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More than half of the rooms in their new house have yet to be wallpapered, the master bedroom among them.
Mary is quite indecisive about it, for she would dearly love their bedroom to be something a little vibrant, spirited even. However, she takes her dear husband’s point that it is a place for repose, and so she is considering tempering whatever colour she has in mind. Tom, for his part, intends to let Mary take her time, and thus the walls of this room remain plain and ivory-painted, for now.
They moved in three days ago. While Tom is occupied at work as usual, Mary has found herself equally busy with the decorations and furnishings. Though they do not have many household items between them, everything carried over from their previous, separate, unmarried lives still needs to find its proper place among the other’s things.
The one thing they did have to acquire for this house is their bed, for there are two of them now, every night in their sleep.
It takes a great leap of faith, she realises, the decision to share your life with another person.
Mary has never found it easy to share a bed, or even a private space, with someone else for any real length of time. She is the middle child of five, and growing up, she had always been rather solitary in that way. She remembers, as a little girl, watching Jane and Lizzie steal away to each other’s room for whispered conversation and end up falling asleep together in one of their beds, quite content. Kitty and Lydia were much the same. But not her.
She never shared her bed with anyone and it never once occurred to her that it might one day prove difficult. Not before she said yes to Thomas’s proposal, not even after, not until they moved into this small but handsome townhouse, which had taken the better part of Tom’s several years’ savings to acquire.
Mary has not slept a full night in the three nights they have been living here together, not properly, not before Tom woke, kissed her forehead, and made himself ready for work. She would then steal a few hours before rising and beginning her day.
And it is not that he snores, or tosses and turns, or anything of that nature. Tom is, in fact, a remarkably calm sleeper. He breathes quietly, with a slow and steady rhythm throughout the night, lying quite still, his hands clasped upon his lower chest, rather like a prince, truth be told. She knows all this because she has been lying on her side, watching him sleep, for three nights running now.
Mary had not gone to the Pelhams’ today, as their daughter had fallen sick. She took the opportunity and spent most of the daytime sorting through her books and placing them on the shelves. With the remaining hours before sundown, she wrote a letter to Mrs Hill, asking her to send over some of her recipe notes, for she has been thinking of teaching herself how to cook. Tom has expressed that he can provide, and given that she works as a daily governess, the last thing he needs is for her to burden herself with cooking besides. But Mary is determined. She thinks it would be rather nice to cook for their children, should they have them.
There are a few empty rooms upstairs, after all, and she knows Tom loves children.
After dinner, Mary did not stay in the drawing room for reading or playing the pianoforte for Tom as she had done the past few days. Three sleepless nights had finally caught up to her, she supposes. She excused herself, and Tom let her go with a sweet kiss to both her hands, before she made her way upstairs for a bath.
She lets out a long sigh as her body is submerged in hot water, up to her breasts. Her fair skin absorbs all the heat and turns pink with it. She leans her head back, feeling as though she could fall asleep at any given moment…
But the bedroom door suddenly opens.
“Oh!”
It closes in a heartbeat. By the hand of her dear husband.
“Sorry!”
Tom announces through the door, almost panicking.
Mary, though having very little time to even startle, jumps out of her skin, accidentally sinking herself wholly beneath the water and sending a great splash of it over the sides of the tub. Her small hands grip both edges of the tub as she resurfaces. The heat in her cheeks has nothing to do with the bath now. She reaches for her voice and for something to say, but both escape her entirely.
Should she say that it is fine? But why would it not be? They are married. Right? And it is not his fault. She had forgotten to lock the door or to inform him that she will be bathing.
“Uh — on second thought…” Tom speaks up first, somewhat clumsily, as the door slowly becomes ajar by his hand, until she can make out part of his face through the narrow gap.
That wooden tub is set up near the fireplace in their bedroom, warm light flickering gently across the room, by which he can make out Mary awkwardly drawing her wet hair forward over her bare shoulders as best she can. Tom watches her do so, suppresses a smile, and looks away to give her some privacy.
“Yes?”
“Hmm?” His eyebrows raise. His voice catches, pitched just a little high. He has lost his initial thought to another, after seeing her brush her hair forward like that.
“You were saying…”
Mary rubs her fingers together, absently, simply unable to look him in the eye.
