Yet neither had crossed the final distance willingly.
Clara raised one hand.
Touched his beard.
His breath changed.
She signed carefully:
I AM GLAD I MARRIED YOU.
Elias’s eyes filled.
He signed:
EVEN BAD WEDDING?
Clara smiled.
BAD WEDDING.
Then:
GOOD MAN.
Elias swallowed.
He raised one hand.
Signed one word.
KISS?
Clara nodded.
The kiss was gentle.
No audience.
No preacher pointing.
No laughter.
No fifty-dollar bet.
When they separated, Elias rested his forehead against hers.
Clara whispered:
“They were wrong.”
He watched her mouth.
Then signed:
ABOUT BOTH.
He was right.
Blackwood had believed Clara was the prize and Elias the humiliation.
But admiration had never protected Clara from cruelty.
Beauty made people look at her.
It had not made them respect her.
Meanwhile the man everyone mocked had been the first person who looked at her circumstances and understood that consent mattered more than possession.
That summer Clara proposed something Elias did not expect.
A second wedding.
He read the note twice.
Already married.
Clara wrote:
I know.
Why?
She thought.
Then:
First one belonged to them.
Elias looked up.
Clara added:
I want one that belongs to us.
His expression softened.
The ceremony took place beside the upper meadow.
No father walking her.
No betting men.
No drunk crowd.
Her father attended but sat with the other guests.
The old schoolteacher came.
The blacksmith came after asking Elias privately if his presence would be welcome.
Elias answered:
Come if tell truth.
The old man did.
The territorial judge who had overseen part of the inquiry agreed to perform the ceremony.
He had a deaf cousin and knew enough manual alphabet to sign as he spoke.
For once, bride and groom received every word equally.
Clara wore a simple cream dress.
No veil.
No attempt to recreate the first gown.
Elias wore a dark coat.
He looked uncomfortable in it.
Clara loved that.
The judge asked:
“Do you come freely?”
Clara answered aloud and signed.
“Yes.”
Elias signed first.
Then spoke.
“Yes.”
The roughness of his voice did not cause laughter.
Nobody dared.
When the judge asked whether Elias accepted Clara as his wife, Elias looked at her.
Then signed:
EVERY DAY IF SHE CHOOSES.
The judge paused.
Smiled.
“That is not exactly the wording.”
Clara laughed.
“Keep it.”
The judge did.
When Clara’s turn came, she said:
“I chose him after I learned I did not have to.”
Elias’s eyes filled.
That became enough.
At the end, the judge asked whether Elias wished to kiss his wife.
Elias looked at Clara.
Still asking.
She nodded.
He kissed her.
Mrs. Vale, the seamstress from the lower valley, eventually cleared her throat.
Clara ignored her.