The bread was nearly inedible.
But neither seemed to mind.
Afterward, they washed the dishes together.
Silas dried.
Eleanor washed.
And when the kitchen was finished, they carried two cups of tea into the main room.
The fire burned low.
Outside, the western sky faded into darkness.
Eleanor sat across from her new husband.
He rested his elbows on his knees.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Silas looked up.
"Tell me about Edmund Carrington."
The laughter disappeared.
Eleanor set down her cup.
She took a slow breath.
And began telling him the story that had driven her across the country.
Eleanor began with the house in Boston.
It stood on Commonwealth Avenue, four stories of pale stone and polished windows, with a marble entrance hall, a grand staircase, and a library that smelled of leather bindings and expensive tobacco.
Her father, Horace Whitmore, owned banking interests, warehouses, commercial property, and shares in several railroad ventures. He was a man who measured success in acquisitions, influence, and the ability to make other powerful men wait for appointments.
He dressed elegantly, spoke quietly, and almost never lost his temper in public.
People admired his restraint.
They didn't understand that Horace Whitmore rarely needed to shout.
He could destroy a clerk's career with one sentence. Refuse a loan. Withdraw a recommendation. Spread a doubt about a person's character that other businessmen repeated until it became accepted fact.
Eleanor grew up watching him exercise power with extraordinary precision.
When she was a child, she believed he simply knew how the world worked.
By the time she was twenty-seven, she understood that knowing how power worked and knowing how to use it decently were entirely different accomplishments.
"My mother died when I was seventeen," she told Silas.
He sat quietly opposite her.
Eleanor folded her hands.
"She was kind. Not always brave, perhaps. She rarely contradicted Father when anyone else was present. But she taught me to read, insisted I learn mathematics, and arranged riding lessons even when he said horses were unsuitable for a young lady."
Silas's mouth moved slightly.
"Unsuitable?"
Eleanor nodded.
"Apparently I was meant to arrive at every destination in a carriage."
"Doesn't seem practical."
"It wasn't intended to be practical."
She looked toward the fire.
"That was the trouble with nearly everything in that house. It was meant to look proper, not necessarily to make anyone happy."
She told him about the music room where she practiced the piano, the elaborate dinners where guests discussed politics while their wives pretended not to understand, and the endless lessons about posture, etiquette, and appropriate conversation.
Her father insisted that a woman of the Whitmore family should never appear overly eager, outspoken, or capable of arguing with a man in public.
She had learned to listen.
And while listening, she'd discovered that much of what wealthy men considered private business was spoken openly in front of women they assumed weren't paying attention.
Silas leaned back.
"Your father underestimated you."
"Constantly."
She smiled without amusement.
"He believed he was protecting me."
"From what?"
"Having to make decisions, apparently."
Silas's jaw tightened.
Eleanor looked toward him.
"I didn't realize how little freedom I had until I tried to make a choice he disliked."
"What choice?"
"Refusing Edmund Carrington."
She paused.
Silas remained quiet.
Then she continued.
Edmund had been introduced to her at a winter charity dinner.
He was forty-two, handsome, articulate, and experienced in the practiced manners of Boston society. He inherited part of a shipping fortune, invested in manufacturing, and maintained close business relationships with several influential families.
He was also a widower.
Or so Eleanor believed.
"He told me his first wife had died after a prolonged illness."