“Oh, yes, on second thought, I think it is quite normal, is it not?”
Tom beams a rather nervous yet radiant smile at her. “I am your husband, Mary, my love.”
“And?” She looks confused.
“And…”
His lips press together before they form another smile, endearingly.
“…I think it is well within my rights to see my beautiful wife in a bathtub, is it not?”
“Now you are teasing me.”
“I am not.”
Tom stands there by the door, leaning against the frame, not intruding, not beyond a stolen glimpse of her shoulder in any case.
“Do you need anything? A towel? More hot water? Some extra hands to scrub your back properly, perhaps?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
Her directness cuts right through his poor heart.
He frowns, rather like a disappointed dog whose master has refused to take it for a walk on a bright and beautiful day. “Yes, ma’am.”
Tom closes the door. Very, very, slowly. His pleading eyes still lingering through that tiny gap. Mary chuckles, a little abashed, and leans her head back to relax.
When the door creaks open once more.
“Are you sure?” Her dear husband pleads again, somewhat playfully.
“Yes!” She exclaims.
The door seals shut. His laughter behind it soft but vivid as a sunlit spring day.
…
It has taken Mary quite a long while to bathe. The last thing Tom would want is to disturb her peace. Yet he too needs to wash up and get himself to bed, for there is an important case waiting for him tomorrow. He decides to use the other washstand upstairs, tucked away in one of the empty rooms they have been using to store some unsorted belongings. He hopes, one day, to fill that space with a crib and some dolls instead.
Tom washes and changes into his nightshirt. When he returns, he makes sure to knock first and wait to be let in.
“Come in…”
Mary answers his knock softly, and so Tom folds his tall frame through the bedroom door. His big brown eyes are drawn naturally to her chemise, aglow in the gentle candlelight. She sits on a stool by the fireside, her back turned toward the heat that is drying her damp hair, drawing a brush through it.
“May I…?”
She does not register that his footsteps are moving toward her until his hand enters the edge of her vision, reaching for the brush. She looks at that strong hand, then up his clothed forearm, then to his face, blooming with the warmth of a smile.
“Uh… yes…” Mary cannot help but smile back. For it is contagious.
She also forgets to hand him the brush he is asking for.
And Tom is just so fond of every little thing his wife tends to do when she is nervous. For she can be carefree around him. Safe, around him. She knows he will never make fun of her awkwardness.
He gently reaches for it, casually rolling up his sleeves, and begins brushing her hair.
And Mary wonders, as she quickly turns back out of panic, if he knows what he does to her, with those forearms of his, tempting her in any given circumstance. She truly cannot tell if it is intentional, for he always seems to find just the right reason, the right place, the right time.
The brushing passes in simple silence, but there is nothing easy about it. This is another form of intimacy which Mary has never had with anyone before, and it makes her rather anxious. Her body tenses without her realising, and with the sight of his forearms haunting her mind, she starts biting her lips until they turn red, just like the honeysuckle Tom collected for her on the climbing of Scafell.
Tom also tries hard to focus on brushing his wife’s hair.
On how delicate it is, and how that might help in moving things along. Not on how the heat from the flickering flame has not only lifted the moisture from her hair, but sent the scent of her warm skin into the air, infusing his lungs. With every breath he catches roses, and sandalwood perhaps, but there is also something else.
“Is it… chamomile?”
Tom murmurs, almost to himself, and breathes her in a little more.
Mary nods, and then she is off, as is her way. “Containing high concentrations of a flavonoid called apigenin, which binds to specific receptors in the brain to reduce anxiety—”
She stops herself and chuckles softly. “…What I meant is, yes, I put some in my bath. Among others.”
But Tom has never, ever wanted her to stop. He sets down the brush, his hands blanketing her shoulders gradually, then he gently begins to massage them.
“It also helps relax muscle tension…”
He leans down, caressing her ear with his calm, deep voice that takes her back to the lake. To the little boat. To him sitting with his legs wide, reciting those heartfelt poems he knew by heart, looking at her with that sweetly intense gaze of his.
Mary swallows that image down as he trails the massage down her back. And before she sees it coming, he suddenly scoops her up in his arms.
“Tom!” She cries out in laughter as he carries her to the bed and lays her down smoothly, carefully, as though she is the most fragile thing in the whole world.
