Garters.htm (28 page)

"Can't you just leave the eggs in the ponds?" she asked.

Cleav shook his head. "There are too many predators. Birds, frogs, and lizards consider fish eggs a treat. I hate to admit this, but a lot of my fish are so dumb they don't know family from food."

Her eyes widened. "You mean they eat their own babies?"

"It can happen. That's why I keep the small fry separate from their elders until they're old enough to defend themselves."

"It seems kind of sad," Esme said.

"For me, too," Cleav admitted. "Nature isn't always sweet and pretty the way we'd like it to be. I am a student of the natural order and have great admiration for it, but I believe there must be a balance."

"What kind of balance?''

"It's hard to explain," Cleav answered, wrinkling his brow as he sought the best phrasing. "Some men believe that only human needs are important. That trees should be cut to make farmland and dangerous animals should be destroyed routinely.''

Cleav sighed and shook his head. "In contrast to that, there are many naturalists who would alter nothing. They believe that man should not use his superior intelligence to compete with animals and plants."

"But you don't agree with either view," Esme said.

"No," Cleav answered with a chuckle. "I agree with both." He turned his gaze to look out the doorway to the ponds beyond the hatching house.

"It's like a man with a house full of children," he said. "I believe it's his duty to see that his children have bread on the table every day."

He turned his eyes back to Esme. "But that doesn't mean that he can ignore his neighbor's children who may be hungry."

He reached for Esme's hand. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Esme smiled at him. "You are a wonderful man, Cleavis Rhy," she told him.

"I'm just a man," he said. "Trying to do what I think best. That's why I prefer keeping the fish as close to their wild heritage as I can. The spawning box helps me do that. It's more natural."

"More natural?" Esme asked. "More natural than what? What do other people do?"

"Well, most trout breeders simply wait till me fish are fertile and then catch them in nets," he told her. "They pick a fish up in their hands and then press on its abdomen. If it's a female and she's ripe, the eggs will just pour right out of her into a pan. They can be fertilized right in the pan and taken immediately to the hatching house. The fish don't really have much to do with it."

"But with the spawning box, they do?" Esme asked.

Cleav nodded. "Those trenches I've built at the far end of the ponds are called the races. When it's time for the female to lay her eggs, she wants to go as far upstream as she can and find a nice still place to leave them.

"I put this box in the far end of the races. I put lots of nice gravel on the top here for her nest and then I just leave it alone."

Cleav's eyes were bright with the excitement and pleasure of the memory.

"The female comes up to the top of the races, finds her nesting spot, and deposits her eggs. Her mate is watching her all the time, and when she leaves, he goes behind her and puts the milt on the eggs."

"Milt?"

Cleav hesitated. "Milt is the… well, it's what the male contributes to the egg to fertilize it."

"Is it like an egg, too?"

"No, it's more a fluid that the trout just spills on the eggs."

Esme's brow screwed up curiously. "Is it like people?" she asked in a cautious whisper.

"People?"

"You know," she said with a blush.

Cleav's mouth opened in surprise. Ladies never mentioned such things. As his shock receded, he laughed out loud.

"Yes, Esme," he said. "It's like people."

He pulled her into his arms and gave her a warm, loving hug. "I love being married to you," he said. It was the closest he could come to expressing his new feelings.

"Me, too," Esme admitted. "And I'm so glad we're people instead of trout."

"Why is that? Don't you know how to swim?"

"I swim just fine, Mr. Rhy," she said. "That wasn't at all what I was thinking about."

"What were you thinking?" he asked. "I'm always curious about the workings of your mind."

Esme giggled. "I was thinking that I wouldn't want us to be trout, 'cause then you wouldn't have any arms to hold me."

He immediately released her and stepped across the room.

"That's true, Esme," he said. "But it wouldn't be so bad. Sometimes a look is enough."

To prove his point, Cleav allowed his eyes to slowly travel along Esme's body. His pupils dilated with the pleasure of the sight.

"Perhaps we could create a scientific experiment," he said, "to determine if the sense of touch is absolutely necessary to create intimacy between a husband and wife?''

