On a Cold Dark Sea(16)



Esme fought back the temptation to joke that Hiram proposed solely to avoid another of Mrs. Ayres’s lectures. Better to smile sweetly and endure Mrs. Ayres’s advice on the social obligations of a new bride. Esme listened half-heartedly, confident that it wouldn’t take much effort to make a success of her marriage. As long as she kept Hiram happy, she could do as she pleased.

Hiram and Esme had a Christmas wedding, with garlands of holly hung on the church pews and a service that ended with “Joy to the World.” They’d booked a delayed honeymoon in Europe, not wanting to make the Atlantic crossing in winter, so their first days as man and wife were spent at the Ayres’s weekend house in Bucks County. There’d be a housekeeper to see to their meals, but otherwise they’d be alone to “get acquainted,” as Mrs. Ayres put it. Esme was a touch apprehensive about the exact ways they’d be getting acquainted, and Mrs. Ayres had been uncharacteristically perceptive of Esme’s concerns.

“There’s nothing to fear,” she said. “Be grateful you’re marrying a man of experience. Two young newlyweds with no knowledge of such intimacies have a much more fraught time of it.”

For one mortifying instant, Esme thought Mrs. Ayres was about to describe her own wedding night. Fortunately, the woman was more interested in pontificating than reminiscing.

“Do what Hiram tells you, and cheerfully. He admires your vivacity, you know.”

“I’ve wondered . . .” Esme hadn’t planned on revealing her deepest fear, but Mrs. Ayres was the only person who might set it to rest. “If Mr. Harper will find it difficult. Our relations as man and wife may provoke memories of the first Mrs. Harper.”

“Don’t be silly!” Mrs. Ayres admonished. “Nellie was a sweet little thing, but so shy she could barely put two sentences together! You’re much better for Hiram.”

Esme had often wondered about Hiram’s first wife, whom he never spoke of, and she took a selfish satisfaction in knowing the woman had been a bore. After a vague description of what actually happened in a marital bed, Mrs. Ayres assured Esme that having an older husband was an advantage in this instance, for he’d insist on his rights far less often than a man her own age. That, Mrs. Ayres implied, was a blessing.

In any event, Esme was so tired by her wedding night that she couldn’t work up the energy to be nervous. The housekeeper served broiled fish and potatoes on trays in the upstairs parlor before unpacking Esme’s trunk in the bedroom next door. Esme’s trousseau was a profusion of silk and satin; Hiram had insisted on paying for it and promised even more additions to her wardrobe when they went to Paris in the spring.

Esme wasn’t sure how the rest of the evening was supposed to proceed. Should she disappear into the dressing room and make a dramatic entrance in her feather-trimmed robe? She remembered Mrs. Ayres’s advice and decided not to do anything until Hiram told her to. When he said he liked to read before going to bed, she flipped through the latest issue of McCall’s until he said it was time they turned in.

“Shall I help you with your dress?” Hiram asked, after Esme had followed him to the bedroom.

Esme’s going-away dress had a trail of pearl buttons down the back; she couldn’t take it off herself. She’d assumed the housekeeper would assist her, as her housemaid Nora did at home.

“Oh, yes,” Esme said. “Thank you.”

She’d thought it would be embarrassing to get undressed in front of Hiram, but it turned out to be surprisingly easy. He was familiar with women’s clothes; he knew what attached where and how to unfasten each piece. It wasn’t long before Esme was down to only her gauzy chemise and stockings.

“You’re very beautiful,” Hiram said. Not overwhelmed, not rapturous, but straightforwardly acknowledging a fact of nature.

The usual blushes and protests Esme produced whenever she was complimented seemed inappropriate, so she only smiled. Hiram removed his jacket, trousers, and shirt, methodically placing each piece over the back of an armchair before taking off the next. Esme rolled down her stockings, dragging out the process to keep herself occupied.

Despite the well-caught fire, the bedroom was still chilly, and Esme shivered as she slid beneath the covers. It felt surprisingly natural for Hiram to huddle next to her, his hands soothingly warm on her goose-bumped skin. Hiram was a presence rather than a person, his face shadowed and his body concealed by the quilted bedspread. When he straddled her and began to push, she gasped, not in pain but perplexed surprise. So this was what it felt like?

Hiram stopped. “Did I hurt you?”

“Oh, no,” Esme murmured, as she’d reassure a dance partner who stepped on her toes. “It’s only a rather . . . peculiar sensation.”

Esme sensed rather than saw Hiram’s smile. “It will grow less peculiar in time, I hope.”

Esme reached for his forehead and gave it a kiss. “You may proceed, sir. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

“Please don’t,” Hiram whispered, and then he finished what he’d started. When Esme giggled, he didn’t seem to mind.

As Mrs. Ayres had promised, Esme and Hiram returned to Philadelphia much better acquainted. Esme was delighted to discover that her new husband was nothing like her father with his unpredictable moods and constant fretting over money. Hiram was generous and calm and already seemed to be shaking off some of his natural gloom, though she was a tad perturbed by his ability to eat meals with almost no conversation. She loved Hiram’s enormous house and the enormous bed they shared in their enormous bedroom, but after so long on his own, he was set in his ways, and Esme was expected to adapt to his preferences.

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