1632 (31 page)

 

    Melissa nodded. “It will matter to him more than anything, Gretchen. Trust me. As long as he thinks you love him, he’ll be able to handle anything.”

 

    Not certain if her words had made any sense, Melissa tried to stumble through a German semitranslation. But Gretchen waved her down.

 

    “I understand.” The frown on her face cleared away. “Iss not a problem, zen. I vill vork at it. Very hard. I am a good vorker. Very—” She groped for the word, for a moment, before finding it. “
Ja.
Determined. Not lazy.”

 

    Melissa couldn’t help laughing. And if some of her humor was rueful, most of it was not. “That
you most certainly are, girl!”

 

    She examined the young woman standing before her. “That you most certainly are,” she repeated. Smiling, shaking her head: “You know what, Gretchen Richter-soon-to-be-Higgins? I do believe this is one marriage that’s going to fly.”

 

    Melissa laughed again. “ ’Work at it!’ I like that!”
Chapter 30

    In the end, the wedding went off without a hitch.
    Willie Ray showed up on time. And if he wasn’t exactly sober, he had a lifetime’s experience to lean on. So, stubby and half-inebriated as he was, he managed to get Gretchen down the aisle without mishap. True, it took her quite a while. But she didn’t stumble once and the organist didn’t mind having the time to show off.
    Neither did the audience. The church was packed. Standing room only, and likewise the street outside. At least half the town showed up for the wedding, spilling off the sidewalks.
    The huge crowd was in a very festive mood. More so, in truth—much more—than at most weddings. For all of those people, American and German alike, the wedding came like a burst of sunlight. Quentin Underwood had spoken for thousands.
After this nightmare we’ve been plunged into, I swear I can’t think of a single thing that’d be better for my soul than to watch a young woman walk down the aisle in a wedding dress.
    
 
    That sentiment, everyone had in common. From there, the viewpoints diverged.
    For the German participants and onlookers, the wedding came as something of a promise. Or, perhaps, a reassurance. Although they now numbered well over half of this new society coming into existence, the Germans—former refugees, mercenaries, camp followers—were well aware of their subordinate position within it. They were still groping to understand, much less accept—much less feel they
were
accepted.
    The habit of centuries had shaped them. The acid of hereditary privilege had corroded their souls. Without even being aware they were doing it, the German newcomers automatically reacted to Americans as commoners to nobility. It didn’t matter what the Americans
said.
Words are cheap, especially the promises of aristocracy to their underlings.
    What mattered—what had always mattered, more than anything—was what people
are.
And the Americans, it was plain to see, were nobility. It was obvious in everything they said and did, and didn’t say and didn’t do. It shone through in their simple carriage.
    Had they been told, the Americans would have been mystified. Their own centuries had also shaped them, and healed an ancient wound. Every American, on some level, took a fundamental truth for granted.
I am important. Precious. Human. My life is valuable.
    That attitude infused them, whether they knew it or not. And it was that unspoken, unconscious attitude which the German newcomers immediately sensed. They reacted automatically, just as Gretchen had instantly assumed that an American schoolteacher was really a duchess. Just as Rebecca had instantly assumed that a coal miner was an hidalgo.
    Ingrained habits, beaten into people by centuries of oppression and uncaring cruelty, cannot be removed by words alone. Deeds are also necessary, especially deeds which cut to the heart of the thing.
    
Some people are really human. Most are not.
    
Good blood. Bad blood.
That simple, vicious dichotomy had ruled Europe for centuries. For more than a decade, now, it had turned central Europe into a charnel house. The nobility, as always when they bickered over the price of their meat, presented the butcher’s bill to the common folk. And why not?
Those people don’t value life much anyway. They don’t feel pain the way we do.
    Good blood, bad blood. Today, in the clearest way possible, the Americans were making a pledge to their new brethren.
We do not care. It means nothing to us.
    
