He turned toward the window, where the storm pressed white against the glass.
“She should have told me,” he said.
“She wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t she?”
Margaret looked down at the sealed letter.
“Because she was afraid you would mistake her request for an accusation.”
Eli’s shoulders stiffened.
“What accusation?”
“I think you should read it.”
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then he crossed the room, took the envelope, and broke the seal.
The paper inside was folded twice. He recognized the careful slant of his wife’s handwriting, though the lines were shakier than he remembered. He unfolded it with a care that felt almost like fear.
My dear Eli,
If Margaret has kept her promise, then she is standing before you now, and I hope you have had the good sense to let her come inside. If you have not, I shall have to haunt you, and you know I am stubborn enough to do it.
I am writing this because I am afraid I will not have another chance to say what I mean. The doctor tells me to rest, and I do rest, though I find there is a difference between resting and accepting. I have accepted that my body may not recover. I have not accepted that Clara should grow up believing love is something that ends when the person who gives it is gone.
Eli stopped reading.
His eyes blurred. He pressed the heel of his hand against them, then lowered it.
Clara had moved closer, drawn by the change in his face. Margaret placed a quiet hand on the child’s shoulder.
Eli continued.
You have been a good husband to me, though you will never believe it when you are grieving. You have been patient with my foolishness, gentle with my fears, and generous in ways you scarcely notice. I know you think you have failed me because you could not make me well. You have not failed me. A man cannot bargain with death, no matter how hard he works or how much he loves.
But I am afraid of what you will do after I am gone. You will turn the house into a place where everything remains exactly as I left it. You will keep my chair, my sewing basket, and my blue quilt. You will tell Clara stories about me, but you will stop making new ones with her because you will believe that every happiness after mine is a betrayal.
Eli’s fingers tightened around the page.
I do not ask you to forget me. I ask you not to make a shrine of our home and call it loyalty.
He drew a sharp breath.
The words seemed to come from the very center of the woman he had lost. He could hear her voice in them: affectionate, direct, and just a little amused at his stubbornness.
Margaret has been a friend to me. She is kind without being weak, and she has a courage that she does not yet recognize. I have seen her care for frightened children and weary mothers. I have seen her give away the last of her food and then pretend she had not been hungry. She has lost much, though she seldom speaks of it.
I asked her to come to Wyoming because I wanted Clara to have another woman in her life who could teach her things I cannot. I wanted someone who would read to her, show her how to sew a straight seam, and tell her the truth when the world is unkind. I wanted someone who would be able to stay when the road becomes difficult.
But I did not ask Margaret to marry you. I would never ask a woman to give her future as payment for my death. If she chooses to come, she must come freely. If she chooses to leave, you must let her go without making her feel she has failed me.
Eli stopped again.
Margaret stared into the fire.
Clara’s face had become solemn. “Mama wrote about me?”
“Yes,” Eli whispered.
“Is she telling you to let Miss Margaret stay?”
He looked at his daughter.
“She’s telling me I must let Miss Margaret choose.”
Clara considered this. “Then I hope she chooses to stay.”
“Clara,” Margaret murmured, “you mustn’t ask me to decide anything tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because your father and I need to talk.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve.”