They’d been back from England, nearly a year now, and Gilbert had been working for Cap Sedgwick whose political career was advancing. At the end of this term he would announce his campaign for the Senate, and Gilbert, who worked closely with him writing speeches, established himself as a behind-the-scenes man, reserved, puzzling to many of the political veterans, yet commanding respect for his sedate gentlemanly manner. He was finding that public service suited his nature. The Finches had a tradition of serving the commonwealth, and despite the lack of financial gain, never a primary concern of Gilbert’s, he felt his work worthwhile.

Now when he came home and brooded, it had to do with the contract for the hospital, or the delayed opening of a soup kitchen, so Lilian assumed, since these were the things he talked about at dinner. She could not remember the last time he’d touched her hand in the old way or asked her to forgive him for some small thing, or turned to her to find out what she thought. Not that she was expecting it — no, that time had passed — she was only noticing the change.

He had taken up bird-watching again. At first, Lilian had gone out with him, grateful to see this sign of health. He stood in a russet field, his shoulders in a rumpled canvas coat, waiting for a songbird to fly out of a bush. She tried bringing the children, but they were restless after an hour, fighting with one another and disturbing the birds. On her own she preferred a brisk walk to loitering with binoculars, either that or sitting with a book. So after a while Gilbert took Saturdays to himself, setting off before dawn to catch the screech owls, motoring out to Plum Island or down to Nahant. He would come back with hands cracked from the cold and hair askew from wearing his cap, excited at having seen a gnat catcher or a field sparrow, and would show her examples in the guidebook. Lilian remarked on how ordinary the birds looked.

On weekend evenings they might go to a dinner party together. Yes, but out to dinner one never spoke with one’s husband, did one? No, one was farmed out to other people, made to dredge up enthusiasm for discussions of other people’s interests — family crests, one’s prep school lineage — or other people’s misfortunes — would they ever stop talking about poor Mrs. Lindbergh? She and Gilbert would arrive together, and after it was over, would leave with each other, but it seemed as if her own husband were the person furthest away. Lilian couldn’t shake the feeling that the life they shared was of the most tenuous construction, and running down the center of it was a gauzy wall which kept them quite separate. They were each within shadowy view but in opposite spaces.