Every gathering became an opportunity for Henry to make some comment about how much chair she required, how quickly bread disappeared, how fortunate she was that he had married her when other men preferred delicate women.
By the second year, Eleanor had stopped laughing loudly.
By the third, she had stopped eating in front of guests.
By the fourth, she had learned to enter rooms already apologizing for occupying space.
Henry's death from pneumonia had made her a widow at twenty-seven.
Five years later, she still sometimes heard his voice when she looked into a mirror.
That was why Caleb's advertisement had frightened her.
And why she had answered anyway.
Mountain homesteader, thirty-two. Own cabin, livestock, acreage. Seeking practical wife willing to endure isolated winters. No dowry required. Character more important than appearance.
No poetry.
No claims of romance.
No promises that sounded rehearsed.
Eleanor had written back because the advertisement had contained one sentence she reread perhaps fifty times.
I ask only that whoever comes chooses freely and understands she may leave if the life does not suit her.
She had expected a lie.
She had arrived prepared to discover one.
Instead Caleb had met her outside a small mountain chapel that morning and stepped backward when she approached.
Not disgust.
Space.
He had looked at her face first.
Not her body.
When the preacher asked whether Eleanor entered the marriage willingly, Caleb had interrupted.
The old preacher frowned.
Caleb said, "Ask her again."
The room became quiet.
The preacher had blinked.
"I just did."
"No. Ask without everybody staring at her like the answer is decided."
Eleanor had looked up at him in shock.
Caleb turned away from her.
Actually turned his back.
"Now ask."
The preacher did.
And for the first time in either of her marriages, Eleanor had heard the question as though the answer truly belonged to her.
She said yes.
Now, only hours later, Caleb stood beside the fire shaking.
Eleanor remembered Henry.
Then looked toward the door.
Caleb saw.
His face changed.
"If you want to leave this room, you can."
"The storm would bury me before I reached the barn."
"I didn't mean leave the cabin."
His voice softened.
"You have the bedroom."
"I'll sleep here."
"Door locks from inside."
Eleanor stared at him.
He continued.
"If I frighten you, lock it."
There was no challenge in his voice.
No wounded pride.
No warning about marital duty.
Just fact.
Something inside Eleanor unclenched slightly.
She lowered her hand from the latch.
"Why did you marry me?"
Caleb looked toward the fire.
For several seconds, only the blizzard answered.
Finally he said, "Because I was tired."
Eleanor frowned.
"Of what?"
"Silence."