husband, she thought. Then, Thomas, what have you done?
He didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. The silence between them lengthened as the revelry in the kitchen grew louder. Laughter. Singing. The smell of bread. She was glad someone found this a merry occasion. She and Thomas might as well be the chief mourners at a wake.
A log fell in the fireplace. The clock ticked quietly on the mantel.
“Thomas—”
“No more talking,” he said, taking her cup away. “Rest. Go to sleep, if you can. I’ll sit here by you until I have to go.”
“Thomas—” she began again.
“No more talking,” he insisted. “This wedding was supposed to be for your good. I don’t want it to make you worse.”
“I’d like to see inside the cedar chest. Could you open it?”
“There’s no key.”
“Force the lock, then.”
He sat for a moment, then did as she asked, first trying to open it with his bare hands and then the edge of the shovel from the fireplace.
“This is going to ruin it, Abiah,” he said after a moment.
“Please, Thomas. Open it.”
The lock finally gave, with a minimal amount of the wood splintering. She raised up on one elbow to look inside. Everything appeared to be there, even the gray uniform jacket and the saber she’d packed away on top. She realized that Thomas was looking at them.
“Guire’s things,” she said, and he nodded. She lay back against the pillows suddenly and closed her eyes, more exhausted than she realized. Thomas closed the chest.
When she opened her eyes, he was once again sitting by the bed.
“Abby,” he said, when he realized she was looking at him. “If you should hear from my grandfather, don’t let him bully you.”
“I don’t think there’s anything for your grandfather to bully me about, Thomas—except perhaps my politics.”
“Oh, the judge would find something, believe me.”
“Then I promise I’ll be every bit as obstinate as you would be.”
He looked at her a moment, then abruptly smiled.
“Go to sleep, Abiah,” he said again, the smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“No,” she said. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep later. Talk to me.”
“Are you warm enough? Shall I put more wood on the fire?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t remind me that I’m an invalid. Talk to me the way you used to when you came home with Guire.”
“Shall I take the book away?” he asked, still intent on being solicitous.
“Thomas!” she said in exasperation. “Tell me about…about your family.” It wasn’t what she meant to ask at all. She had meant to ask about the woman he had really wanted to marry, but at the last moment, she lost her nerve.
He gave a resigned sigh. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“I don’t know ‘everything.’ The Winthrops aren’t like the Calders. There’s no openness, no…”
“What?” she asked, when he didn’t go on.
“I was going to say affection. But I supposed there is some. We’re just very careful to keep it hidden—as if caring for someone was some kind of weakness in our character. The judge does care for my mother—at least I think he does, in his way, or he wouldn’t have let her come back home.”
“But he doesn’t care for you?”
“No. Never for me.”
“Why not?”
“I did the unforgivable.”
“And what was that?” she asked, determined to get whatever information from him she could.
“I was born. I am my father’s son. That alone is sin enough.”
She looked at him, and she made no token protests. It would be presumptuous of her to try to talk him out of his conclusions about the judge. Thomas understood the situation far better than she did. She had only to look into his sad eyes to know that. She wondered if he ever heard from the father who had abandoned him—but she didn’t ask about that, either.
“What is the house like? The one in Maryland,” she asked instead, turning to at least some of the things she’d always wanted to know.
“Big. Ostentatious, actually. Very much in keeping with the judge’s idea of his status in society. It’s always full of luminaries of one kind or another. The judge is very fond of holding salons. Everyone who is anyone strives to be invited, I believe—which is understandable. He is much more agreeable to the strangers who come to his house than he is to his family.” Thomas was looking away from her when he said it, seeing again, she thought, that big—and lonely—house in Maryland.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He looked at her. “Don’t be. My family is what made me appreciate yours so. Miss Emma and Guire. I will miss them all the rest of my life.” He suddenly reached out and took her hand. “Go to sleep,” he said pointedly. “I can see how tired you are.”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “Truly…”
But she must have been. When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark except for the glow from the embers in the fireplace. The chair where Thomas had been sitting was empty. The room had grown cold. There was no smell of burning wax. The candle had been out for a long time.
She struggled to sit up in bed, trying hard not to cry. She had wanted to be awake when Thomas left. She had wanted to tell him…
No. Perhaps it was better this way. No awkward goodbyes. No…anything.
She was still wearing the shawl he had given her, and she hugged it closer to her and lay back against the pillows. What if she never saw him again? What if—
She turned her head sharply at a sound on the other side of the door—a heavy thump, as if something or someone had fallen against it. She raised up on her elbow, listening intently, and just when she was about to lie down again, she heard a voice.
“Please!”
A woman’s voice. Gertie’s voice.
There were more scuffling noises—and a man speaking in muffled and angry tones. Abiah could hear him, but she couldn’t understand the words.
“Gertie?” she called, growing
