“I am.”
“You should sleep.”
“I will.”
But she did not rise.
“Why did you agree to marry me?” he asked.
Margaret set her cup down.
“I didn’t agree to marry you because I believed I could love a stranger.”
“Then why?”
“Because your letter said you needed a wife, and because I needed a home where I could work without fearing that every kindness came with a price. I thought we might build something steady. Perhaps affection would come later. Perhaps it would not. I knew that before I accepted.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I may have been foolish.”
“Because of the letter?”
“Because I imagined I could come here, meet you, and remain untouched by whatever happened.”
Eli felt his pulse quicken.
“What do you mean?”
Margaret looked at him directly.
“I find you difficult to understand. You seem determined to send me away and equally determined to make certain I’m warm. You speak as though you have no use for companionship, yet you prepared a room and bought a quilt. You look at me as if I’ve brought trouble into your house, and then you look at me as if you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”
He stared at her.
“That’s a great deal to read into a man’s face.”
“I have had to learn to read faces. It is useful when you have little else to rely upon.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Anne was right about you.”
Margaret’s expression softened. “What did she say?”
“That you were kind without being weak.”
“She was generous.”
“She also said you were stubborn.”
Margaret smiled. “She was accurate.”
A quiet warmth passed between them, fragile as a flame.
Eli cleared his throat.
“I should tell you something about the arrangement.”
“I’m listening.”
“I wrote to the agency because I thought Clara needed a woman in the house. I thought I needed help. I also thought that if I married again, I could give her a proper family.”
“And what do you think now?”
“I think I was trying to solve grief with a contract.”
Margaret looked down at her cup.
“That is understandable.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Grief makes people reach for things they can name. A schedule. A duty. A marriage certificate. Something that tells them what to do when they cannot bear not knowing.”
He studied her.
“You speak as if you’ve had practice.”