“Your family let that happen?”
“My brother was twelve.”
“Then sixteen.”
“Then gone to school.”
“Servants did what my father ordered.”
“My aunt said he was trying to help me.”
Grant turned away.
He needed to look at something else.
The stove.
Window.
Anything.
He had met cruel men.
Men who kicked horses.
Men who withheld wages.
Men who beat sons because someone had once beaten them.
But there was something uniquely revolting about an overflowing pantry used as punishment.
Behind him Eliza whispered:
“I shouldn't have told you.”
Grant turned immediately.
“Why?”
“You're angry.”
“Yes.”
She recoiled.
“Not with you.”
He crossed half the distance.
Stopped.
“Eliza.”
She looked at him.
“You will never need permission to eat here.”
Her eyes closed.
Grant continued.
“Not from me.”
“Not from Samuel.”
“Not from anyone.”
She started crying.
He stayed where he was.
“Can I hold you?”
The question broke something.
Eliza nodded.
Grant crossed the remaining distance.
She stepped into him so suddenly he nearly lost balance.
His arms closed around her.
Strong.
Not tight.
Her face pressed against his chest.
He felt her crying through his shirt.
After a minute she whispered:
“I hate him.”
Grant stroked her hair.
“I know.”
“And I love him.”
“I know.”
“He wasn't always—”
“You don't have to defend him to me.”
“I’m not.”
Eliza pulled back.
“Maybe I am.”
Grant wiped her tears.
“People can love somebody who hurt them.”
She stared.
He continued.
“Doesn't make the hurt imaginary.”
Eliza looked toward the biscuit still in her hand.
Grant smiled faintly.
“Finish it before Samuel wakes up and steals it.”
She laughed.
A real laugh.
Then ate.
The third rule began after Grant discovered food hidden in her sewing basket.
Two biscuits.
A strip of dried beef.
Three sugar cubes wrapped in cloth.
He did not confront her.
Instead, the next time they went to town, he handed her money.
Eliza frowned.
“What is this?”
“Household account.”
“You already have an account at Baxter’s.”
“In my name.”
“Yes.”
“This one is yours.”
She stared.
“Why?”
Grant shrugged.
“Because you run half the house.”
“Mrs. Bell runs half.”
“Then you run the other half.”
Eliza looked at the money.
“Do I need to record everything?”
“If you want.”
“For you?”
“No.”
“That seems irresponsible.”
Grant smiled.
“Now you sound like Samuel.”
She kept the money.
The hidden biscuits disappeared gradually.
Not immediately.
Grant never mentioned them.
Their marriage changed just as slowly.
The first time Eliza kissed him without fear was nineteen days after the wedding.
Grant had spent the afternoon repairing a section of fence after high wind knocked a cottonwood across it.
He returned muddy.
Cold.
Tired.
Eliza stood at the kitchen table rolling biscuit dough.
Grant entered.
She looked up.