Clara leaned back.
“No.”
Dyer’s expression hardened.
“You are rejecting considerable wealth.”
“I own considerable wealth already.”
“You own land that requires management you do not understand.”
Silas shifted.
Clara touched his sleeve under the table.
He stopped.
She looked directly at Dyer.
“Then I will learn.”
“Miss Whitfield—”
“No.”
“This is not emotional.”
“It is deeply emotional.”
“It is also my decision.”
Dyer stared.
“You may regret refusing.”
Clara smiled.
“For thirty years, men have threatened me with regret whenever I refused what they wanted.”
“I’ve survived all thirty.”
The meeting ended.
Outside, Clara’s hands shook.
Silas noticed.
“Want to sit?”
“No.”
She leaned against the courthouse wall.
“One hundred twenty thousand.”
“Yes.”
“I could have bought half of Baltimore.”
“Probably not half.”
“Do not ruin the moment.”
Silas smiled.
Clara looked at him.
“Would you have thought badly of me if I accepted?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What if I sold tomorrow?”
“I’d help you pack.”
The answer came immediately.
Clara stared.
“And then?”
“Then I’d go home.”
Something in her chest twisted.
“Just like that?”
“What would you want me to do?”
She did not know.
Perhaps protest.
Perhaps declare she belonged here.
Perhaps prove she mattered enough to fight for.
But that would contradict everything she had begun to value in him.
Silas looked at her.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“If you stay because you think I need you to, you’ll eventually hate me.”
“If you leave because you think I want you gone, you’ll hate me sooner.”
“So choose for yourself.”
She looked down.
“That is terribly inconvenient.”
“I know.”
They rode back in silence.
That night Clara read more of Eleanor’s journal.
Her mother’s handwriting changed across years.
Early pages were bold.
Later pages tighter.
More cautious.
Clara discovered a woman she had never been permitted to know.
Eleanor Vale had ridden horses.
Surveyed water channels.
Argued with miners.
Played cards badly.
Swore frequently.
Loved cinnamon.
Hated sewing.
Once punched Jonathan Boone in the shoulder because he laughed when she fell into mud.
Clara stopped at that passage.
Jonathan had written a note beneath it years later.
She missed my shoulder and nearly dislocated her thumb.
Clara laughed aloud.
Silas, sleeping near the fire, woke.
“What?”
“Your father insulted my mother in her own journal.”
“He was brave.”
“Foolish.”
“Same family trait.”
Clara looked at him.
“Were they lovers?”
Silas sat up slowly.
“I told you.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I still don’t.”
“You must have wondered.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Silas rubbed sleep from eyes.
“I think they loved each other.”