“…ease your body into a restful state.” Still he continues with the facts of chamomile.
His fingertips go around the back of her neck, sweeping her hair over to one side of her shoulders. “And the sweet, apple-like scent of it…”
His nose tickles her cheek, naughtily sniffing down the side of her neck.
“…can reduce stress hormone levels.”
Tom is made breathless by the scent of her flower-bathed skin alone. But Mary feels the opposite. She is now able to breathe more easily, more freely around him. It is as though he has just chased her stress clean away. Perhaps he is the chamomile for her.
She leaves a brief kiss on his cheek and crawls away, out of the bed. He turns outward, legs spreading wide, feet hanging at the bedside. His eyes follow her to the dressing table by the sheer-curtained window, where she keeps her personal items alongside his shaving box.
She returns with a ruby red ribbon.
Offering it to him in a bashful manner, “Would you, um, like to…?”
Tom glances at it gleaming under the candlelight, ablaze and tempting. He swallows. Takes a breath. Nearly loses his composure entirely, but manages, just barely, to reply with the kindest smile.
“It will be my honour.”
As he holds on to one end of it, Mary releases hers and sits with her back toward her husband. But Tom has a very different idea in mind. He touches her shoulder gently, gesturing for her to turn and face him.
For he would love to admire her prettiness while he is doing it.
He begins combing through her flowing hair, brushing it back. “You know, I have four sisters, all older than me…”
“So you have told me.”
“I can do this with my eyes closed.”
Tom whispers his case close to her warm cheek as he leans over, arms wrapping around, but not touching, her, to braid her hair loosely.
And Mary feels it is quite unfair, for she is being tortured by a heat that has nothing to do with the fireplace. Like he is baking her with the warmth of his body alone. God knows what she would have him do in this very moment, with the agility of his fingers, rather than braid her stupid hair.
The inner of his forearms is a feast for her eyes. The sound of his heartbeat, music to her ears. She is so, so jealous of her own hair, for it is blessed by his touch. Interwoven, even for a short moment. Held. By his strong yet gentle hand.
Tom kisses her temple dearly when he finishes.
“Now…” He prolongs the pause to seek her attention. Mary, having been looking away the entire time, locks her piercing blue eyes on him, spellbound.
“Will you not tell me what troubles you, my love?”
“What do you mean?” She stutters, afraid of being caught.
But he means not what she is thinking. He is, in fact, referring to something he has noticed these past nights. “You have not slept well, have you?”
It is something of a surprise. She did not know he has been observing her as well. But then again, looking back, Tom has always been sensitive and thoughtful. It must be hard for such things to slip past him unnoticed.
A whole weight on her chest escapes her lungs as a sigh. She is almost on the verge of tears just hearing him ask her this.
She stumbles, not knowing where to begin or even how to explain. “It is just — that I — I have never slept with someone else —”
“Well, I am glad to hear it…”
“I mean, sleeping beside another person, in the same room, generally. Not in an inappropriate way.”
Tom smiles, easing her nerves, his cheek soft-blushing. “I know what you mean.”
“And all this just feels… strange? To me…”
“Mary…”
His voice calling her name helps calm her a great deal. She is afraid he may take it the wrong way, that he may think she does not like living with him, or worse, when it is not that. Not at all. But she does not know why this is happening to her, and it vexes her terribly. She longs to be normal. To be able to sleep beside her husband in peace and in repose, as he does, as any other wife does beside her husband.
Tom holds her hand close to his heart and it undoes her entirely. She falls into his arms, seeking the warmth of his chest, letting it soothe her, letting it make her feel safe. His other hand rubs her upper back softly to console her. “It is alright. It is fine…”
“No, it is not.” Mary is headstrong. She looks up and sees the trace of weariness in his eyes. Tom would admit he is saddened, but only because he has to witness his wife suffering like this. And he intends to find out why, so that we can fix it together.
“Is it because I snored?” Tom asks.
Mary shakes her head. “No.”
He chuckles through his nose and so does she. “Did I move around a lot, disturbing you?”
“No, that would be me if I were sleeping, Thomas. I can go to bed with my head on a pillow and wake up at your feet. I warn you.”
“Well, perhaps you were afraid you would wake me in the middle of the night because of your naughty sleeping habits?”
