He flinched.
She stood breathing hard.
“What happened to you in those mountains does not excuse leaving me ignorant.”
“No.”
“You made a promise.”
“Yes.”
“And broke it.”
Jonas looked at her fully.
“Yes.”
No defense.
No excuse.
That disarmed her more than an argument would have.
Miriam turned away.
She went to the window.
Snow had thickened until the world outside disappeared.
Her reflection floated against the glass.
Behind it she could see Jonas standing by the table.
A man she had married because his letters felt safe.
A man who had hidden more from her than she believed possible.
She whispered, “Why write to me now?”
Jonas answered carefully.
“Because when I finally recovered the papers, I went to Baltimore.”
Miriam turned.
“What?”
“Last spring.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“You found my old house?”
“Empty.”
She waited.
“I asked at the church. They told me you had moved.”
“To the boardinghouse.”
“Yes.”
Jonas’s expression tightened.
“They also told me what happened after Philip died.”
Miriam felt exposed.
“You asked about my debts.”
“I asked whether you were alive.”
“And when you learned I was?”
“I went to the boardinghouse.”
Her mind raced backward.
She had lived there eleven months.
Third floor.
One narrow room.
A washbasin.
One chair.
Every morning she passed men in the parlor seeking wives through newspapers and western advertisements.
That was where she had first seen Jonas’s notice.
A Colorado trapper.
Own land.
No children.
Widower? No. Never married.
Seeking practical woman accustomed to hardship.
She had laughed when she read it.
Three days later she answered.
Miriam stared at him.
“You saw me there?”
Jonas lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before you answered my advertisement.”
Cold moved through her despite the fire.
“You watched me?”
“Once.”
“What did you see?”
Jonas hesitated.
“Miriam.”
“What did you see?”
He answered.
“You carrying laundry up the stairs.”
Humiliation flashed through her.
She remembered those stairs.
Her hands red from washing other people’s sheets for twenty cents a bundle.
One boot split along the side.
A landlady asking for rent before Miriam reached the landing.
“You saw that.”
“Yes.”
“And did nothing.”
Jonas looked wounded.
“I was ashamed.”
“Of me?”
“Of myself.”
He crossed one step toward her, then stopped.
“I had imagined finding you with the packet in my hand and telling you I had kept Philip’s promise. Instead I was three years late, and you were working yourself sick because I had failed to reach you.”
His voice roughened.
“I stood across the street for nearly an hour.”