She raised her gaze to his. “I’ve at last won you to my side.”
He kissed her the same way he did the day they married. Full-lipped and passionate, his love free and evident. “Don’t you know?” He brushed his finger along her jaw. “I cannot resist you.”
“Nor I you.” She returned his kiss, her desire for him awakening. Their love was pure, sincere, kind and reciprocal, generous and open.
Marriage. Such a sacred union. She understood now the reveries of the poets. Of the Song of Solomon. She no longer blushed at the passionate verses but found inspiration to love her husband with her whole heart. Not just Wallace, but her Lord.
With him, she was at peace, happy, living in a cocoon made only for each other. With each kiss, each passionate night abed, with each “I love you,” each “My apologies,” and every incidental touch and absentminded caress, her love grew.
“So you see,” Wallace said, returning to his desk, his fingers running down her hand and lingering. “You have bewitching powers to which I must surrender. Treat me with kindness.”
Something in his tone aroused the echo of a past argument.
“Wallace,” Esther said low, for him only. Across the room Bristol hammered a nail into the smooth panel over the fireplace. “You know I would never hurt you. I am most devoted to you.”
His focus was fixed on his almanac and farming books. “I know, love, and I do not doubt you.” He peered up at her. “But there are times when I remember you loved another.”
She crouched next to him.
“It was a long time ago. I’ve not seen or heard from Hamilton Lightfoot in years.”
He gently touched her bowed head. “But my human weakness reminds me I am not your first love.”
“But you are my last love. My one and only love.”
Tall and fit, Wallace was as handsome as the day she married him in 1784. The third son of an earl, he was set to inherit wealth but not land or title. Trained as a barrister, employed by Lord Whatham, he had visions of America, the land of hope, a place to leave land and legacy to his children.
He caressed her, bending to kiss her. “I love you, Esther.”
“And I you. Forever, my love.”
“How’s that, Mr. Hobart?” Bristol stood aside for his handiwork to be inspected.
Taking Esther by the hand, Wallace faced the fireplace and nodded his approval. “Very good. Thank you.”
When Bristol had gone, Wallace returned to his work and Esther her newspapers.
“Did I tell you I met a man in town?” he said after a moment. “A rather enterprising young man. Astor’s the name. He’s invited me to dine with him, talk business.”
“Astor? From where do they hail?” Esther returned to the flyer. A church meeting. Her spirit stirred with the urge to attend.
“Germans by way of England and Baltimore. They seem rather settled in Manhattan now. Very industrious and Americanized.”
And so the afternoon went. Moments of silence peppered with nuanced conversation.
“Do the Astors have children?”
“I’ll inquire.”
“No change in fashion this year. Last year’s gowns will do.”
“The almanac predicts a good year for farming.”
“Did I tell you what Catherine said over breakfast?”
“The land agent wants to plant more apple trees. The yield from this year was hearty.”
“Mother wrote. She’s planning on a visit next spring.”
