Grant saw the biscuit in her other hand.
Half eaten.
Her face went white.
“I'm sorry.”
He stared.
“For eating?”
“No.”
She hid the biscuit behind her.
That hurt more than it should have.
“Eliza.”
“I couldn't sleep.”
“Okay.”
“I didn't eat much supper.”
“I noticed.”
She looked alarmed.
Grant softened.
“I wasn't counting.”
Her eyes dropped.
He crossed the kitchen slowly.
She stepped aside.
Grant opened the pantry.
Flour.
Salt pork.
Preserves.
Beans.
Coffee.
Two loaves.
A basket of apples purchased in town.
He looked at her.
“This doesn't lock.”
Eliza said nothing.
“I don't own a pantry key.”
Her face changed.
Grant continued.
“If you're hungry at midnight, eat.”
“I don't want to waste food.”
“Then don't waste it.”
“Eating isn't wasting.”
She flinched again.
The sentence had hit something.
Grant leaned against the pantry frame.
“Was yours locked?”
Eliza's eyes filled.
He immediately regretted asking.
She whispered:
“Sometimes.”
Grant said nothing.
That was enough.
Eliza stared at the biscuit.
“My father believed appetite required discipline.”
Grant's jaw tightened.
She continued before courage disappeared.
“My mother died when I was fourteen.”
“Before that, meals were just meals.”
“After…”
She swallowed.
“My father started noticing how much I ate.”
“How much I weighed.”
“What dresses fit.”
Grant felt something cold settle in him.
Eliza gave a brittle little laugh.
“You're imagining poverty.”
He had been.
“How did you know?”
“Everyone does.”
She looked toward the pantry.
“We weren't poor.”
Grant waited.
Eliza said:
“My father owned grain warehouses.”
For several seconds Grant thought he misunderstood.
“Warehouses?”
“Three when I was a child.”
“Five now, I think.”
Grant stared.
“You grew up around grain.”
“Yes.”
“And he locked food away from you.”
Her chin trembled.
“Not because there wasn't enough.”
Grant's hands curled.
He forced them open.
Eliza saw.
She stepped backward.
Grant immediately put both hands flat on the table.
“Not at you.”
She nodded.
Still afraid.
He hated the man he had never met for teaching her that fists in a room belonged automatically to her.
“What did he do?”
Eliza looked at the floor.
“If I asked for seconds, I lost dessert the next evening.”
“If he thought my dress looked tight, I ate broth.”
“If I argued…”
She stopped.
Grant waited.
“Sometimes he removed my chair.”
Grant stared.
“What?”
“At supper.”
Her voice became distant.
“I served.”
“My father.”
“My brother.”
Guests if we had them.”
“Then I waited.”
“After everyone finished, I could eat what remained.”
Grant could hear his heartbeat.