Tom smiles teasingly, and receives a hit on his upper arm in return. “Ah!”
“I was not!”
She does have a heavy hand. He hopes his very ungentlemanly yelp captured that.
“Or maybe I was?” Mary rubs the spot where she has hit him after she realises he may or may not have a point. He takes the opportunity to rest his head upon her shoulder like a wounded puppy seeking nurturing.
“I do have another theory.”
“Well, go on.”
“I think that perhaps your body actually sees me as a stranger.”
“But you are my husband…”
“That, my love, is just a word society uses to describe the man you married.”
Tom snuggles against her neck, still, breathing her in, while his fingers absentmindedly smooth the wrinkles of her white chemise against her thighs. Mary considers his words seriously but carefully, not letting them take up all the space in her mind, leaving some room to observe him toying with the hem of her nightwear.
“Your brain recognises me as your husband, but your body may disagree. It says…” his hand moves to her waist, unhurriedly, pulling her closer than before, “…‘you do not know him.’”
He takes her tiny hand and places it on his chest. “‘You do not know his body.’”
Her whole chest vibrates as her breath comes in terrible trembles.
“For we humans are creatures who largely learn from experience, absorbing the world around us, to grow familiar with something, or someone…”
He draws his face close to hers until their foreheads touch, his nose buried in the softness of her cheek. His breath, too, is shaking to the core as he whispers against her lips. “I now realise that I have failed you, as a husband. All these nights that have passed, I have left you alone in this very bed we share, and I…”
He gasps, sharply, for air. “And for that, I am so sorry.”
Although she could never have expected such a sincere apology, nor does she think for a moment that it was his fault, it is too precious to dismiss or deny. That, and how he looks as though he is about to cry, a single tear already hanging on his long lashes.
“I forgive you.” So she teases him, and lighthearted laughter breaks out of both of us.
One of the many things Mary loves about Tom Hayward is this. How she reads books and sees information, but he sees perspectives. How she reads poetry and loses herself in the ocean of words, but he finds rhythms and flows that lead to its beauty. How he changes the way she perceives the world forever, and continues to open her eyes to emotions and feelings she did not know she was capable of.
“And what remedy do you suggest, to help me sleep?”
“That…”
Tom pulls her onto his lap. “We may have to do some experiments.”
A full stop of that sentence falls out of his lips onto her neck. He explains what he has in mind without a single word. His desire presses and nibbles her skin, soft and sweet. She giggles in her throat, not opposing it in any case. Having just one note as a gentle reminder:
“You have a big case tomorrow morning, have you not?”
For which Tom dismisses almost instantly, “What case?”
And he must admit he had been planning for their first time to happen on a weekend, when his mind is free of work and Mary is prepared, supposedly when the time is right. But he knows now that nothing matters more than the opportunity that has presented itself, for both of us to get to know each other truly, and become husband and wife in all its meanings.
To become one and the same.
Nevertheless, Tom is very calm and patient, so Mary decides she should inspire him a little more. She cups his cheeks and gives him a kiss so innocently sweet. Her lips soft and tender, leaving him rising beyond the clouds. Intoxicating him like honeysuckle berries that should not be eaten.
But this honeysuckle, he intends to consume it all.
And Mary, being as inexperienced as a good lady is expected to be, has no more in her to continue what she has ignited. She lets Tom take the lead and simply follows him wherever he longs to take her. However, nothing is ever as simple as the thought of it.
“Wait, Tom, Tom…” She breaks away from their exhilarating kiss, just as his hand finds its way to the top button of her chemise and sets it free.
“Oh!” He exclaims. That naughty hand of his bounces off and up in the air like a thief caught stealing. “Sorry.”
He hits his head against the wall in his own mind. This is just the bathtub incident all over again, is it not?
Every time Mary begins to think she can escape the shadow of her mother’s comments on her skin, her face, her body, the insecurity deeply rooted in her childhood appears unannounced, dragging her back down into the same loop. How she is not as handsome as her sisters. Her legs not long and elegant as Lizzie’s. Her waist not as tiny as Jane’s. Her chest flat and unappealing to men’s eyes.
And knowing Tom to be the man that he is, not as shallow as others, she still cannot shake the irrational fear that when he truly sees her, he will find her unattractive.