 
    For the Americans who watched and participated, the thing was seen from a different angle. “Blood” was irrelevant. A goodly number of them, after all, had more than a little German ancestry in them. What
did
matter was a subtler definition of class.
    Regardless of Jeff’s plebeian Appalachian “stock,” he was one of the town’s
good
boys. Everybody knew it, for all that some of them—yahoos—might have ridiculed him in private as a “nerd” or a “geek.”
    Gretchen, on the other hand—
    The word “trash” had been bandied about in private, often enough, in the days since the public announcement was made. To that coarse term, some had added others even worse. Slut, tramp—
whore.
    But, as Mike had rightly said, public sanction carries a powerful weight. So, the foul words were spoken only in private. And, even then, not so very often as all that. The days passed, and the terms faded away. By the afternoon of the wedding, they were forgotten by all but a handful. Grantville’s Americans had been swept up in a tidal wave of romance.
    Yes, yes, yes—it was all very peculiar.
So what?
There were a thousand fairy tales to fall back upon. Jeff Higgins was one of their own, after all. Everyone knew the story of how he and his friends had stood off a mob of thugs with their shotguns. If you looked at it the right way, he was a knight in shining armor. Appalachian style, of course—
and what’s wrong with that?
    Gretchen? Rapunzel, by God, with the figure and the face and the long blond hair to prove it. Forget about the dirty feet. And if the story of how she had hidden her sisters in a shithouse was gruesome, it was also heroic in its own way. For hill people, at least.
    Soon enough, too, the new story was worming its way through the populace, adding its own gory glamour. Oooh . . . so grisly! Mountain grisly!
    The story was garbled, of course. Ludwig and Diego conflated, confused. A desperate young woman and her new paramour, in murtherous conspiracy, doing away with the obstacle to their love. Terrible, terrible, just terrible. On the other hand, the man was a fiend. A monster, whose villainy grew by the telling. The very picture of a devil. Hadn’t Dr. Adams said as much himself? (Which he had, in his blabbermouth way. But the rumor that he drove a stake through the heart of the corpse was quite false.)
    So, by the afternoon of the wedding, the American half of this growing society had come to accept it also. Embrace it, in truth. In one of history’s little ironies, a commoner folk adopted the romantic mythology of nobility and used it to drive home their own purpose. Something new was being forged here, in a place called Thuringia. Something valuable and precious. Their own blood would go into the tempering. As it should, as it must. Good blood joining other. So are true nations made.

    The wedding took place in the town’s Catholic church, since it was the biggest. But the service was Methodist, and was done by Jeff’s pastor. The arrangement was unusual, but had been agreed to by everyone. Neither Jeff nor Gretchen cared very much, so long as the wedding was “done right.”

 

    As for the pastor and the priest? They were good friends, as it happened. Their friendship had grown over the years, shaped by a mutual interest in theological discussion, foreign films, and—most of all—a shared hobby. Both of them were enthusiastic auto mechanics, in their spare time. They had worked together, often enough, rebuilding good cars out of junk. Let others worry about the fine points and the detail work.

 

    True, Father Mazzare had fretted at one point.

 

    “It’s not the wedding that bothers me, it’s—” He waved the wrench about. “Everything.”

 

    Rev. Jones grunted. His head was half-buried in the engine. “Are you
still
worrying about the pope?” He extended his hand. Father Mazzare passed him the wrench. His voice continued, half-muffled: “I looked it up, by the way. Papal infallibility wasn’t proclaimed until 1869. So the way I see it, you’ve got almost a quarter of a millennium to argue with him.” He grunted again. “Okay, that’s done.”

 

    His face emerged, grinning, to meet the scowling visage of his friend.

 

    “That’s lawyering and you know it,” growled Father Mazzare.

 

    Still grinning, Rev. Jones shrugged. “Yeah, of course it is. So what? Lawyering’ll work in a pinch.”

 

    Father Mazzare was
still
scowling. Rev. Jones sighed. “Larry, what else are you going to do? If you accept the current situation, you’d be pretty much bound to call in the Inquisition and demand the enforcement of the Edict of Restitution.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’d have to take exception, if you tried to seize my church. Very least, I’d insist you return my copy of
Rashomon.
”

 

    Mazzare chuckled. “Oh, well,” he muttered. “We’ll do the best we can. I
would
appreciate it, however, if you’d refrain from denouncing the Whore of Rome at the wedding service tomorrow.”

 

    Jones grimaced. “Give me a break!” Then, chuckling himself: “Not that the current pope doesn’t deserve it, mind you, from all I’ve heard. But that girl’s Catholic herself, and she’s gone through enough already.”

