Every time the wind moved something outside, both looked toward the door.
Around three in the morning, Clara said, “You married me because you needed help surviving winter.”
Henry looked over.
“That is a strange thing to discuss now.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“That is usually dangerous.”
She gave him a tired look.
“Three weeks ago you would have considered this situation proof that the arrangement was a failure.”
Henry said nothing.
“Someone tries to kill us, the barn burns, the chimney blocks, your wife nearly freezes—”
“My wife nearly freezes saving me.”
Clara stopped.
Henry seemed not to realize what he had emphasized.
My wife.
She looked down.
He continued, “And no. I wouldn't call it a failure.”
“Why?”
Henry shifted in the chair.
“Because we're alive.”
“That is very practical.”
“You married a practical man.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that was false advertising.”
Henry looked at her.
She was smiling again.
Weakly.
But sincerely.
He felt that strange pressure in his chest.
He had felt it more often lately.
Usually when she laughed.
Or when she corrected his arithmetic.
Or when she left coffee beside his gloves without announcing it.
He disliked emotions he could not name.
Clara seemed to enjoy causing them.
Henry looked back toward the stove.
“What did your uncle do?”
The question erased her smile.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Henry continued.
“You mentioned him before the storm.”
“I know.”
“The man outside may be connected to Chicago.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
Clara stared into the fire.
“My mother inherited property.”
“How much?”
“More than she understood.”
Henry waited.
“When the railway expanded through the southern wards, several warehouses she owned became valuable. After she died, the property went into trust.”
“Your uncle controlled it.”
“Yes.”
“For you.”
“Supposedly.”
Henry's eyes narrowed.
“When did you realize he was stealing?”
“Two years ago.”
“And you stayed?”
“I had nowhere else.”
“You could have gone to the law.”
Clara looked at him.
“You think I didn't?”
That silenced him.
She continued.
“My uncle knew judges. Lawyers. Bank officers. Men who drank at his table. I was an unmarried woman who depended on him and weighed nearly four hundred kilograms. Every concern I raised became evidence that I was emotional, unstable, confused.”
Henry's expression hardened.
“They told you that?”
“They told each other. In rooms where they assumed I did not understand.”
She looked toward the window.
“One physician recommended that my uncle be appointed permanent guardian because I was supposedly incapable of independent judgment.”
Henry's hand closed around the shotgun.
“Based on your weight?”
“Based on convenience.”
Her voice remained calm.
That made his anger worse.
“He wanted control beyond the trust.”
“Yes.”
“What stopped him?”
“My mother’s attorney.”
“Still alive?”