She presses her lips together, bites hard, before she opens up. “Do you think you can do it without undressing me?”
And Tom, recalling how uncomfortable she had been letting him see her in the tub earlier, simply understands. There is no need for her to say a word more.
“I can.” He reassures her. “I will.”
For he could say so many things flowing through his mind right now. To convince her that she is worthy of love, no matter how imperfect she believes herself to be, no matter how she thinks she looks. That in his mind, she looks a hundred times better than that. But Mary can be quite persistent in her way of thinking, and asking her to suddenly drop her guard is not how he would like to approach this.
“Thank you.”
“Just…” He pauses, as his fingertips begin fiddling with her soft skin at her hems, “…keep in mind that…” and disappear under that white, thin fabric, “…the human eye…” tracing up her thigh to her waist, “…is not the only tool…”
…all the way to her breasts, “…for seeing the true beauty of nature.”
The things he does with his hands are unspeakable, not in public nor even in private, and they leave her breathless, speechless, but by no means noiseless. That should be noted. She discovers entirely new ways of using her voice, whether through her throat or with her mouth open. He also tastes her, through the fabric made thinner by his mouth’s water. He appreciates her breasts without looking, worships them devoutly, compliments them without a word. His every touch burns.
That must be why he has made her wet as the lakes. To put out the flame he has set ablaze.
Mary shifts her posture and straddles his lap, clutching the hem up to the middle of her thighs like an invitation. And he accepts it gladly. His strong hand vanishes beneath it once again, as he fiddles with her other button. The one underneath her hem. This time she does not stop him. She begs for it. She cannot believe she is doing this, but she is. Begging for it. With her hands grabbing his shoulders tightly. She rubs her button against his longest finger, and she has never felt anything like it in her whole life. This has dismantled and reconstructed, in the same breath, the meaning of pleasure for her.
She feels the need to scream but keeps it down, fearing the neighbours will hear. And Tom just gets it. With his other hand he tucks her head against his chest, letting her bury her face there along with her moaning.
And Mary feels as though she will come apart when he does that. Handling her with such care and tenderness she has never known.
She opens her eyes to slow herself down, absorbing his presence more, not just getting higher and higher in her head alone. She blushes, not only because she can see his forearm moving beneath her chemise, but also because she can visibly see how he has grown under his nightshirt.
“Do you need, uh, a little… help with… that?” She looks up at him, then back at it. She asks awkwardly, but as sweetly as one possibly could.
Tom cannot help but let a chuckle escape through his nose, his broad shoulders trembling softly as he tries not to laugh but fails miserably. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Thinks of telling her not to worry about that. Changes his mind. And opens his mouth again. Clumsy as he is. “You want to?”
He is, in fact, dying to be touched by her. He is hard as an oar and has a strong desire to row inside her lakes.
She takes a beat. And he could never have prepared himself enough for what she says next. “Would you like to get inside of me?”
Tom almost chokes on his own tongue.
“Are you alright?” She is terribly worried, rubbing his back gently.
“Yes, yes, I am… I am.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself down.
Mary has heard, over the years, from each of her married sisters who came home to visit, of their marital lives, in somewhat more explicit terms than she needed at times. She has also read that it is in the nature of a man, and scientifically, it is how humans reproduce.
She knows not what she has said wrong. “It is how it usually works, is it not?”
“Uh, yes, you are right.” He confirms. Still catching his breath.
Tom looks into her eyes and gets pulled, lost, swimming among the blues of it all. The shimmering reflections under candlelight remind him of how dreamy they were in the light of the sun, on that small boat, just the two of us, tucked away from the whole world, surrounded by nature. He sometimes, in the middle of the night, calls back to that day, wondering what it would have been like had he succeeded in confessing to her then. What we have now is perfect just as it is. But would it not have been better, had he never made her sick with stress, never made her cry, never made her wait for him, the way he did?
All this love, constantly trying to break out of his ribcage like a wild beast from the day he first caught sight of her, is devouring him alive, compelling him to make it up to her for everything she has had and has to endure, choosing this life with him.
Mary can feel the silence of his thoughts, and it is a little heavy. She does not know exactly what it is, but she knows her man well enough to understand that he can be consumed by weary thoughts, for he is such a perceptive young man.