 

    He peered into another crevice of the engine. “Hand me the quarter-inch drive, will you, with a three-eighth socket?”

 

    As Mazzare rummaged in the rollaway, Jones continued. “Do you think they really did it?”

 

    “That’s between them and God,” came the reply, along with the socket wrench. “I can’t say I’m losing any sleep over it. The way I heard it, the man looked like a vampire.”

 

    “Wouldn’t surprise me if he was,” muttered Jones, diving back into his work. “How’s the town stocked for garlic, by the way?”

 

    Time, now.

 

    Standing at the altar, his friends by his side, Jeff tried not to fidget. James Nichols, about to take his seat, paused and came back.

 

    He spoke very softly, so only Jeff could hear. “You can still change your mind.”

 

    Immediately, Jeff shook his head. “No, I can’t. You know that as well as I do.”

 

    Nichols studied the young face in front of him. “Just checking, that’s all.”

 

    Jeff smiled. A bit ruefully, perhaps, but only a bit. “And I don’t want to, anyway. I’m not worrying about the wedding, Dr. Nichols. Just—” His hand made a little motion. Groping.

 

    “All the years after.”

 

    Jeff nodded. Nichols put a hand on his shoulder and leaned close. “Listen to me, boy. It’ll work out or it won’t. Doesn’t matter, really, as long as you do your job. Forget all you ever heard about manhood. Your job is to give your people—your wife, your kids—a space where they can build their lives. A roof over their heads and food on the table is part of it. So’s their own bed, for your old folks to die in. How much more you can do is up to you. Just try your best. If you do that, you can call yourself a man. The rest is all bullshit.” He squeezed the shoulder. “You understand?”

 

    The shoulder relaxed, and the man with it. “Yeah, Doc. I do.”

 

    “Good enough.” Nichols left. A moment later, the organ began to play. In the back of the church, steadying herself on Willie Ray’s arm, Gretchen made her appearance.

 

    Jeff watched her come, the whole time. He never noticed her mincing, hesitant steps on treacherous heels. He was simply swept up in the ancient ceremony. And discovering, as untold millions of young men had discovered before him, that there is nothing in the world as beautiful as his bride approaching.

 

    Doubts, worries, fears, anxieties—all vanished.
I do. Oh yeah, I do.

 

    
 

 

    
 
Chapter 31

    They were alone now. For the first time ever, Gretchen realized. After ushering them to the door of the trailer, the family had let Gretchen and her husband enter unaccompanied. For the rest of the day, and the night, the family would crowd into the other two trailers in the complex.
    Silently, Gretchen took her husband by the hand and led the way into the bedroom. The bedroom had once belonged to her husband’s parents. Now it would be theirs.
    Once in the room, she closed the door and began to disrobe. The look on her husband’s face stopped her. Very shy, very nervous. Gretchen had intended to get the matter over with as quickly as possible. Now, seeing his face, she realized that would upset her husband. The thought was unbearable. Whatever else, she owed kindness to this man.
    So, smiling, she dropped her hands and held out her arms. A moment later, her husband had enfolded her in his own.
    The practiced response with which Gretchen accepted that embrace changed almost instantly into something else. This was no Ludwig, to whose embrace she had both to submit and shield herself. Willingly, she lifted her lips to meet Jeff’s. Her lips were soft, probing, open; not the shield wall of the past. She felt his tongue and sent her own to meet it. Fumbling the task, even more than he, because Gretchen had no experience at all in
kissing
.
    She relaxed completely, now, and returned both the kisses and the caresses with her own. The hands roaming her body were becoming more and more enflamed. She could sense it. But she did not fear Jeff’s passion. Not in the least. Soon, very soon, she would be satisfying it.
    And so what? Satisfying a man’s lust was a chore, true enough. But there were chores and chores. There was the chore of cleaning blood from a plundered pile of booty. The chore of shaving a rapist, controlling her hand with an iron will, lest her shrieking soul spill his life on the ground, and her family’s with it.
    And then, there was the chore of swaddling a baby. The chore of wiping spittle from a child. The chore of warming a grandmother in winter. Easy things, caring things.
Family
things.
    There would be no bruises on her body from her husband’s lust, she knew. Never. She was safe. But she also knew that she would be called upon to satisfy that lust far more often—
far more!—
than ever she had been called by Ludwig. The knowledge brought no fear, only a quiet satisfaction. Here, too, family things would prove themselves again.
Strong.
    What her husband would want, Gretchen would give. Gladly, if not eagerly. If nothing else, while she carried out the family chore, she could entertain herself mocking the shade of an ogre. Sneering at his ghost.
    
