Page 56 of The Frozen River

This was no concern to Ephraim. He read it to me. “Family register.” He pointed first to one line and then those below it. “Husband and wife. Births. Deaths. Our life will be recorded here, on this page.”

He pressed the book flat with his hand, and a smile spread broad across his face. The feather quill had been sharpened to a fierce point. He mixed the ink with water in a little dish and dipped the quill into the black puddle. I relaxed next to him on the bench. The small movement brought me close enough to Ephraim that our thighs and shoulders touched.

Ephraim tapped the quill against the rim three times, knocking the excess ink off the tip. He raised it above the page. “On this, the nineteenth day of December, in the year of our Lord, one thousand, seven hundred, and fifty-four, I, Ephraim Ballard, do take as wife Martha Moore.”

“This is my name,” he said, scratching the quill against the paper. “This is how it’s written.” The letters were all angles, lines, and curves, and they made no sense to me. But it was wonderful to know that this collection of ink scratches was the name I had taken as my own. “And this,” he added, dipping the quill once again into the ink, “is yours.”

I watched him write my name with a delicate hand. He couldn’t have been more gentle or precise if he had been drawing my face with that quill. My name looked beautiful beneath his hand.

“Have you ever seen your name written before?”

“No.”

“Your father never wrote it for you?”

“I never asked.”

“I will write it for you anytime you ask. I will engrave it upon my own heart if that is what you want.” He lowered his lips to my temple, brushed them against my hairline. “And I will teach you to write mine.”

He rubbed his nose against my ear, my jaw, my temple. I couldn’t think straight. After a moment it was clear to him that I wasn’t thinking anything at all. Ephraim laughed, deep and warm.

“Well then, Mrs. Ballard, let us begin your education.” He pulled the stack of parchment closer. Arranged the ink and quill. Then he flipped the Bible open to a section near the middle. “Do you know what book this is?”

I shook my head. How could I?

“It’s one you’ll never hear preached in church. And I’d wager your father never read it at the table after dinner.”

“What is it?”

“The Song of Solomon.” He traced the title with his finger, and I tried to follow along, wondering which marks corresponded to each word. “Shall I read you a little?”

“Please.”

He set his fingertip beneath each word and moved it slowly as he read. I followed it with my eyes. “The Song of Songs, which is Solo-mon’s,” he said. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.”

I tried to hide my smile. He noticed before I had the chance to smooth it from my face. Ephraim repeated the verse, but this time he spoke the words against my lips.

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth? Yes, I thought, I will let him.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the book said anything about his tongue, because Ephraim made full use of that as well.

“The Bible says that?” I asked when he came up for air.

“Indeed, and a great deal more.”

I had not noticed before how tired he looked. Stubble along his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. Ephraim yawned. There was only one bed in this house, and it was just barely big enough to fit the two of us. But he had taken even this into account.

He pulled me to my feet. “Come with me.” He led me to the bedroom. Opened the door. He took me to stand beside the bed. Held my hands in his. “I’ve promised not to touch you until you’re ready. And I will keep that promise if it kills me. But you are my wife, Martha. And I would very much like to share your bed.”

“My bed?”

“I built it for you.”

I answered him with a quick kiss.

“Was that a yes?”

I nodded. “I prefer to be warm when I sleep.”