm still alive when you're done, wake me up."

"This time she's not gonna forgive you, Williamson. You know that."

"Remy," Spencer said with contempt, "you knew when you suggested I marry her that she don't get mad. If Olivia's got a mean, unforgiving bone in her body, I sure haven't found it yet. And believe me, I've tried."

"So you gotta keep testing her? Keep pushing at her till she finally breaks?"

"Liv hasn't got a breaking point, or she would have reached it before now. I swear it, Remy." His stomach rumbled, but the thought of food nauseated him. "Can't say the same for me, though. So say your piece and get it over with. What are you doing here this early, anyway?"

"You really bear away the bell, don't you?" Remy asked, studying Spencer and making him uncomfortable. "Think you're the only one who ever lost someone they loved? Didn't the diphtheria take Charlie Zephin's wife? Didn't it take the little Delisse girl? Didn't it—"

Spencer interrupted him. "I didn't lose
someone
. I lost
everyone
. And I didn't lose Wilma Zephin. I lost Kirsten."

Remy let out a heavy sigh. They'd both been over this territory too many times. And still the pain was there, raw and putrid like some open wound.

Finally, after what seemed to Spencer like forever as memories danced in his head, his friend just shrugged and said, "I guess I was worried about you... And Livvy, too. I know things aren't working out so well and I just wanted to help if I could."

"Wouldn't you say you've helped enough?" Spencer asked. What a mistake this whole marriage had turned out to be, And while it was no day in the park for him, it had to be a slow burn in Hades for Olivia. He shut his eyes and tried to control the rising tide of emotion that just last night had overtaken him and left him crying like a baby on his own front porch. Oh, what he'd done to poor Olivia, who had always loved him.

"You complaining? 'Cause I'll be real happy to take my sister home anytime she wants to come. If I'd have known you'd become such a goddamn heel I'd never have let her marry you in the first place."

"Let her?" Spencer said, raising one eyebrow in question.

"We woulda been real happy if she'd stayed with us forever, but no, she wanted you and nobody but you, God help her. She loved you. Seems like she still does, though for the life of me I can't figure out why. I can't see that there's anything worth loving anymore."

Remy was right. Olivia did love him, loved him from way back when they were all just kids. Still loved him, despite how hard he tried to change her mind. Why couldn't she see, as he and Remy did, that there was very little, if anything, left to love? If only she could stop loving him, maybe he could stop hurting her.

He caught his upper lip between his teeth and bit down to regain control of himself. But the truth wouldn't go away, even if he could keep the tears at bay.

"Spence? You all right?"

He nodded, unable to speak. He should have refused to marry Olivia, insisted that she marry someone else, anyone else. If he wasn't going to give her what she hoped for, what she deserved, then he should have stepped aside and left her to someone who would. And there were plenty that would. There wasn't a person in Maple Stand that didn't have a soft spot for his wife. Probably because there wasn't a person in Maple Stand she hadn't done something kind for. And this was the thanks she got. A drunk who wouldn't even see his duty through in her bed.

Yes, he should have let someone else have her. Someone who could love her. She deserved that, at the very least.

But the truth was that had he not married her, she never would have married at all... When he'd chosen Kirsten over her, never having taken Olivia's affection seriously, she had solemnly vowed that she would never love anyone else. And she had proven true to her word, much to his disappointment. When he thought about it, and he rarely let himself think about it, he had to admit that he had been making Olivia unhappy for more years than he cared to count.

"Well, it's good that you slept out here," Remy said, looking off toward the horizon.

Spencer had no doubt of that. Olivia's warm, willing body had been waiting for him inside, that silky skin that smelled like lilacs and felt like rose petals. He might have forgotten himself, got carried away, on a night like last night. But the pleasure came with too high a price. A price he swore he'd never pay.

"You being drunk, and all," Remy continued when Spencer said nothing. "Everyone knows that if you're drunk when . . . well, the kid'll turn out addled, and that surely wouldn't make Olivia too happy, would it?"

Spencer Wasn't sure. Olivia had become so desperate that maybe even an afflicted baby was better than no baby at all. Besides, the idea was ridiculous. "You don't believe that old wives' tale, do you?" he asked.

"It's no tale," Remy assured him. "I read it in a book.
Transmission of Life
. It's by a doctor. I'll bring it over for you. It could—"

"What are you doing with a book about that kind of stuff?" Spencer asked, studying his old friend and wondering, maybe for the first time, what went on between Remy and Bess.

Remy smiled wryly, as if he knew that Spencer had been so wrapped up in himself he hadn't even thought about anyone else in years. It seemed to please him that he had some kind of proof that Spencer was a selfish bastard. Hell, it had taken Remy long enough to realize it.

Remy just shrugged in answer. Like all the Sacottes, his wife included, Remy was private by nature. And Spencer was grateful. He had enough problems of his own. He didn't need Remy and Bess's, too.

