NOVEMBER 7

At last we have set sail. The Sandy Hook pilot came on early this morning. I scratched off a quick letter to Mother B. and another to Arthur, just to say we were finally off, and the pilot took them when he left us. I should have written to Hannah, but hadn’t time. Mother B. will tell her we are outside. We have a steady breeze and are plowing along nicely. Only two thousand miles to go! B. is in fine spirits, as he always is at the commencement of a voyage, and I noted at dinner that even Mr. Gilling had a bit of color spanked into his cheeks by the fresh air above deck.

The usual duties of the captain’s wife at the beginning of a trip include a thorough scrubbing of the cabin, but that won’t be necessary as this one is as clean as a whistle. I bless the previous owner, who outfitted our quarters with his own family in mind, sparing no expense. The carpet is thick, the windows are tight, the skylight is large and lets in a nice slab of sunlight – Sophy never wearies of looking up at it. The bed is wide enough for us all, and the settee deep enough for a nap.

B. and I are all in all to each other at sea, crammed in a small space with little privacy. It suits us, for if ever two were one, we are one. We grew up almost as brother and sister; in fact, until I was three Benjamin’s family lived in our house. He held me in his arms when I was a baby. Much that I loved as a child, B. taught me to love, the woods at the back of the cemetery, the walk to the old wharf, the picnics to Ram Island. He was my earliest confidant, and I was conscious that he looked out for me and was always willing to talk with me and calm my babyish fears. When we were older, we were separated. Captain Nathan built Rose Cottage, and B. went to sea when he was twelve. I remember how empty my world was without him, how poorly everyone, save possibly Olie, who loved him as I did, compared to him.

The world intervened, the sea kept us apart, and when we met again, we were shy of each other. He brought me presents from his travels – he brought everyone presents – a silver thimble, the one I still use, a sandalwood tray, a cashmere shawl, a red leather box – for my treasures, he said – a roll of fine French lace to trim my collars. When he was at home, I found excuses to go to Rose Cottage, and many an evening B. strolled over to the parsonage with some message from his mother, which, Father observed, was seldom news to him. Yet, beyond the familial, I wasn’t sure of his affection. He liked to tease me, but never cruelly, and he grew so handsome, so much a man, while I was still a girl, that I was awed by him. When he was twenty, his brother Nathan died at sea and four years later his sister Maria was lost at sea, along with her husband, and then a year after that their little son Natie left this world in his sleep. So B. had that sadness and loss sobering him just as he came of age.

Then, how did it happen? He was at sea. He sent me a drawing; I wrote a foolish poem. When he came home from that trip, my heart was in my throat and his, God bless him, was frankly on his sleeve. How well I remember that first kiss at the garden gate. I raised up on my toes to receive it. I felt his arm about my waist and I shivered. I thought, he loves me; he has always loved me.

Once he told Arthur, “I fell in love with Mother when she was born.”

We were innocents in love, ready to be tested by the world. I had no mother to tell me what to expect on my wedding night, and I certainly had no wish to consult Benjamin’s, though my poor father – his face crimson with embarrassment – recommended I might. I trusted Benjamin to show me the way. And he did, and so amusingly. How vividly I recall that night.

We faced each other in the bridal chamber, next to the bed neatly made by his mother, covered by the quilt Hannah and I spent the summer finishing. The embroidered pillowcases were Hannah’s wedding present. The long‑sleeved cotton gown folded at the foot of the bed was of Mother Briggs’s manufacture.

Benjamin fixed me with his penetrating eyes, carefully unfastening his necktie. “Thus saith the Lord,” he said sententiously. “Remove the diadem and take off the crown.” His expression made me giggle. I pulled the pins from my veil and let it slide to the floor.

“God loveth a cheerful giver,” he said, solemnly removing his shirt.

“Does he?” I said, unfastening the buttons of my bodice.

He pulled off his belt and began removing his trousers with one hand, holding the other before him with the index finger pointing up, in just the way Father does on the pulpit. “Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look straight before thee.”

This bent me over with laughter. “Have you been scouring the Good Book in preparation for this night?” I asked, setting to work on my skirt buttons. When I looked up he was in his woolens.

“Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.”

I dropped my dress to my ankles and stood up in my chemise and crinoline, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness.” He pulled his woolen shirt briskly over his head.

“So will I stand,” I said, feeling confident, even saucy. I unlaced the ties on the crinoline and stepped out of it, smiling up at him. Then I unfastened the hooks down the front of my corset and pulled it away.

My husband put his hands on my shoulders, gently pushing down the straps of my chemise, leaning over to whisper close to my ear, “Let love be without dissimulation.” And then he lifted me up, laid me upon the quilt, and climbed in beside me. “At last, Sallie,” he said, turning to me. “Wedded bliss.”

How many brides, I wonder now, pass their wedding nights convulsed in laughter.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 535