Elizabeth Ferguson Holcombe Eno
(March 1617 - October 7, 1679)
Mother of Ten Wife of Two
Michael Estabrook
A confusing time, that is to be certain. I was first wed to Thomas Holcombe, he being 32, me a mere 16. But I wed to him nonetheless despite our age differences because he was so strong, so worldly and wise, from a cogent and ancient family emanating out from Cornwall and Devonshire. After he died I married again then to James Eno, him being 33 and me 41. Seems as if I could not be a-finding a man of mine own age, folks would be saying.
But James, well my reasons for marrying James are not so clear as they were with Thomas. It is harder to express why. His family they were Huguenots driven out from France in the early days of the century. But his ambitions were nary great, him wanting peace all the time, peace and quietude all of the time, perhaps to assuage his pounding headaches. For his soul was deep and tender, his eyes gray-blue and soft, his heart of purity and yearning, and when he licked my lips to taste me, and when he lay silent as a stone alongside me out in the Great Field beneath the infinite twinkling Stars high in the infinite Heavens I could hear the blossoms of spring daffodils bursting into bloom, taste the drifting honey-suckle scented breezes, smell the warmth of the night settling down all around us, feel the coolness of his skin touching against mine, finally his weight pressing firm yet light at the same time upon me, the weight of everlasting life. And I was safe. James had the true heart and the white hot soul of a poet, somehow, though he was a man of few words.
