Chapter 4 #5
Jane worked quickly, emptying the valises first. Each of them was packed tightly with cotton, wool, and flannel undergarments that included petticoats, corsets, camisoles, and drawers.
Tucked between those items were stockings, suspenders, gloves, and the various pots of cream and lotions that Morgan had suspected comprised the whole of their contents.
At the bottom of one bag was the cookbook she had purchased expressly for her new position as wife of a rancher.
At the bottom of the other, she discovered an item that she had not packed, another book, placed there by Alex, she suspected.
When she lifted it and saw it was Jane Eyre, her suspicions were confirmed.
She imagined he thought it was a very good joke.
If he were within sight, Jane would have thrown the damn thing at his head.
The man she had bound herself to was not Mr. Rochester.
The most obvious distinction was a physical one.
Morgan Longstreet had a pleasing, symmetrical countenance that was only saved from true beauty by the scar at the right corner of his mouth.
Although it pained her to admit it, she was selfishly glad of that flaw.
For his features to be so otherwise cast in a fashion that evoked thoughts of marble gods was a burden to her, and she had dwelled on it nightly while examining his photograph in the privacy of her bedroom.
She also took some comfort that his coloring was different than she had been able to imagine.
As it happened, he was no blond Adonis in the drawing room style of Alexander Ewing.
Jane counted that as a mark in Morgan Longstreet’s favor.
It was yet another way she had risked so much by accepting his invitation.
No amount of study could have prepared her for the thatch of orange that he kept mostly hidden under his hat.
And his fair complexion was lightly freckled where it was unprotected from the sun.
Alex would have hated that. Jane was relieved by it.
Morgan Longstreet had a narrow chin, defined cheekbones, a sharply drawn jaw that made his facial muscles jump when he set it tightly, and blue-and-gray-flecked green eyes that could be implacable, impenetrable, or inviting.
Jane had observed all of that. In turn she had felt small, slighted, or swallowed whole, and having felt those things, had vowed not to allow him such influence.
It was a familiar promise, one she knew to be easier made than carried out.
Guarding one’s thoughts always presented fewer challenges than guarding one’s emotions.
The door to the washroom opened. In the process of folding a pair of stockings at the bedside, Jane intended to merely glance over her shoulder to acknowledge Morgan’s presence. What she did was stop folding and stare.
Morgan stood in the open doorway wearing a pair of flannel drawers and nothing else.
The damp towel slung around his neck did not qualify as any sort of substantial garment.
Droplets of water clung to the shaggy tips of his hair, darkening it.
He had not carried a comb with him. The runnels made by passing his fingers through his hair were visible.
He leaned one naked shoulder against the doorframe and held each end of the towel in his fists.
He gestured toward the bed with his chin. “Is that all of it?”
Jane tore her eyes away from the marble statue come to life and looked back at the bed. Most of the contents of her bags were strewn across the coverlet. What wasn’t there was occupying the space on the dresser that he had ceded to her. “I have not opened the trunk.”
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted. He looked at the wardrobe already in the room, and then he looked around the room. “Another cupboard would fit over there next to the window.”
“Do you think so?”
“There’s one in the loft. I’ll measure first. If it will fit, I’ll get Jake to help me bring it down tomorrow.
There’s one in the room next door, but it’s too small for what I’m imagining you’re going to lift out of that trunk.
” His eyes swept the bed again. “You have a magician’s flair.
How many scarves do you reckon you still have up your sleeve? ”
“Don’t concern yourself with the scarves.” She pointed to the top of the wardrobe where her hat rested. “But have a care for the rabbit.”
The right corner of his mouth creased. The crescent shaped scar whitened. “There’s some sass in you, Jane.”
“Pardon?”
“Sass,” he repeated. “Maybe they don’t call it sass where you’re from.”
“I know the word. I didn’t know if I heard you correctly.”
“I see.”
Jane finished rolling the stockings in her hand, set them down, and picked up another pair. “Cousin Frances said I was impudent.”
“ ‘Sassy’ sounds better.”
Jane smiled. “I believe you are right.”
Morgan pushed away from the doorframe. “Mostly I am.”
Jane looked up to see if his wry grin was in place. It wasn’t. She could not make out if he was stating a fact or poking fun at her. She hoped it was the latter; she could not abide arrogance.
“I’ll get my things out of the washroom,” he said. “And clear out that top drawer. Unless you think you can squeeze most of what you have there into it.”
She shook her head. “No, there are immutable laws of physical science that apply here.”
“You’re talking about the conservation of matter.”
Jane nodded slowly. “I am.”
“You can’t fit a pig through a straw without turning her into sausage first.”
“Yes, I suppose.” There was no mistaking his grin now.
“How about I just move my things, like I said.”
“That would be fine. Thank you.”
Morgan opened the drawer, scooped out the contents, and held them against his chest with one arm. He returned to the washroom, collected his clothes with his free hand, and then padded out barefoot.
Jane could hear him moving around in the bedroom next door. They were engaged in similar activities, folding, smoothing, hanging, sorting. She suspected she completed her tasks with more care, but when she finished before he did, she wondered if she had been mistaken.
When she entered the washroom, Jane discovered that Morgan had set out a towel, washcloth, and sponge.
The basin was empty, and she realized he must have tossed the water he used out the small window.
She poured fresh cold water into the bowl before she stripped down to her shift.
It felt as if she washed away a week’s worth of grit, when in reality she had bathed only that morning in a tub at the Pennyroyal with hot and cold running water.
Less than twenty-four hours had passed, and she was already reflecting fondly on that memory.
She thought she probably should not mention it, even in passing.
It was quite possibly the sort of thing that would have Morgan questioning his decision to marry her.
She thought he probably already was, perhaps from the exact moment they had finished exchanging vows.
He had not kissed her. He had avoided it in fact.
When Pastor Robbins had given him leave to do so, Morgan had done nothing.
She had covered the awkward moment by leaning into him and pressing her cheek against his, and for then it was enough.
It was not enough now, but when she stepped back into the bedroom and saw that Morgan had not returned to say goodnight, she counted it as a blessing that she was familiar making peace with disappointment.