A door was shut somewhere in the back regions of the house. Then came a sound of footsteps that returned me to myself. Here I was, after all—Maisie Thomas. I crossed over, stepping softly down the carpeted hall, and opened the door to my bedroom. My parents’ room lay directly adjacent to mine, an armoire disguising the door connecting the two rooms. The Grange who had built this house had been a thrifty man, for the walls, though numerous, were not thick. I was long accustomed to falling off to sleep in the summers to the sound of my parents’ muffled conversations, and, in particular, to my father’s voice, his words often unintelligible but his tone insistent and amused.

Once I overheard Great-Aunt Julia remark dryly that my father’s love for my mother “certainly was lively.” I did not understand her meaning and watched my parents closely to see if I might observe the nature of that liveliness. It is true that my parents were a handsome couple: Though my father was twenty years my mother’s senior, his shock of white hair curled above his pleasing ruddy face like a fleecy cloud and made an admirable contrast to my mother’s jet black hair and darker complexion. I cannot think of the two of them together without imagining my father pacing back and forth in front of my mother’s seated figure, gesticulating as he told her a story pulled from his day, or outlining a design for some new project. Lively, my papa certainly was—and often I heard my mother give him back a delighted silvery laugh when they thought they were alone.

Jessie had already prepared the room for the change to dinner, and my sheerest blue linen dress lay stretched upon my bed. But the lingering light at the open window drew me, and the salt air bade me breathe. I put my hands upon the sill and closed my eyes, the light slanting cross my lids like a warm hand.

“Must Maisie marry?” I heard Papa ask distinctly, his question lazing in the air outside my window. My eyes flew open. Mama’s reply was indistinguishable from the breeze through the pines. I pushed the window up as wide as I could without making any sound.

“I know that, my love. And she has your charms—all of them.”

Again, my mother murmured a hazy reply.

“Nonsense, Libby. She shall stay with us at Two Pierpont, type my contracts, continue her studies, and live happily between us as she always has.” Now I heard the teasing note in Papa’s voice. The whiff of his pipe accompanied his words as they reached me there at the window next to his. A breeze slapped the line against the flagpole, and the sound beat out until it seemed to gather shape in my ear—marry, marry—like the hum of a distant train approaching, growing louder and louder.