 
    Then, Jeff was breaking away. Very reluctantly, she thought. To her surprise, Gretchen found that reluctance mirrored in herself. The reaction puzzled her. Even family chores, after all, are still chores. She was usually glad enough to be done with them.
    She ascribed the reaction to lingering fear. Nothing more. That strange flaring sensation, likewise. Though that, too, was odd. Why should she feel this regret, now that it was fading? Fear was nothing to treasure.
    Jeff was smiling. She could sense his growing relaxation and confidence, and was glad to see it come. Gretchen had promised the duchess—as she would always think of that woman, whatever her title—that she would work very hard at this odd thing which the Americans called “love.” This, she realized now, was part of it. A husband was not a rapist. A husband should feel relaxed in the company of his wife. Confident, not in his power, but in his position.
    Jeff sat on the bed and patted his hand next to him, inviting her to sit. Gretchen obeyed. Then, haltingly, he began to speak. She translated the broken words easily enough. She had much greater difficulty understanding his offer. It was the last thing she had expected.
    
Wait? Because of what I have been through? Until I am comfortable, and at ease? Myself willing?
    Gretchen was utterly astonished. Her husband’s offer, she knew at once, did not stem from lack of ardor. No, not in the least. She understood the difficulty with which he was restraining himself. Male desire was a thing she knew perfectly, and she did not think any man had ever desired her as much as the man sitting next to her on that bed did at that moment.
    Her mind groped for meaning. Meaning came, immediately, but it was so obvious and simple that she ignored it without thought. Then, thinking, came back and examined it.
    
Yes. It is true. He simply cares.
    Tears filled her eyes. A wave of affection more powerful than any she had ever felt in her life poured through her heart. Instinctively, without calculation, she embraced Jeff and drew him down upon her. Her lips pressed against his, soft and open, her tongue entering his mouth.
    Suddenly, she felt very hot and flushed. She pushed Jeff away—softly, but insistently—sat up, and tried to remove her clothing. Her fingers fumbled at the cantankerous thing which the Americans called a “zipper.”
    No need. Her husband would do it for her. She returned his smile with one of her own.
Why not? It seems to please him. And I need not fear that he will tear my garments. Not this man.
    So, rolling and stretching, she helped Jeff in the disrobing. First herself, then him. When they were both nude, she writhed a little on the huge bed—“king-size,” they called it, as if they were kings!—bringing herself to its center. She almost laughed, seeing the way that sinuous motion aroused him. Gretchen knew that her body could affect men so, but she had never seen Ludwig become as instantly inflamed as her husband.
    For a moment, the sight of his erect manhood brought an old chill. She could feel the shield closing around her mind, and the blankness coming.
    
