By February, the road had opened enough for the post rider to travel regularly.
Margaret received another letter from Mrs. Whitcomb, this one containing a small photograph of the children at St. Agnes. She showed it to Clara, who studied the faces with serious interest.
“Are these your children?” Clara asked.
“Not mine. They are the children I cared for.”
“Do they miss you?”
“I hope they remember me.”
Clara touched the photograph.
“Maybe they do.”
Margaret smiled. “Perhaps.”
Later that evening, Eli found her standing at the window, looking toward the road.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Then what are you watching?”
“The snow.”
He joined her.
The fields lay quiet beneath the moon. A line of fence posts disappeared into the distance, each capped with white. The barn stood dark against the sky, and a faint glow from the lantern near the stable door marked the only sign of life beyond the cabin.
“You miss Philadelphia,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you wish you had stayed?”
Margaret thought before answering.
“I miss the people. I miss the children. I miss the sound of the city. But I don’t miss being afraid of the rent, or wondering whether I could afford coal. I don’t miss having to explain why I wanted a life beyond service.”
“And here?”
“Here I’m afraid of different things.”
“What things?”
She turned from the window.
“Being needed so much that I forget who I am. Being loved because I am useful. Being kept because leaving would hurt someone.”
Eli’s face grew serious.
“I would never keep you against your will.”
“I know you wouldn’t do it with your hands. But a person can feel trapped by gratitude too.”
He nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
She looked surprised.
“I don’t want you to feel trapped,” he said. “If you decide to leave, I’ll help you go. If you decide to stay, I want you to have a life here that belongs to you. Not one you owe me.”
Margaret searched his face.
“And what would you want, if I stayed?”
He hesitated.
“To have you here.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the fire.
“Because the house is warmer when you’re in it. Because Clara laughs more. Because I find myself wanting to tell you things I haven’t told anyone since Anne died. Because when I come in from the cold, I look for you before I remember not to.”