Every Hidden Thing (22 page)

B
EFORE WE LEFT MURCHISON'S OFFICE,
Mrs. Cummins touched my arm and pressed ten dollars into my hand.

“A small wedding gift,” she said.

“That's too kind of you,” Rachel said, blushing, “really, we can't—”

“Sure we can,” I said.

“I know how hard it can be for young people starting out,” Mrs. Cummins said. I think her eyes might have been moist.

“Thank you,” I said.

Marriage certificate clutched in one hand, I lead Rachel out through the saloon. I felt like I was moving without taking steps.

“She was certainly on the train with us,” Rachel whispered. “She was very friendly with your father.”

“Yes,” I said.

“It was very generous of her to give us a gift.”

“Not really. It's a fraction of what she stole from us.”

“What?”

I told her the story as we crossed the street to the hotel. It seemed like the most hilarious thing in the world right now, and we were both laughing when someone called out, “Miss Cartland!” I looked and saw Daniel Simpson up the street, waving.

“I was hoping we'd have a little more time,” Rachel said.

We hurried into the hotel and went upstairs. The clerk watched us disapprovingly but said nothing.

Inside her room—
our
room—we locked the door, giggling like naughty schoolchildren. I was in a hotel room, alone with a woman. I put my arms around her and kissed her. We were both trembling. I felt slightly feverish.

“We did it,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Are we crazy?”

There was a knocking on the door.

“Who is it?” Rachel asked.

“Miss Cartland, it's Daniel. Are you all right?”

“Just resting, thank you.”

“I saw you outside on the street.”

I looked at her, wondering what her response would be.

“Just getting a breath of fresh air.”

“The clerk says he saw you with a young man. It looked to me like Samuel Bolt. Are you sure you're all right?”

“Absolutely fine, Mr. Simpson.”

“Could you open the door, please, just so I can be sure you're all right?”

“Honestly, I'd like some peace and quiet.”

“The clerk is concerned as well. He's offered to unlock the door if you won't.”

With an irritable sigh, she opened the door to reveal the both of us to Simpson.

His face paled. He swallowed and said, “Miss Cartland, my instructions were to take you to the fort.”

He was looking at me the whole time he spoke.

“I won't be going to the fort. You can tell my father I'm staying here. And I am not Miss Cartland anymore. I am Mrs. Bolt.”

I think I must have looked as shocked as Simpson; it was the first time I'd heard those words myself. Mrs. Bolt.

Simpson's dry mouth clicked as he spoke. “You're married?”

“We are.”

“Your father will want to hear this.”

“I doubt that,” she said, “but you can tell him if you like.”

She closed the door in his stunned face. We stood, holding our breaths until we heard his boots clapping down the stairs.

“His face,” she said. For a bit neither of us could speak, we were laughing so hard. Nothing seemed real. The chair, the chest of drawers. The bed.

“He won't leave till tomorrow, will he?” she asked.

“Not unless they want to travel in the dark.”

“Papa won't get here till noon tomorrow, then.”

“There's nothing they can do anyway,” I said. “We're married.
They'll just have to accept it. And by the time they get here we'll already have left town.”

“Yes.”

Awkwardly we regarded each other.

I said, “We belong to each other now.”

I was surprised to see her bristle. “I'm not sure I like the idea of belonging to anyone. It makes me think of what I just escaped, being kept in a series of rooms, and allowed out from time to time.”

“I didn't mean it like . . .” I shook my head. “You really aren't one bit romantic, are you?”

“You know I'm not. But I
am
your wife now.”

Standing beside the bed, we kissed. Our hands and mouths became more urgent. She released her hair and let it fall about her face and over her shoulders, and I touched it and held it to my face so I could breathe it in. There was no part of her I wasn't allowed to touch now. We traced each other's contours and pulled each other closer. She asked me to draw the curtains. I was glad of the simple request, because a kind of frenzy was stealing over me, and I was mute with desire.

When I turned, she said, “Undress me.”

There were so many buttons and hooks and eyes. Every bit of new skin I uncovered I had to break off to kiss. I'd never imagined such a warm, supple creature could spring from all those stiff layers. Still it was an absorbing business and required some attention. She laughed as I removed her boots and her stockings and blouse and said it tickled. She got quieter when I reached her last
layer of undergarments. I paused, and she stepped back against the bed and removed the final things herself. She did it practically, without any fanfare, and stood before me.

I'd never seen a woman naked. There was a great deal to look at.

“You're beautiful,” I said. I wanted to touch everything.

“You now,” she said with a gesture that was both playful and impatient. “Come on.”

Hurriedly I stripped off my sweaty trousers and shirt and vest and underpants. In dismay I looked down to see myself—that part which had always been so lively and troublesome in the past—suddenly and completely withered.

“It's . . . ,” I mumbled, tensing my thigh muscles and urging it to lift, “suddenly defective. I don't know what to do with the fellow.”

“Let him alone for now,” she said. “Lie down beside me.” Pulling back the covers, she climbed into bed and shifted over for me to join her. “This bed has had many visitors,” she said as the springs creaked.

“Do you think it's seen a wedding night?”

“I think it's seen many,” she laughed, bouncing on the saggy mattress.

We each bounced a bit, seeing who could make the longest and most tortured squeak. The sheets, though clean enough, couldn't quite conceal the mildew of the mattress. And a faint whiff of urine that came and went when one moved around. But our door was bolted, and the window curtained, and this little room was ours alone.

We turned to face each other. I was aware of the heat of her body, all the length of it. I loved it. When I touched her cheek, it was scalding. I kissed her and whispered that hers was the most beautiful body I'd ever seen, and she told me it was the
only
body I'd ever seen and anyway that it was just a regular body. Then she took my hand and placed it upon her and showed me how best to touch her.

