“I sent a trunk ahead from Philadelphia. It may arrive in the spring.”
“If the railway can get through.”
“If it cannot, I’ll manage.”
“You seem to say that often.”
“Because I often have to.”
He had no reply.
Clara yawned. Margaret immediately noticed.
“Perhaps it’s time for bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
Clara’s eyes were nearly closed.
Eli scooped her up. “You can argue with the pillow.”
He carried her down the hall, tucked her into bed, and sat beside her while she fought sleep.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Will Miss Margaret leave in the morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you be sad?”
He brushed her hair back.
“I might.”
“Then why would you let her go?”
“Because she has a life of her own.”
Clara thought about that. “Couldn’t her life be here?”
“Perhaps. But that must be her choice.”
The child’s eyes grew heavy.
“Mama wanted her here.”
Eli felt the old ache rise, but he kept his voice gentle.
“Mama wanted her to be free to choose.”
Clara was quiet for a while.
“Do you think Mama would like her?”
Eli looked toward the dark window.
“I think she already did.”
Clara smiled, then drifted into sleep.
When he returned to the kitchen, Margaret was alone. She had set two cups of tea on the table. One sat untouched before the chair where Anne used to sit.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I thought you might want some.”
“Thank you.”
He sat across from her.
For a while, they drank in silence.
Outside, the blizzard raged. Inside, the fire softened the shadows and made the room seem smaller, more intimate. Eli became aware of the quiet details: the way Margaret warmed her hands around the cup, the slight crease at the bridge of her nose when she concentrated, the damp curl resting against her cheek.
He looked away.
“You must be exhausted.”