"I'll bring it over," Remy said again. "It might help with your problem." He raised his eyebrows toward the house.

"I don't have a problem!" Spencer shouted, hurting his head and making himself dizzy.

"Want to make a wager on that?" Remy asked, his eyes on the door that had just opened and revealed a very angry-looking Olivia.

"I never bet anymore," Spencer said quietly as he rose unsteadily to his full height. Betting required luck, and Spencer didn't have any, that was for sure. "Morning, Olivia."

"Morning yourself, Mr. Williamson." She looked him up and down with disdain, but all she said was "Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes. You might take the time to get cleaned up." She turned to her brother. "Remy, you staying for something to eat?"

"No, no," Remy Said, raising his hand up and backing off the porch. "Just needed to discuss something with Spencer. Gotta get back to the farm. Got the boys helping out with the planting. I ought to be around, helping, overseeing, you know. Those boys of mine haven't got one farmer's bone in their bodies. If it didn't speak ill of Bessie, I'd swear they had someone else's blood running through their veins." His voice trailed off as he took the steps backward.

"What's the matter with you?" Olivia asked, surprised to see her brother babbling.

"You hear anything about the spur?" he asked, his tone hushed.

"Heard it's just a rumor. And speaking of rumors, I suppose his drinking's all over town?"

Remy shrugged and gave her a stupid grin as if he were the one with something to apologize for.

"Grand. I don't get enough pitying looks in church? Dammit, Spencer . . ." She looked up for him, but he was gone, no doubt at the pump trying to make himself presentable enough to come into her clean house.

As always, he was trying. Sometimes he succeeded at smoothing things over. Sometimes he didn't. But to her way of thinking, except for his very occasional excesses at drinking, Spencer Williamson wasn't nearly as bad a husband as he seemed to think. He was fair, considerate, and kind as ever a man could be. Even in their bed, he was patient and gentle, never hurting her, never getting so carried away that he forgot she was his wife and not some harlot there for the pleasure of it.

No, Spencer's fault lay not in what he did, but in what he couldn't do. He couldn't forget and he couldn't move on, and who was to blame for that but her? She hadn't been able to replace Kirsten in his heart and she hadn't been able to give him a child to replace the ones he had lost.

Not that he ever made her feel guilty about her inability to give him a child. In fact, he pretended to be relieved, half the time, as if he didn't even want her to bear him another son or daughter at all. But she'd seen him with Peter and Margaret, and no matter what he said, how he denied it, Spencer Williamson loved children more than any man on the face of this earth. More than Remy loved his children. More than Julian loved his. Just the thought of Julian's children lifted her spirits and made her forget her anger.

Julian's children! Spencer and she would take Julian's children into their home and into their hearts. She knew that was what would happen. She just knew it. Her heart sang at the very thought. So loudly, in fact, that she didn't even hear Spencer at first.

"Olivia? All right if I come in?" Spencer asked meekly through the screen door. "I'm clean, dripping and freezing my tail off. I could dress out here, though, if you like."

"Spencer Williamson!" Olivia said, fairly singing. "You come right in here this minute and get dry." She came toward him and opened the door wide enough for him to come through without getting her as wet as he was. "Go by the stove and I'll get you some fresh clothes."

Going through his drawers, Olivia hummed the first two stanzas of "Amazing Grace" and tried to remember the songs of her childhood. In just about a month or so she'd be singing lullabies, and wiping noses, and tying boots. And laughing. Houses with children should always be filled with laughter.

"Here you go," she said, handing Spencer a pile of clean clothing and lifting his jaw to close the mouth that stood gaping at her. "Quickly, now, or your eggs'll burn."

She rushed past him in a blur, anxious to save breakfast, but he reached out a hand and clasped her shoulder. "Slow down, Liv, or I'm likely to lose whatever's left in my stomach. "

Teach you to go out drinking hard liquor,
she thought, but even the knowledge that the whole town knew he needed to drown his sorrows couldn't put a damper on her spirits. With exaggerated slowness she made her way to the stove and dished rather brown eggs and decidedly crisp bacon onto the fancy china.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched Spencer lower his work pants and step out of them. His woolen drawers hung loosely around his waist, dipping well below his belly button and revealing damp curly hair that thickened the lower it went. It matched the hair on his chest and looked equally coarse. She'd never actually felt it, except through her nightgown. Was it soft, or . . . ?

She snapped her attention back to the plates in her hands, mortified by the road her mind had wandered down. Decent women, she was sure, didn't think about their husband's bodies. It was just that Spencer was filling out again, no longer the skeleton she had married three years ago. She took his form as silent praise of her cooking and noted that even his cheeks were fuller now. His heavy bottom lip no longer seemed to dominate his face and make him look so sad.