“She receives clothing when necessary.”
Matilda looked down at her gray sleeves.
The dress was six years old.
Altered four times.
Abigail continued:
“And given her circumstances, she is fortunate to have respectable employment at all.”
Something cold moved through the trapper’s face.
“What circumstances?”
Abigail gestured vaguely toward Matilda.
The meaning required no words.
Her size.
Matilda felt the familiar heat of humiliation crawling up her throat.
At thirty-two, she weighed approximately three hundred fifty kilograms.
She did not know the number in kilograms.
No one in Leadville did.
The town doctor had once placed her on a freight scale and announced she weighed more than seven hundred pounds.
Abigail had repeated the number for years.
Matilda had learned to hate scales.
Her body was enormous.
Her hips broad enough that ordinary chairs were useless.
Her thighs heavy.
Arms thick and soft.
Her stomach and breasts made most store-bought clothing impossible.
Her face was round and full, though her mother's brown eyes remained clear inside it.
Movement took planning.
Stairs were hard.
Deep snow was dangerous.
Standing twelve hours beside a stove hurt her knees until some nights she cried after everybody slept.
Those were facts.
Abigail turned them into verdicts.
Jedodiah did not look at Matilda’s body when Abigail gestured.
He looked at Abigail.
“You mean her weight.”
Abigail smiled tightly.
“If you insist on saying it.”
“I do.”
Matilda wished the floor would open.
Jedodiah's voice remained calm.
“What does that have to do with whether her labor is worth paying?”
Abigail laughed.
“Oh, please.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“Explain.”
Abigail looked around the room.
Men were listening.
That mattered to her.
She softened her tone.
“Mr. Boon, I have given Matilda security.”
“Respectable shelter.”
“Honest work.”
“She would have difficulty finding another establishment prepared to accommodate her needs.”