“I am not Father,” he finally said.

“Yes,” I answered, and leaned forward to kiss him, for there was a world in that admission. He smiled wearily. We were silent again. A cardinal dashed by outside the window, stopping upon a branch, then lifting—a scarlet apparition. “Susannah has told me the story.”

I nodded, my eyes filling. Why did he use the word story?

“But we should not have allowed Hayden to take himself off. This is his home, and how deeply must he have longed for a home all his life. Do you recall his face that night when he remembered Mother’s portrait?”

“Yes,” I said uneasily. “But—”

“And how Susannah sensed it even then—and gave him her hand?”

“George.” I was suddenly frightened. “Susannah has given him her heart also. She is in great danger.”

A queer expression crossed over my brother’s face. “She said you might claim such a thing.”

I saw it all then—how my sister meant to keep her love pure, how she might hold it a bit longer, intact. Oh, it was dreadful how she believed and denied with one and the same breath! And it would be my … condition, that she would creep behind for a covering shroud. She might never be the broken one, with me beside her.

“George,” I pleaded. “You must believe me. Do not bring Hayden back to the house.”

But on this point, he grew hard. “Why are you so cold upon the man?”

I flushed.

“Is it he?” George stood up, horrified.

“Nay!” I looked up at my brother, struggling to make the jagged pieces mesh. “Nay,” I said again, softer, and held out my hand. He stared down at me. “Nay.” I shook my head. “Do not worry so.” And slowly, he took my hand in his. I did not speak again.

15 April

The men are all gone to Leadbetter’s now. All gone. Abby clucks. Susannah has not spoken to me in nearly five long days. My heart. It seems mine was an old, old story, after all.

16 April

As I put down the book, I saw Susannah watched me in the mirror. The clock on the mantel chimed the eight softly, then resumed the steady ticking. There wasn’t a sound between us. Still she looked at me in the glass, and then suddenly, she took up her brush.

“You thought I would break upon the truth, is that it?”

I did not know what to reply. She continued brushing her hair and watching me in the mirror.

“Susannah,” I whispered.

“But that was not as it was. I know it was not as you say.”

Speechless, I sat still and watched my sister.

She swept her hair up with one hand, neither looking at me nor into the mirror. “Your imagination was lurid. Mother’s story was far more simple than that.”

“You believe me then, at last.” I smiled sadly.