Chapter 27
Lilly had just finished smoothing a patchwork cloth over the small circular table she’d dragged into a prominent place in the sitting room when Jacob returned to the house, setting the large brown bottle of horse liniment onto the sink counter.
She entered the kitchen with resolve as he took off his hat and coat.
“Ach, gut. Will you please slip your shirt off your shoulder and sit down at the kitchen table?” There. Her voice sounded detached and calm, with just a hint of wifely concern.
Jacob turned from putting his hat on a nail. “What?”
She was not going to repeat herself. “Come on, it’s late, and you’ll feel ever so much better. It’s an old trick of Father’s—using the liniment, I mean.”
She grasped the big bottle and uncorked it. The distinctive pungent odor of mint and other herbs spread through the air. She looked at him expectantly.
“I don’t—what are you doing?”
She began to tap her foot, watching as he seemed to take an unwilling step closer to the table.
“Your shoulder, Jacob—you said it was hurting. I’ll put some liniment on and it’ll help. I want to help you as your wife should.”
She saw myriad emotions cross his face. He was probably wanting to laugh at the idea of using a horse medicine and no doubt didn’t savor the thought of her willing hands against his skin. She squelched the insecurity she felt and held to her purpose. He hurt; she was going to fix it.
“Danki, Lilly, but I’m fine, really. It was just a twinge.”
“Slip your shirt down and sit.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And so you may be.” She stopped her foot tapping and turned her back to him. She did not want him to see the tears of frustration and hurt rising in her eyes. Perhaps there was only one woman he wanted to be there for him. “Will I not be your fraa, Jacob?” she asked.
Then she remembered the look on his face when he saw her and Seth in an embrace. It might be that hurt that kept him distant now. She sighed, the truth weighing heavily upon her. She needed to forgive him as much as she needed his forgiveness.
She heard the surprise in his voice. “Lilly, I’m sorry. Here, I’ll do as you ask. Thank you for your help and concern.”
She turned around in time to see him ease his suspender down and had to catch her breath. She frowned. She was not going to be moved by his nearness. She concentrated on moving the end of the kitchen bench for him. She watched as his reluctant fingers pulled one side of his shirt from the waistband of his pants and then reached for his collar.
She waited while he slid the fabric from his arm, and when an unaccounted flush burned her cheeks, she decided that the fire must be built too high in the woodstove. She clenched her teeth as he exposed his shoulder and bent his head. I might as well get used to his undressing, she told herself, reaching to adjust a stray tendril of hair from the side of her kapp. He is my husband, after all—even if in name only.
He sank onto the corner of the bench and put his elbows on the table.
“Nee. Just let that arm relax,” she instructed.
He obeyed, dropping his left arm to hang down straight. She stepped over the bench, lifting her skirt in a bunch to sidle next to him. She tried not to notice his nearness and the scent of pine that clung to his skin.
“You don’t have to do this,” he muttered.
Oh, yes I do, she thought, angling closer to him.
“It’s not a problem, Jacob.”
She poured a handful of the liquid into her cupped palm, then put the bottle on the table.
“Is it very bad?” she asked, her hand poised near the scar.
Yes, her own mind whispered. This whole idea is very, very bad somehow because it wasn’t just about helping him any longer; it had become a hazardous intimacy.
“No. Go on.”
He jumped when she laid her hand against the back of his arm, causing her to startle as well, so that some of the liquid spilled from her palm and ran down the tanned length of his arm.
“Sorry,” she choked. “Are you all right?”
“Jah.”
Of course he was. It was only she who had these absurdly sensual thoughts.
Yet, perhaps he wasn’t as unaffected as she thought. His breathing was shallow and he stared fixedly at the wood grain of the table.
She began to move her fingers in a circular motion against his skin, first soft, then with increasing pressure, watching his pulse throb in the line of his throat with each seeking pass of her hand.
“It’s funny how your scar is beginning to look like a star in front here.” She kept her tone conversational.
“I … I can’t talk now,” he confessed in a rush, and she felt a warmth radiate along her shoulders at his admission.
“You don’t have to, Jacob. Just relax.”
She sought to deepen his comfort. She moved her palm to the back of his arm, finding different nerves and tendons. Then she raised her other hand to brace against the back of his shoulder so that she might gain better pressure.
He made a choked sound from the back of his throat.
“Does it feel good, Jacob?”
He nodded and she allowed herself to smile, trying to ignore the whisper of her mind. She wanted him to be unable to recall the ache of the wound. She wanted her hands to become an anchor for him, a rock thrown in the center of a pond—with him part of the resonance, the rippling outlay of wet and warmth and …
She stopped and rose, putting the cork back in the bottle. That was quite enough.
He let his head fall forward on the table atop his other arm.
“Now just sit there a moment, and I’ll put a cloth round your shoulder, so you needn’t get your shirt stained.”
He didn’t move until she’d finished her ministrations. Then he lifted his head and looked at her with distant eyes and a faint smile on his face.
“Jacob, are you falling asleep? Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll show you the Christmas table in the morning.”
He agreed, brushing past her with murmured thanks, then moving to the bedroom, leaving her behind with her hands tingling from far more than the burn of the liniment.
He sprawled facedown across the bed and felt the pull of deep sleep, something he’d thought to deny himself. But he was shaken, rattled to the core, by the touch of his wife, and sleep seemed like the least problematic way to handle the situation.
He looked so deeply asleep when she entered that she decided not to disturb him despite his domination of the bed space. She hastily changed into her nightgown and took down her hair, extinguished the lamp, and curled up in the rocking chair with an extra quilt.
Happy Christmas, Lilly.”
She woke slowly, unsure if the brush of Jacob’s lips against her mouth was real or part of a dream. She opened her eyes to find that the sun’s rays were beginning to climb the frosted window, heralding the day of Christ’s birth. She stretched beneath his gaze, feeling stiff and sore from her night in the chair, but smiled up at him just the same—before she caught herself.
She wondered if he’d dreamed of Sarah again last night.
“Happy First Christmas, Jacob.”
He was already fully dressed, wearing a green shirt that she remembered from Meeting that especially brought out the color of his eyes.
“Why the chair?” he asked.
“Ach, you were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to disturb you.”
He nodded and turned away from her to face the bed. “I … uh … I’ve been thinking, Lilly. I decided that it might be best if I slept on the floor for a while.” He went on in a rush while she felt her heart drop. “I think I’m used to a bigger bed—or something. And, when we both go back to work, we’ll … uh … need a good night’s rest. I believe the floor’s a gut idea. What do you think?” He turned back to her.
She struggled to reply, feeling bereft somehow. “That’s … fine, but surely you’ll be cold?”
He gave her a cheerful grin, and she sensed his relief. “I’m as hearty as a horse. Throw me a couple of quilts and I’ll be right as rain.”
She nodded, and he clapped his hands together as if marshaling his thoughts. “All right. I did the chores already. I’ll leave you to dress and I’ll peel the potatoes for lunch. I don’t think your mamm’s up yet.”
She wet her lips. “I’ll check on her in a bit. I’ll hurry.”
He was already at the door. “No hurry. Take your time, teacher. I know how to start getting things ready for the noon feast.” He left the room with a whistle, and she sat still beneath the quilt, feeling the desperate urge to pray.
Well, Lord … he can’t even sleep next to me. He loves Sarah so much—maybe I was wrong, Father. Wrong about everything. Maybe I tried to convince myself that this wedding was Your will. Maybe it was my own.
She half-sobbed aloud at the thought, then had the sudden desire to talk to Alice. She decided to dress and run over to the Planks’ for a few minutes, rising with determination, wiping away her tears.