‘C’mon! Punch me! Anywhere you want. Punch hard.’
He meant it. My arm drew back and flew for his shoulder, but he dodged left and brought a light fist into my waist, aiming for one of those weak spots.
‘When you punch,’ he said between quick breaths, ‘you’ve got to be ready to get punched. You’ve got to move.’
I saw my advantage while he was talking and tried for his stomach but he was fast and blocked me, his forearm pounding down on mine before he threw his fists up again. He aimed to spar so I tried again, my wrist throbbing. My fist glanced off his shoulder and then we were dancing and throwing punches and circling like dogs meeting until his breath and mine were heavy.
My hands were up for blocking when he threw me down to the scrawny grass, still wet from the last rain. The damp went through my dress, Jeremiah pressing me into the ground, his body stretching more than the length of me, trapping my hands against his chest.
‘Can we practice again tomorrow?’ I asked between breaths that made me feel how my bodice didn’t fit right no more.
‘Sure,’ he said smiling with everything, his eyes so focused I thought he saw through me, ‘I’ll practice with you.’
He’s looking at me like that now as he takes my elbow. ‘Here,’ he says, his hands moving to my lower back. ‘Here.’ He brushes my lip with the tip of his finger, moving down to my chin, tracing my throat on his way to my chest.
‘What have we got to practice? I already know how to fight,’ I tease, turning back to breathe onto the tinder nest and kindling. It has barely caught fire, the flames licking at the dry wood.
‘Oh there’s plenty for us to do, just you and me,’ Jeremiah says, his arms coming round my waist.
‘You mean like getting this stove burning hotter?’ I wriggle away from him, moving to get another log out of the box. ‘Ain’t you hungry?’ I ask.
Jeremiah looks at me, his eyebrows raised, his cheeks still pink from the cold, his hair sleek, and rubs his hands together. ‘I ain’t talking about cooking,’ he says. ‘We already had cake.’
He is a fine-looking man with his bright blue eyes and clean-lined face and maybe it is too much, having him even for the two weeks before he is gone to enlist. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
‘What is it?’ Jeremiah asks, coming to put his hands on my shoulders.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing except I like being here with you.’
‘I like being here with you,’ he says, and I have to bite my tongue not to ruin the thing.
‘I ought to get supper started,’ I say, but his arms tighten.
‘You know, I’ve never seen your hair loose,’ Jeremiah says, and then his fingers are teasing gently at Mama’s tortoiseshell combs, my hair falling in waves. ‘I have always wanted to do that,’ he murmurs, sweeping it back away from my face and turning me to look at him. He runs his hands down my arms and leads me across the hall to that big bed. When he crushes himself against me I feel everything and when his hands go under my skirt I let him touch there, I want to feel more. When he asks if I am cold, if that is why I am shivering, I shake my head no and that is the truth.
CHAPTER
3
WAKEFIELD FARM: FEBRUARY 1862
When Jeremiah is but a few days from leaving, we go for family supper at the Big House. I wear my wedding dress because that is the best I’ve got, and my thoughts are of butterflies new out of their cocoons. But sitting at their big table laid out in its own room, I don’t care how fine the Wakefields’ spread is with all their matching dishes the color of cream right before it turns to butter. I see how Jeremiah’s Ma and Pa don’t sit next to each other, how they put their children between them, their sons on one side and their daughters-in-law on the other, the grandchildren in the kitchen.
When everyone has sat, Jeremiah across from me and his brothers’ wives on either side, Jeremiah’s Pa says grace. For years I have seen him silent in the church pew, never even singing the hymns, but his voice is loud now.
Then the table is so quiet, quieter even than at home when Mama and Papa are fighting. There is the sound of bowls passing from hand to hand, of knives scraping across plates, of Jeremiah’s Pa chewing loud. It feels like holding my breath, serving myself at this table. I put a lamb chop and potatoes and a biscuit on my plate. It is a feast, even without the canned peaches that Jeremiah’s Ma says Alice brought special. I look down so no one will catch me wanting more, so no one will think how I have brought nothing for this meal.
Every time I look up from my plate, Jeremiah is quick to smile, his eyes shining. Alice and James don’t look at each other once, and her hands shake when she passes a plate to me. Sarah clears her throat but says nothing, and I try to keep myself small. When James finally speaks, there is a hardness in his voice.