Maria Decompresses and Zachary Lets Her Hair Down

When Maria's sister, Anne, was 16, she suddenly developed an odd malady that made her tight and flushed whenever the tailor's son stopped by. In his absense, Anne found herself speaking circles around his name, as if she were dying to have someone else bring it up but did not dare to do so herself. She drove Maria, their mother, the maid, and their aunt mad as she avoided the precious word--Jacob--but her chatter did her some good.
Maria thought it was a little like tipping over the rain barrel during a storm. It would fill up again for sure, and all the pressure and weight of the pounding water would once again make the barrel tight and strained as a drum, but for an hour or two that pressure might be relieved. Maria remembered when Anne first dared to say his name, and how she had stood for a moment, dumbfounded, after it escaped her lips. She had laughed a little, stunned at the relief it gave the pressure in her chest.
But Maria had no such relief. She had attempted to speak circles around his name, but knew she ought not to mention his existence to her husband. For a while she spoke of him to her aunt, but her aunt became oddly besotted with James herself , and did not hesitate to use his name frequently, much to Maria's distress. Maria soon found she had no one to confide in at all. She simply could not bear to tell anyone why she wanted to talk about him, after all--it was shameful enough to bring him up when her audience was unsuspecting. She soon found her rain barrel had no relief, and over the next few months it grew tighter and tighter.
After James left the storm began to recede, and the pressure grew a little less. Part of the pressure leaked out the cracks--she lost composure several times. Two weeks after he left she told herself she ought to bundle up her music and put it away as it was before, instead of carrying it home to work with. But when she stood on the balcony and looked down at the organ she found a strange urge to throw the music instead.
Much to her own surprise she did, over the railing and down onto the pews below. She stared in horror at the falling papers, and found herself more horrified to realize she had been grinning for a moment.
There were other points when she lost composure, but mainly she detached herself. Slowly, the pressure began evaporate, bit by bit, until she found it was possible to speak to her husband about trivial things, and then that it was possible to smile at him, and then, one night, that it was possible to sit by him on the same sofa as she finished a doll for little Abagail Pershing. She had no babies of her own anymore--Matthew was nearly 5.
Zachary was reading something--they always found things to keep them busy when the other was around. But that night Maria discovered that enough pressure had evaporated from her "barrel" that she could ask him what he was reading.
"Fordyce's sermons," he replied. He did not seem to want to talk, but for the first time in a long time, Maria found she did. It was an odd feeling.
"What does he say?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Dr. Fordyce."
"Nothing but what he should. He writes of how young women ought to act. I thought I might put them in this week's sermon, though some of the ideas are a bit--restrictive."
Maria felt the preassure build up in her again. "You could just read it to me now!" she cried. But she had lost composure again, for Zachary looked up at her in surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"I hear your sermons every week, Zachary. You need not burden the whole town with your condemnation of me."
And then at last something went right for her. Zachary was not a Vicar for nothing--he recognized guilt in a repenting person. "It was not just for you, Maria," he said blankly. "It was for everyone to take heed. But if it upsets you--I won't put his sermons in at all this week."
The last part was much louder for Maria. She had put her sewing aside entirely and wrapped her arms around her husband. He said nothing. At last he dared with one hand to reach up and stroke her hair.
They sat for quite a while in silence. The book and the sewing lay quite forgotten.
"One of your hairpins has come out," said Zachary.
"It doesn't matter," said Maria. "You can take them all out."
Zachary was not sure what had landed his wife in his arms again, and he was similarly uncertain about where she set her hairpins anymore. It had been years since he had taken down her hair. But after some probing her hair came down, sending the last pin skittering across the floor. Much to Zachary's disapointment, Maria got up to fetch it. Then she took her other pins from his hand and without meeting his eyes went towards their bedroom. He was disapointed again--as he was every night.
But then at last something went right for Zachary. Maria stopped at the door and turned back. She said in the smallest of voices, "When are you coming to bed, Zachary?"