And then, even if I'd counted down from a thousand, and had Mrs. Shaw perched on our bed, nothing could have withered me.

“You're not one bit defective,” Rachel whispered to me.

When I moved myself on top of her, it took a bit of fumbling to find the right place. But after that it felt like her body and mine, all our parts, were designed to fit perfectly together.

She winced. Her eyes were wide, and we watched each other, mesmerized. I felt a huge heat and urgency flooding me, but her face flinched with my movements. Then her eyes closed tight and her eyelids crinkled and water beaded from their edges.

“I'm hurting you,” I said, stopping, though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

She began to cry. “I'm sorry. I didn't think it would be so painful.”

“We don't have to,” I said.

“Keep going,” she said.

I shook my head, mortified, wondering what I was doing wrong.

“Maybe it's meant to hurt,” she said.

“Is it?”

“I'm not sure. No one ever told me.”

No one had told me anything either. A house filled with books and not one to tell me what I should be doing now.

“We can wait,” I said. Her tears had made me wither anyway.

“Is there blood? There's supposed to be blood the first time.”

I looked at the sheets and shook my head.

“Hold me for a while?” she said.

I brought her close, and she put her head on my chest, her arm across me.

“You're kind,” she said, pressing closer. “I feel safe with you.”

I stroked her hair and inhaled her scent and stared at the ceiling. I couldn't quite believe anything right now. I felt exultant and terrified. I felt like a conquering hero, and like a soldier shot and waiting for death. I felt that I'd never sleep again, but I did. We both did.

When I woke, it was dark but close to dawn. Light made a pale line between the curtains. Our bodies had parted during the night, and you were turned away from me on your side, still asleep.

I'm not sure why I didn't wake you. My body wanted more of you, but you were sleeping, and I'd never seen you like that. I liked seeing your hair fanned across the pillow. I propped myself on an elbow and looked at your ear, your cheek, your nose. You had a small raised mole on your neck. I stared at your face, and you didn't wake up. I felt like you were completely mine.

And then I didn't want to be alone any longer, so I kissed your mole, traced its shape with the tip of my tongue. I pressed my nose into the nape of your neck and inhaled you, and nudged and nuzzled you until you turned yourself to me with a sleepy smile.

“Did you sleep too?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I just watched over you all night, stunned by your beauty.”

She snorted. “Not a romantic bone in my body, remember?”

“Maybe I can find one,” I said, kissing her throat.

The rapping at the door was sharp enough to send us both sitting ramrod straight.

“What time is it?” I whispered pointlessly. My pocket watch was in my clothing, scattered across the floor.

Sternly, from beyond our door: “Rachel. It's your father.”

I couldn't imagine four more horrifying words. “Don't get it,” I whispered. I'd known that, sooner or later, we'd have to contend with her father. But I hadn't thought it would come so fast. Simpson must've ridden through the night with the soldiers to deliver his news.

“Samuel!”

I jolted again. That was
my
father's voice. They were both there. On the other side of the door.

“It's too early,” Rachel said with impressive command. I was filled with admiration. “Come back later, please.”

The sound of a key in the lock. The doorknob turning. Rachel clutched the sheets to her throat. The door swung open. I caught sight of the hotel clerk, sneaking a peek inside before backing up so Cartland and my father could enter. They strode with such purpose—like emissaries from a great power—and I almost laughed.

Seeing them side by side, united, was almost as shocking as
having them at the foot of my bed. With me naked beneath the covers beside my new, equally naked wife. They were both grimy from the long ride, exhausted-looking, and stern.

“Get up,” Cartland told his daughter.

“I can't,” she retorted. “I'm not wearing anything.”

In mute fury Cartland turned to my father, like this was all his fault.

“We're married now,” I said, as steadily as I could.

“This marriage never took place,” Cartland said.

I told him it was done in front of witnesses and the justice of the peace.

“Fortunately,” said Cartland, “out here in the territories, a marriage leaves very little fossil record. Mr. Murchison has been most cooperative.”

From a pocket he produced a sheet of paper and held it before us long enough for me to see it was the original copy of our marriage certificate, torn from the justice's ledger.

“I imagine the witnesses can be made forgetful for a few dollars,” he added, and proceeded to rip the certificate into tiny and tinier pieces.

“That doesn't change anything,” said Rachel. “We have our own copy.”

“Ah, this one,” her father said, spotting the certificate we'd giddily placed on the chest of drawers last night.

“Put that down,” I said. “We're married. You'll have to accept it.”

“I'll do no such thing. You are two children who did a rash thing without consent—”

“We don't need your consent!” I told him. “Give me that!”

I could tell he was going to rip it, and I leaped out of bed naked.

Cartland tore it down the middle. Let the halves flutter to the floor. I charged at him, murderous, but my own father stepped out and punched me in the stomach.

“Have you known her?” Father demanded as I gasped, sagging to one knee. I hated him. I spluttered upright and punched him as hard as I could in the face. He staggered back, and I moved to hit him again when Cartland flicked his knuckles across my privates. I fell to my knees, gagging.

“How dare you!” I heard Rachel yell. “Don't you dare touch him! You can rip up the certificates. It doesn't change a thing. We've spent a night together as man and wife.”

“I see,” said my father, dabbing blood from his split lip.

“We're married,” I said, standing. My voice didn't shake. “You know this can't be undone. God's witnessed it.”

Father's fury was instant. “Do not invoke God's name. What happened has nothing to do with God. This was not a considered thing you did. She is
not
a Friend. This marriage
never
happened.”

I'd anticipated their rage, but not this—their total refusal to acknowledge the marriage. I felt completely upended. They'd destroyed the evidence. They'd bribe the witnesses. They'd lie. They wanted to separate us forever.

“And what if I'm with child?” Rachel demanded from the bed.