Without waiting for her consent, Cleav's look became a hot, fluttery caress across her skin. His lips parted as he examined the curve of her jaw and the length of her neck. Slowly he moved his gaze to the swell of her bosom, the trim-ness of her waist, the curve of her hip, and allowed his heart to remember the long, slim legs hidden beneath her skirts.

Esme felt her flesh quiver beneath his gaze: Forcing her chin up, she straightened her shoulders and looked back. He was so handsome, so strong, so warm and wonderful. His heart was so full and he talked with such sincerity and concern for all things. It was difficult to keep herself from running into his arms. But the challenge in his eyes stayed her.

Her nipples pressed anxiously against the fabric that covered her. But she was not the only one who could be affected by a look.

Giving free rein to her own eyes, she watched as Cleav swallowed nervously. Her gaze wandered down his face to the broad strong shoulders that bore such care, the long sinewy arms that held her with such strength, and the large, long-fingered hands that he kept so clean and touched her with so tenderly. She felt a warmth of joy and possession as she allowed her eyes to travel the length of his masculine torso to the front of his trousers. He was already partially aroused. The sight brought a slight smile to Esme's face.

"One thing about this experiment," Esme pointed out. "When the fish look at each other, they aren't wearing clothes."

A slow smile spread across Cleav's face as he reached for the buttons on his shirt.

Sunday dawned bright and springlike as the Rhys, both the mister and missus as well as Cleav's mother, Eula, prepared to attend church.

Esme hummed with pleasure as she donned the new dress she had made for herself. The pretty pink color was perfect for her and brought out the blush of her complexion in her cheeks.

One week married, and it was heaven. Thinking back to the worries and concerns that had plagued her this time last Sunday, she laughed lightly. Cleav didn't love her, that was true. But he was such a fair and honorable man, and so tender and considerate, marriage was surely enough.

Touching the beautiful material of her new gown almost with reverence, she sighed in near bliss. He was so good to her.

"Imagine how he would treat a woman that he really loved," she whispered to herself and then glanced at her reflection in the glass with distaste.

She refused to long for what could never be. A lifetime of deprivation had taught her to appreciate what she had.

"You look beautiful," Cleav said from the doorway.

"Do you like it?" she asked. "I hope you don't mind that I used the material, but I knew that you could never sell it. You know how I hate to see things go to waste."

Cleav came closer to rub the fabric gently between his fingers.

"The rose crepe de chine," he whispered. He leaned closer to ask. "How did you manage to get the stain out?"

"I didn't completely," Esme admitted with embarrassment. "So I used that part for the inner facings of the yoke."

Laying a hand gently over her heart, she told him, "It's here."

Stunned by the feelings that welled up inside him, Cleav was frozen momentarily. Then gently he lay his head against the site where her hand had been.

"Oh, Esme I—" He hesitated, suddenly fearful of his own words. "I don't deserve you."

He planted a kiss on her bosom. And one led to another. Had Eula Rhy not called to them from downstairs several moments later, the Rhys would have forgotten about the Sunday service completely.

As he walked to church between the two women, Cleav was still struggling with his emotions as their light conversation finally captured his attention.

"That is a lovely dress, Esme," Mrs. Rhy said politely.

"Thank you," she answered. "I'm not the seamstress that my sisters are, but I tried to do the fabric justice."

"And beautiful fabric it is," Mrs. Rhy agreed. "I was beginning to wonder if Cleav intended for you to wear that dreary serge forever."

Esme's mouth flew open in silent shock.

"Well said, Mother," Cleav commented hurriedly. "I have been remiss about seeing to a proper wardrobe for my wife."

He turned to smile kindly at Esme. "Why don't the two of us go down to the store this afternoon and look through the materials we have on hand. I'm sure we can find several things that you like."

"I don't really…" Esme hesitated. "I mean… you don't have to give me new clothes."

Her embarrassment was clear, but Cleav refused to let the subject drop. "Nonsense, I'm not
giving
you the clothes. You are my wife. Everything that I own, you own. That's the law of God and man."

Feeling she already had so much, Esme cringed at the idea of further burdening her husband.

