Esme had wanted to spend the summer getting to know her husband. "You're too generous," she protested, but Cleav ignored her.
"Your father will need clothes, also," he insisted. "We can't have him looking like a vagabond."
Esme was cut by Cleav's coldness and concerned by his quiet. With all the activity of the move, it was natural, Esme had decided, that they didn't have as much time together. But waiting alone in her bed at night while he sat up in the library made her worry.
Once she'd made her argument, Cleav clearly wanted her family better housed and better dressed. But she no longer knew his motivation. Was it because he cared for her? Or because he was ashamed of her?
As these thoughts came to her mind, she tried to discard them as unworthy. Cleav was a kind, gentle, loving man. He was not so vain that he would look down on their poverty.
Still, the thought nagged Esme. His speech, his dress, his house were all constructed to present him as a gentleman. His wife and her family, however, were a definite step backward.
Her mother-in-law's words haunted her: "If you really knew Cleav, you'd see how totally unsuited for him you are." Esme was afraid that perhaps Mrs. Rhy was right. Maybe she didn't know Cleav as well as she thought. And maybe she really was unsuitable.
Before she married, she'd only wanted what was best for her family. Now she only wanted what was best for Cleav. Maybe a lady was what was best. She was only a half-wild hill girl.
"But I can change!" she declared to herself adamantly. With Cleav's money, she could dress as nice as anyone in town. And her family could, too. They were simple mountain folk, but they could dress and talk as fancy as they pleased. Esme was sure of it. With that as her goal Esme's life was as busy as it had ever been.
The elder Mrs. Rhy was now seemingly permanently ensconced in her bed. Esme ran errands for the older woman all day long. In part because, never having been ill herself, Esme couldn't imagine how terrible it might be. And also, because she hoped in some way to prove to Cleav's mother that she could be a good wife and daughter-in-law. However, as the weeks passed, Eula Rhy seemed no closer to being won over.
With a household of six to clean for and cook for and clothe, Esme found little time to be with Cleav at the store. And even less time to help him with the fish. It seemed they rarely had a moment alone—no more quiet conversations, no more secret sharing.
Esme missed their closeness but realized it must be her fault. Perhaps after getting used to the novelty, Cleav had decided her conversation was boring. Or perhaps her manners were too crude. Perhaps she wasn't really pretty.
Perhaps he could never love her.
That thought would catch in her throat and sting her eyes. She would make him love her, she vowed. She would be whatever he wanted her to be.
Only those special nights gave her surcease. Those nights when he couldn't keep away from her. Those nights when they loved each other until they couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Only those nights gave her hope.
No man could express such care, such tenderness, if he had no feeling, Esme assured herself.
She simply had to make herself more worthy of him. She flinched at her own words. All her life she'd held her chin high, daring the world to condemn her for her name and her poverty. Now she had finally realized that it was her own finger that pointed to her so derisively.
Shaking her head in dismay, Esme folded the wad of bread dough on the floured board and slammed it with the heel of her hand.
"You're doing it again, Esme-girl," her father warned.
Esme looked curiously at the dough for his meaning. "Doing what?" she asked.
"Taking care of everybody but yourself," Yo replied with genuine impatience.
She shook her head dismissively.
"I don't mind," she said.
"What about your husband?" her father asked. "Does he mind you working dawn to dusk with no help and never getting a minute alone with him?"
"Cleav is very understanding," she said a little defensively. "And you are all family."
"Family?" The old man humphed. "Family is family. You and your husband are the family. The rest of us are relatives."
Slightly piqued, Esme's tone picked a sharper edge. "I'd think you'd be happy to live in a clean, dry house for a change."
Yo Crabb folded his hands across his chest. "I surely am, Esme-girl," he answered. "But not at the price of you working yourself into an early grave like your mama. With four women and one old man in this household, there ain't no call for you to be doing all the work."
Esme wasn't appeased. She looked at him skeptically.
"You're right about that, Pa," she answered shrewdly. "Just what job are you willing to take on to help me?"
