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.
