JANUARY 19, 1755
“What did you say?”
My cheek rested against Ephraim’s bare chest, but still, even that close, I barely heard what he’d whispered. My hand lay on his heart, and he ran his fingers through my hair slowly, letting it slide through and fall back to pool around my bare shoulders. The sun wasn’t up, but even if it had been, we wouldn’t have known, for the storm still raged outside and the sky was as black as it had been for two days.
The cabin was warm, however, as were we.
The fire burned low and red in the hearth, casting a dreamy glow across the bed. Occasionally a draft of frigid air slipped beneath the door, and he pulled me closer, letting his skin warm mine. Nothing lay between us now. I’d taken off my shift with trembling hands the night before, and it remained on the floor, where it had fallen, when it slid over my shoulders and pooled at my feet.
“Hmm?” he asked, realizing only now that I’d asked a question.
I propped myself up on my elbow and looked into his cloudless eyes. “You said something. What was it?”
“Ah.” I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he blushed. “More Solomon.” “Oh.”
Ephraim had been whispering the Song of Solomon into my ear all night, calming me with ancient words that astonished me with the depth of their romantic understanding.
“You are altogether beautiful, my darling,” he repeated and pulled me back against him.
As promised, Ephraim had not tried to seduce me in the first days and weeks of our marriage. He had waited patiently. Kissed me whenever he pleased, and held me through every long, cold night. He waited, first until I bled, and then longer, until we were both half-mad with desire. I had wondered at first if his determination was so that he would know whether any child conceived was his or not. Surely that mattered to a man. But soon it became apparent that it was an assurance he wanted me to have. To know, one way or another. To remove a question that might linger for a lifetime. And we knew, plain enough, a week after we were married. And that of course made our situation less complicated for a few days. Gave us a chance to learn how to live in the same space without constantly dancing around the tension of not yet having consummated our marriage. But soon my cycle ended, and January came and brought with it the kind of cold and weather I associate only with this month. It brought winter and forced us inside except for all but the briefest tasks. It forced us into prolonged closer proximity.
As promised, he let the decision be mine. And because I did not know how to surrender, I waited too long. Even then he did not complain. But last night, preparing for bed, I knew. We had been married a month, and, in that time, Ephraim Ballard had proved what kind of man he was. I had nothing left to fear. It was time for me to decide what kind of wife I would be.
So I did.
But first I procrastinated, brushing my hair as I sat on the small stool before the fire.
I let him strip naked—as he always did—and climb into bed. I let him sit there and watch me for several long moments. Let his eyes run over everything that he could see. Then I set down my brush and went to stand before him. The look on my face must have been clear because he froze.
Didn’t draw a breath. Our eyes remained locked as I tugged my shift off one shoulder.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice husky.
I answered by baring my other shoulder so that the thin fabric could fall away. He said nothing as he gazed. Said nothing for long, uncountable seconds. But when Ephraim Ballard finally found his voice, I understood why he chose Song of Solomon as the text for my reading lessons. The words themselves were a primer, a perfect, exquisite example of how a man ought to take his wife to bed for the very first time. And, as Solomon had, Ephraim began at the top and worked his way down, illuminating the meaning of each line I’d so carefully transcribed into my book over the last month. Words that had seemed practical and agrarian but, when experienced as action, were nothing short of erotic.
How beautiful you are, my darling…. Your eyes…your hair…
Your lips…your mouth… Your neck…
Your breasts…
I will go my way to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of frankincense….
You are altogether beautiful, my darling….
You have made my heart beat faster with a single glance of your eyes….
Your lips, my bride, drip honey….
May my beloved come into his garden and eat its choice fruits….
These were the words whispered in my ear as I surrendered to every gaze and touch last night while the storm fell upon us, roaring its approval. Never have I been so warm. Never have I felt so safe. And then, hours later, he pulled me tighter as though terrified I would slip from our bed and break the spell. He whispered the words again, intent on kindling this newly wakened desire, determined to stoke it into a blaze that consumed us both.