No!
I will not be false to my husband. I promised the duchess. I promised
him.
    The struggle was brief, easy. So easy. Far easier than she would have imagined. She did laugh, now. Not with mockery or ridicule, but simple affection. Gretchen had always enjoyed keeping her family happy. This was simply part of it. No more to be dreaded than combing her sister’s hair or feeding her child.
    Jeff lay down beside her and began flooding her body with kisses and caresses. Another wave of affection poured through her. Then, an unexpected surge of pleasure. She was quite amazed by the latter. Gretchen was accustomed to caressing others, not being the recipient of that pleasure.
    For a moment, she wallowed in the sensation. There had been precious little of sheer pleasure in her life.
    It was too much. She shied away from it, recalled by stern duty. It was time to satisfy her husband. Men demanded it. So, half-unwillingly—but not for the reasons of old—she began lifting her husband upon her.
    Jeff resisted. Not fiercely, no, but firmly for all that. He moved his open mouth across her breast, and down her belly. Slowly, slowly, while his hand stroked her inner thighs. The hand—hot, soft—moved up. The mouth—wet, and softer still—moved down.
    When his fingers reached their destination, Gretchen gasped. Partly from pleasure, but mostly from surprise.
So gentle. So—
    She realized, then, that he was not very experienced. He was fumbling, she thought. Only half-certain of his end, and less so of his means.
    It mattered not at all. He was the only man who had ever tried. Half-accidentally, Jeff’s fingers found their mark. Gretchen hissed. She sensed her husband’s glowing satisfaction. Back again, trying, trying.
    Hiss.
Oh!
    For the first time in her life, Gretchen felt her own eagerness arrive. She wondered, but only for an instant. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own. She gave it the rein and reached down herself. Guiding—or trying to. She was no more experienced in her own pleasure than her husband.
    When the sharp sensation came again, she bit her lip. Then, realizing what she was doing, let the soft moan emerge. After the horror of the first day, she had never let a man hear her moan. Or make any sound. But this moan was the rightful property of her husband. It belonged to him, not her—and was freely given.
    Now Jeff’s mouth reached its goal, and Gretchen gasped again. With shock, this time.
What is he doing? Is he insane?
    She seized his head, ready to push him away. But her hands froze in the act. Jeff reacted to the pressure of her fingers in exactly the opposite manner to what she had intended. His mouth pressed down, and open. His tongue followed the path found by learning fingers. Sheer pleasure held her paralyzed.
    Gretchen’s mind was awhirl. Pleasure, confusion, joy, fear—all of them were contained in her sighing, moaning, wordless voice.
    
What to do?
    Fear and confusion triumphed. Her mind fled down a different path. A well-worn, familiar, hated rut.
    
Just satisfy him and be done.
    With her strength, Gretchen seized Jeff’s shoulders and hauled him away. Up now! Across! Here, where you belong! She wrapped her legs around his own, pinning him to the rut.
    That, too, he fumbled. But not for long, and even his awkwardness brought another wave of affection. For all his passion, Gretchen understood that Jeff was still trying to be gentle. The flare burst in her heart so brightly she thought it might consume her whole.
    In, now. Oh yes! She laughed giddily, gaily, happily. Even in
this
her husband cast memory into the shade.
Oh yes!
    Duty fell away, replaced by ancient instinct. She felt her body reacting in ways she had never known. Her muscles stripped away the shield, her nerves broke it into pieces, her mind cast the pieces aside. Blankness filled with swirling color. There was nothing, now, between her and her husband. Nothing but skin and moisture. Nothing but his desire and her—
    
What?
    Another wave of pleasure drove a hiss from her throat. She started kissing Jeff fiercely. The breath poured over her lips, down her tongue, into his mouth. She felt her husband respond, eagerly, avidly—
    
Proudly.
    Gretchen finally understood Jeff’s purpose, then. For an instant, she froze. Utter shock.
    She moved her face away, pressing the back of her head into the pillow. Jeff lifted his own. They stared at each other. Light green; light brown.
    Green glowed; brown questioned.
    
Is it possible? I never thought—
    Green assured; brown—accepted.
    
I will try. Husband, I will try.
    She was too confused, at first, to follow him down that path. She simply joined her body to the rhythm. But her mind, soon enough, found the way to join an old rut to a new destination. There was safety and security, for her family as much as herself, in keeping her man satisfied. This was what he wanted, as strange as it seemed. So—
    She began by simply reacting, allowing Jeff’s desire for her own pleasure to guide her. Waves of delight, she signaled with her mouth, her hands, her voice. Her husband responded. Learning, learning. The waves came closer, higher.
    She was almost frightened, then, but drove away the fear with duty.
My husband wants this.
New desire found security in old habit.
Give him what he wants. Safety lies that way.
    Safety fell aside, duty fell aside, reaction fell aside. There was nothing left but Gretchen. The waves became a roaring surf and the surf became the tide. Unstoppable, now. When the end came, Gretchen even managed to accept it. Embrace it. Take it for her own, as something valuable and precious.
    Glory in it, as if she were a duchess herself.
    A refugee from Sepharad had found her sun-drenched legends in this place, and a Scots cavalryman his deadly faeries. Now, a young woman from broken Germany found her old wives’ tales. They were true, after all. All that they had said. All that Gretchen had disbelieved, just as she had disbelieved the tales of knights and chivalry.
    A new wife had found herself in her own pleasure. She repaid her husband with feverish kisses, tear-filled eyes, and a voice sobbing years of promise.