When he left, I listened to his heavy boots descend the stairs. I counted every step. He said goodbye to Lizzie and must have held her sobbing against him, because all was muffled for a few minutes. Then the kitchen door opened, and I heard Lizzie call out.

“You make sure you come home now, Gareth. I can’t have her living in my room forever.”

“You have my word, Lizzie,” he called back.

I sat on Lizzie’s bed until I knew the train had pulled out and Gareth was gone. My funny fingers were stiff from holding his gift. I unfurled them, rubbed them, looked at the trunk still open on Lizzie’s floor and bent to return my volume of words to its nest of slips and letters.

Then I stopped. A year, it had taken him. Years more, it had taken me. All those women; their words. The joy of having their names written down. The hope that something of them would remain long after they were forgotten.

Lizzie was already laying out sandwiches as I came down to the kitchen. “They’ll have left the cemetery by now,” she said. “No one will blame you for not staying.” She wiped her hands on her apron and hugged me. I could have stayed there an eternity, but I needed to get to the Press.

Mr. Hart was in the printing room. I’d guessed he would avoid the sandwiches and chat after the funeral; the clatter of the presses and the smell of oil were balm to his melancholy. As the war went on he’d been spending more and more time in there, Gareth had said. As I stood inside the door, I understood why. He saw me, and for an instant it seemed he didn’t know who I was. When he realised, he took a deep breath and came towards me.

“Mrs. Owen.”

“Esme, please.”

“Esme.”

We stood there, silent. I thought about what it might mean to him to lose Dr. Murray and Gareth in the same week. Perhaps he thought the same about me.

I held up Women’s Words and Their Meanings. “Please, don’t think badly of him, Mr. Hart, but Gareth did this for me. They’re words. Words I collected. He set them in type instead of buying a ring.” I faltered. Mr. Hart just stared at the volume in my hands. “I’m hoping he cast plates. I want to print more copies.”

He took the volume from me and walked over to a small desk at the edge of the room. He sat down. The presses continued their chorus.

I followed and stood behind him as he turned the pages and traced the words with the tips of his fingers, as if they were braille.

He closed it with extraordinary care and rested his hand on the cover.