"I don't really need anything," she persisted. "I'm used to wearing old clothes. It doesn't bother me."

"Well, it bothers
me
!" Eula Rhy snapped in unkindly.

Cleav glared at his mother. "You must have new clothes," Cleav said gently to Esme. "Would you want the people of Vader to think I can't provide for you?"

"Of course not," she answered. "But everybody knows—''

"Everybody knows that you are my wife and that the wife of a gentleman always dresses as well as he can afford."

He was so adamant, Esme felt she had no choice but to acquiesce. But his words continued to haunt her, darkening her light mood of the morning.
The wife of a gentleman
. His mother had told it right the night of the wedding. How could plain, poor Esme Crabb live up to something like that?

They reached the church in good time. Cleav gallantly escorted both women through the crowd as he paused occasionally to have a word with one person or the next. He was proud of the beautiful woman beside him in rose crepe de chine. He felt a strength, a belonging, a completeness that he hadn't felt since childhood.

Despite his faults and foibles, almost because of them, Esme cared for Cleavis Rhy, the hill-born pisciculturist and small-town storekeeper. She saw no need for him to be anything else.

At that sweet, precious moment on a Sunday morning in springtime, Cleavis Rhy was completely happy.

Joining her new husband for the first time at his pew in the left front of the church, Esme was less jubilant. Every eye in the church was focused upon them.

Ordinarily Esme would have realized that it was natural for a newlywed couple on their first public outing to attract attention, but already worried about being a "gentleman's" wife, Esme saw it as a critical judgment.

Sophrona Tewksbury walked with studied nonchalance to the front of the church. With her smile firmly in place, she stopped beside the pew of Cleav and Esme. "Good morning," she said, sweetly offering a hand to Cleav.

He took it and came to his feet. "Good morning to you, Miss Sophrona," he said. "You look lovely as always."

Esme didn't know if she was supposed to stand up or not. Fearing to make a social blunder in front of the congregation, she hesitated a moment then stood beside Cleav.

"Don't you look wonderful!" Sophrona exclaimed sincerely. "I knew that rose color was perfect for you."

"Th-thank you," Esme stuttered.

Sophrona leaned forward and embraced Esme, planting a sisterly kiss on her flushed cheek.

"I know you are busy settling into your new home," Sophrona said lightly. "But when you have time, do come over for a lemonade with me one afternoon."

"Of course," Esme blurted out a bit too loudly.

With a warm smile Sophrona made her way to the piano, where she seated herself daintily at the bench and immediately began to play.

"She's so kind," Esme whispered to herself.

"She's a lady," Eula Rhy whispered back beside her. "You'd do well to learn to emulate her."

Esme felt a clump of fear gnawing at the back of her throat. She could never be Sophrona Tewksbury, never in a dozen lifetimes.

She glanced over at Cleavis. She wished he could hold her, kiss her, tell her that she was beautiful. But marriage, she reminded herself, doesn't take place only in the bedroom. She'd have to learn to be his wife in every way.

The preacher's words were completely lost on her as Esme continued with her own thoughts throughout the service. She turned once to see her father and sisters come in the door, late as usual. But the rest of the time she tried to look as if she were paying attention. Sitting in the front of the church did not afford a person the opportunity for wool gathering that was enjoyed by those on the last pew.

Finally it was over, and Esme hoped to make a quick escape.

"Well, don't you look just shiny as a new penny." Pearly Beachum spoke up loudly as she embraced Esme like a long-lost daughter.

"Thank you," Esme choked out. The woman's bear hug had nearly taken the breath from her.

"Come take a look at this dress, Wilma," Mrs. Beachum encouraged another woman.

As the two women "oohed" and "ahhed" over the fabric, Pearly leaned forward to whisper in her ear, "I bet those silly-minded sisters of yours are pea-green with envy."

Esme was first startled, then angered. Did these old gossips think that now that she was married to Cleavis Rhy, she was no longer one of the Crabb family?

"Excuse me," she said as haughtily as she could manage. "I need to speak to my family. I haven't seen them for a week." Hurriedly, almost desperately, Esme made her way through the crush to her father's side.