She was crying helplessly, with deep, painful sobs, a minute or two later. He drew free of her body, rolled to her side, gathered her to him, and pulled the blankets over their sweat-dampened bodies. He smoothed one hand through her hair, kissed her tears, made soothing, shushing noises.
She was his wife. They had been one as he had never imagined two people could be one. He knew why she was crying. He was not alarmed.
"One body," he said to her. "We know what that means now, do we not?"
"John." His name was almost an agony on her lips. "What have I ever done that God has been so good to me?"
"At the risk of being sacrilegious," he said, kissing her nose, "I do not believe God had much to do with that."
"Oh, but He did," she said earnestly. "John. Do you know just how ill you were? Do you know that just a few weeks ago I thought the pinnacle of human happiness would be to have your name? That I wished for nothing else-nothing!-except the privilege of holding you in my arms until you d-" She choked on the word. "I would have thought myself well-blessed. I did think it when you agreed to marry me-I never expected that you would. Our wedding day was the happiest day of my life. I never expected-oh, I never expected marriage."
"It is what you have, nevertheless," he said, finding her mouth with his. "And what you will have for years and years to come, God willing. You had better get used to it. Once or twice a night for the next fifty years or so, not to mention the days-do you like the sound of it? Or will it become one of those wifely chores that women have to endure in exchange for the respectability of marriage?"
She giggled-he loved the way Adèle could giggle without sounding in any way childish but only gloriously joyful. "Only for fifty years?" she asked. "But twice, John? Is it possible?"
"Perhaps not for another week or two," he admitted, grinning. "I must confess to feeling close to exhaustion. But after another week or two… You had better prepare yourself."
Being Adèle, she had caught only one thing he had said. She moved closer, getting slightly above his level as she did so. She drew his arm away from her neck and put her own arm beneath his instead. She drew down his head to pillow it on her breast while her free hand smoothed gently through his hair.
"Sleep, my dearest love," she said. "No more talking. You are exhausted."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, feeling deliciously warm and comfortable and sleepy. "But it was in a very good cause, you know."
"Sh," she said, "and don't be foolish."
He was smiling as he slid into sleep.
She had always wanted to be John's wife. Certainly she had always known that she would never be any man's wife if she could not be his. But there had been a few years- perhaps about five after the age of fifteen, when she had actively dreamed of what marriage with him would be like. It had always been dream rather than hope. By that time he had been away from home a great deal and had treated her only with a careless sort of affection when he was home-except perhaps for that kiss on her seventeenth birthday.
And by the time she was fifteen she had understood the difference in their stations. He was the heir to a viscount's title and properties and fortune-he inherited when she was eighteen on the death of his father. She was the eighth and youngest child of a gentleman of no particular fortune or importance. When she was nineteen a great-aunt had taken her to town for a month of the Season. She had hated it. She had felt out of her depth surrounded by such wealthy and important people. And she had seen that John was a great favorite-and that he had something of a reputation as a rake.
The year after that he was ill.
Dreams-which she had never expected to become reality-had given way to despair. She would not be able to bear a world without John in it.
And then the dream had become a different one. One that had come achingly true just a few weeks ago. It had been such a narrow dream. She had not asked for much. She had been more grateful than she had ever been able to put into words for what she had been given. She had not been greedy.
Now the dream had expanded again like a glorious explosion of light, and she was happy beyond thought. And afraid.
The disease had gone. There seemed no doubt about it now. Although he had not seen a physician and she did not suggest it to him, she knew that he was getting better. She knew it no longer just with faith but with certainty. Every day he was stronger. Although he was still very thin, he was noticeably putting on weight and acquiring a healthy color. There were no more fevers and no more coughed blood. His eyes no longer looked on death but on life.
They walked now every day on the beach, sometimes almost briskly. They climbed the hills, pausing for breath as much for her sake as for his. They talked and read and wrote letters to their numerous brothers and sisters and to her mama and papa. They even argued-usually about the wisdom and comfort of leaving windows open. Those arguments always ended the same way. If she was chilly, he always said, grabbing her, she would just have to submit to being warmed-but not by closing the windows.
They made love so often-by night and by day-that sometimes her cheeks could become flushed just thinking about it and wondering if it was normal and proper. She decided that if it was not, she did not care for normality or propriety. On the few occasions when she hinted that he should not exhaust himself, he would laugh and tell her that she could cuddle him afterward as she had done that first time.
Making love, she had discovered, was a process that was taking a very long time to learn. Every time there was something new and something different. He was surely the best teacher in the world, though he claimed sometimes- she did not know how it could be-that he was also a pupil, that she was teaching him dimensions of the art he had never dreamed of before.
Making love, she had decided, was the most wonderful bonding experience imaginable. She could not understand how any two people could do those things when they were not married or even particularly devoted to each other. She could not imagine the pleasure being divorced from the love and the commitment and the union of hearts and souls.
As she had expected after their walk to Awelfa, they soon had company. People for miles around with any claim to gentility left their cards and returned for tea and conversation. The calls had to be returned. They issued a few invitations to dinner and cards. They accepted a few similar invitations. The dance at the assembly rooms above the tavern in the village was approaching and John seemed determined that they would go-and dance.
Adèle was more happy than she had known it was possible to be. She had had a month of married life when she had expected a few days, a week or two at most, of nursing a dying man.
But reaction was beginning to set in. Happiness had always been something to dream of, not something to be lived. She began to be afraid of happiness. What if, after all, he was merely going through a respite in his illness? What if there should be a sudden relapse and death? Could she bear it now that she had let down her defenses, now that she had tasted what life with him could be?
It was a fear she tried to ignore. If it was to be so, there was nothing she could do to prevent it merely by worrying about it. And surely if she did not live to the fullest now, she would forever regret it should she be left alone and grieving for the rest of her life.
Other fears were more nebulous, but they nibbled away at the edges of her happiness with equal relentlessness. He would tire of Cartref soon despite what he had said when he first began to recover. The house was small by the standards of his main home. There were not many families of his own social standing in the area. They were far from any social center. They had been in Wales for a month. He was going to be bored soon and restless. John had always been restless. And now, day by day, his energy was returning.