“Whatever it is…” She kisses him sweetly and takes his hands in hers. “Let it go, Thomas. Stay with me. I am here. Is that not enough?”
“…It is.” He whispers against her lips, closes his eyes as he snuggles against her temple.
“Yes, it is.”
The brightest smiles settle on their faces. So they kiss and they kiss and they kiss until they fall into the white waves of their bedsheets. Slow but steady. Somewhat sloppy but passionate. Until the sweet scent of wisteria blooms through the room, all bright and glittering in the smokeless air, no less vivid than back in the secret garden where he theatrically recited Wordsworth to her, introducing her to the fullest extent of poetry and deep human emotion.
Oh, he fell hard and was trying to show her then. But she fell harder as he showed her how.
As he leisurely and calmly makes his way through the wateriness of her lakes, he finds himself overwhelmed by all of it. All the love, all the tenderness, all the unspoken words between them. All of her. Here, now, then and forever, melting together into this very moment. Where our hands intertwine, our wedding bands brush each other’s fingers, our souls interweave. And never did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendour.
It makes him cry.
“Thomas…?”
He beams the biggest smile he can to comfort her that he is alright. Just a little at sea, as he sometimes finds himself, when all emotions come flooding in at the same time.
Mary watches as tears stream down his face, beautiful in a way that makes her quite envious, for he can be so sentimental, and that makes him capable of absorbing and valuing things in a more delicate fashion than others.
It makes him fragile, but his strength it also is.
She reaches up and wipes that tear from under his chin, quietly.
“Talk to me…” His deep voice has gone raspy. “…without a word.”
His every move is intense and he loves burying himself deep. As deep as she lets him in, but never so much as to make her uncomfortable. And he loves to hear her sing his praises in whimpers and panting. He has made her his own personal songbird, if that makes any sense. She is too out of breath to form any word anyway. Towards the end she only talks with her nails clawing his shoulder blades, and her locked ankles holding him down between her thighs.
The summit she reaches is as breathtaking as the Scafell. And they have climbed this one hand in hand, without anyone interrupting.
“Mary…”
Tom lifts his head from her sweaty breasts, which she had deliberately unbuttoned and revealed to him earlier. His voice is somewhat serious, as it was when he proposed to her. And he is holding on to his own release.
“Yes?”
“What do you think about children?”
“Uh… I love teaching them?”
“No, I mean—”
Tom is caught between now and breaking. He is one breath away from coming undone, yet he needs her answer to be the right one.
“Oh!” She blurts out. “Do you mean—?”
“Yes, love, that.”
She laughs merrily. As he still awaits on top of her, ready to explode. God bless his wife, for she has her own way of torturing him without realising it, and yet she looks adorable doing so.
“Yes! I want children.”
Tom kisses her temple dearly when he finishes.
Mary, filled with the warmth of his love inside her, despite feeling a little messy, kisses him back on his soaked shoulder as he collapses beside her. She rises from her pillow, running her fingers through his dark curls endearingly.
Soft-caressing his ear with confirmation. “Of course I want your children.”
Sending him into a rather sweet dream.
…
Warm light of the sun showers their bedroom and kisses him good morning. He tucks his face away from the early brightness, taking quite a moment for his brain to wake. The last thing he remembers was her sweet whisper about them having children.
The first thought that hits him like a freight train and pries his eyes open is this: has Mary been lying awake all night once again? Not comfortable enough to fall asleep by his side?
He turns and sees no face of his dearest wife. No deep pink lips like a honeysuckle. Nor her ever-blushing cheeks, so easily turning red with the heat.
Only her light feet.
Draping over his torso.
And so chuckles flow through his body, softly shaking across the breadth of his chest like an earthquake undetected.
Well, she did warn him about her unmatched sleeping habits.
He restrains none and simply takes the liberty to touch them, for no particular reason at all. His palm can easily wrap around her ankle. The smile on his face now overshadows the sunlight itself.
“…”
He puts them down gently on the sheets, adjusts her hem a little to cover her thigh properly, turns, and lies on his side just to get a little closer, before he kisses her ankle in a stolen moment under the sweet morning light.
His gentle intrusion wakes her not.
Seeing her in such an impressive deep sleep has lifted his spirits and already made his whole day.
Now, Mary should consider involving him in her bathing routine instead of the chamomile, should she not?
fin.