He stumbled over unfamiliar words because each mistake reminded him of being a poor mountain boy mocked by shopkeepers.
She did not laugh unless he did first.
By spring, he read an entire newspaper article aloud.
Badly.
Proudly.
The woman applauded.
He threw the newspaper at her.
She laughed.
He kissed her.
That became another beginning.
The woman’s body changed very little.
Her relationship to it changed slowly.
The mountain man never praised her in the polished language of gentlemen.
He did not call her delicate.
She clearly was not.
He called her beautiful when she was muddy.
Beautiful when her hair escaped its pins.
Beautiful when she wore three layers against the cold.
Beautiful when she stood naked before him months into their marriage and instinctively tried to hide her stomach with both arms.
He lowered her hands gently.
Not because he demanded access.
Because she had begun hiding from herself.
“You don’t have to do that with me.”
She looked away.
“It isn’t for you.”
He understood.
“Then don’t do it for whoever taught you.”
The sentence stayed.
Her first husband’s voice did not disappear overnight.
Sometimes at meals she stopped eating before she was satisfied.
The mountain man noticed but did not push food toward her.
He simply kept eating normally.
One evening she apologized after taking a second piece of bread.
He stared.
“For what?”
She froze.
Then realized.
Nothing.
She had apologized for eating in her own home.
He did not make a speech.
He tore his own bread in half.
“Jam?”
She laughed and cried at the same time.
“Yes.”
He passed it.
The act was so ordinary that it became sacred.
Spring brought town.
They had avoided it all winter.
Trade eventually required them to descend from the mountains.
The woman dressed carefully.
Not because she wanted approval.
Because old habits returned around witnesses.
She chose a dark green dress the mountain seamstress had made to her measurements.
Comfortable.
Beautiful.
No corset.
That alone would scandalize half of respectable society.
The mountain man watched her fastening the collar.
“You’re nervous.”
“No.”
He raised one eyebrow.
She sighed.
“Yes.”
“Want to stay?”
“No.”
“Want me to go alone?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
She looked at him.
“To walk into town without feeling like everyone already knows something shameful about me.”
He considered.
“I can’t stop people looking.”
“I know.”
“I could glare at them.”
She smiled.
“That may make it worse.”
“Probably.”
She walked toward him.
“Just stay beside me.”
His face softened.
“I can do that.”