A Rainy Pondering

The Boarding House had already been emptied of its inhabitants by the time the bedroom door creaked open, and the raven-haired young woman stepped out. A heavy rain was falling beyond the windows, straight down, pounding into the earth. Taite hobbled along the perimeter of the room, opening each pane to encourage what breeze might be willing to visit. The air felt heavy and stifling with dampness, and she could feel wispy tendrils of hair beginning to stick to her cheeks. The dark, shining tresses were swept back in her hands and tied at the nape of her neck with a green ribbon.

A soft, lilting hum rose in the woman’s throat as she continued with her morning chores. Clearing the table of the cups and plates left behind from those who had already breakfasted and departed for the day. Moving from bed to bed, straightening coverlets and fluffing pillows, checking the wicks on the candles.

A peculiar shadow seemed to fall over the room, and the voice of the rain grew louder. She paused in her duties to straighten and peer at the front windows. Where was he today? Was he outside, exposed to the weather? It seemed certain that he must be; all of his work was outdoors or upon the road. The porcelain brow furrowed at the thought of him, drenched to the bone.

A strange sound jolted her from her thoughts for a moment. Rip, rip, rip. Her eyes searched quickly for the source, and discovered the little orange-and-white cat with her back arched and claws sunk into the blanket atop Tumunir’s bed. “Pumpkin!” she scolded, limp-stomping over with her fists balled threateningly. Pumpkin froze, staring up with bulging, indignant eyes, before bolting in a flash through the open bedroom door. Taite softened with a warm chuckle and shook her head, quickly smoothing the blanket back into place.

The man would need to dry and change when he got home. If he came home that evening, of course, and wasn’t on a job that would keep him away for days on end. She preferred to imagine that he would appear as she hoped. So she went into the bedroom and brought out a neatly folded towel, and placed it on his bed beside his pillow. She stood there for a moment with her hand resting on the towel. Thinking. Smiling. Blushing. Until she turned away with a mumbled self-chiding, and went to tend the kitchen.

The rain continued, and the day remained as dark as twilight. The wood in the stove did not want to light with how dreadfully damp the air was. Tea would have to wait for later. She went through the cupboard and checked the jams and preserves for sour smells or mildew. There was plenty of honey and butter and salt and flour. A plate of biscuits remained safe from flies and mice under its cheesecloth mantle.

The broom was taken up next, and she set about sweeping the common room of the house, starting at the back, near the kitchen. When a clattering sound came from the bedroom, she yelled out, “Pumpkin!” but did not bother going to see what had been knocked over. Her mind was more pleasantly engaged in other thoughts, and she did not wish to interrupt them.

He would come up the walk at a swift pace, his head bowed and his hood pulled up against the pelting rain. He would be seeking dryness, warmth, comfort, rest. She would be ready to provide them all. He would smile at her the moment his feet hit the welcome rug, even before the hood was thrown back from his face. Would she hug him if he were sopping wet? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps she would meet him with the towel in her hands, offering it up to him with a smile of her own to welcome him home. He would step away to undress from his wet garments. She would long to follow…

A sudden tightness ached behind her breast bone. She found herself squinting her eyes shut while a toothy smile stretched across her face. Breathy giggling arrested her briefly, until she shook her head to dispel the silly haze. The sound of the swishing bristles was steady and calming. She focused on guiding the little mounds of crumbs and cat hair together, gathering them into tidy piles.

He wasn’t a fool, to have showed her the cottage. “All paths have an end somewhere,” her Pa used to say. This path they now sampled together, full of uncertainty and clumsy, merciless wantings, had an end somewhere, too. If anyone were to ask her if she wanted to marry any other man in all the world, she’d blurt out her answer without hesitating. How long had he been staying at the Boarding House now? She couldn’t remember. It felt as if he’d always been there. Were there days before Tairy existed within the sheltered bubble of her world? She found that she had to stop and search for the memory of them.

Still, behind the fierce, pounding audacity of her heart, there was something else. A voice within. Was it her own? Her father’s? Her mother’s? It’s too soon yet...don’t hurry into it…

“Aye, aye,” she heard herself answering irritably, and then laughing immediately after. A pause was taken to lean her forehead onto the end of the broomstick. She’d heard folk talk about being “mad in love”. It sounded ridiculous at the time! Mad, indeed. If folk couldn’t be in control of their own selves, what use were they to anyone else? Surely, something as pleasant as love didn’t drive folk mad? Madness came on with the wrong turn of the moon, or a fever, or wicked spirits from the barrows to the west, they said.

Why, then? Why did she find herself vacillating between giddy, high joy, and this fearful sort of weight that whispered of its own implacable demand. It certainly sounded akin to madness. Wasn’t it mad to replay the afternoon when he’d taken her to the cottage, and showed her the pile of discarded lumber, the heaps of cleared brush, the ramshackle walls? She’d never seen him so excited, his face bright and boyish, desperate for her approval. It wasn’t a suitable house. Not yet. But for the smile upon Tairy’s face, and the way that he looked at her, so uncertain, so hopeful, so...vulnerable. She would have slept on the bare floorboards and proclaimed it the loveliest castle in the world for his sake.

“This is the most alone we’ve ever been,” she’d whispered to him. The memory stuttered and skipped forward, unwillingly thrusting another image into her mind.

She lifted her head with a jerk, gripping the broom tightly. Even beyond the suffocating warmth of the rainy afternoon, she could feel her cheeks blushing.

There were so many questions yet to ask. So many things to learn.

When would she gather the courage to ask about the scars? Or why he’d kept his hair shorn so close to his scalp when he first arrived? It was no secret, the faded, ropey lines around his wrists, and the criss-cross patchwork upon his back. He bared them every time he removed his shirt or pushed up his sleeves. There was a tale to each faint, jagged marking. Someone had hurt him. Someone had hurt him badly. Many times over.

Swish, swish. The broom sang along with the low roar of the rain. Her hands were shaking.

“A blackberry tart,” she said aloud, and Pumpkin lifted her head from the spot she’d reclaimed upon Tumunir’s bed. “I’ll make one for him tonight. For...for them.”