I’m so touched by his care for this cousin that I want to reach across the table to squeeze Martin’s hand. But the only time we touch each other is when he’s assisting me in and out of a carriage. “I’m so glad you’re doing this,” I say instead. “I truly am, and I hope she will soon want to come see us, or perhaps someday Kat and I could go with you to see her.”

“Perhaps someday,” Martin says, and then takes a sip of his tea.

“Does Belinda know about me?”

He places his cup back on its saucer. “She knows I have recently remarried, yes. But the thought of engaging with more family does not suit her right now. It may be a long while before she will agree to that. It might not ever happen. I think we will just have to wait and see.”

“All right. Well, is there anything I can do to help with the tonic?”

“No,” Martin says quickly. “The tonic is a bit unstable at first, so the bottles mustn’t be moved or jostled after I’ve placed them in the boiler room, or the cure will be ruined. And each batch takes a surprising amount of work to produce. The best thing you and Kat can do is to stay out of that room so that there’s no chance of the bottles being knocked over.”

“All right.” I’m disappointed that I can’t have more of a role in helping Martin’s cousin, and at the same time so taken by Martin’s good heart and generosity. For the first time in a long while, I feel a measure of fondness for him, and I wonder if this is how it will begin between us, a growing affection that is almost like love.

This fondness gives me the courage to come to his bedroom that night. He is sitting up in his bed reading from a slim volume when I knock on his door and then open it. If he is surprised to see me he doesn’t show it. His expressionless face makes me stutter as I ask him if I can come in. He nods and watches me as I move across the room to the other side of the bed. I pull back the covers and I will my eyes to stay affixed to his as I slip in beside him. His eyes are still on mine with no hint of what he is thinking behind them.

“I told you the night we married that I wanted to wait to be with you until we had a bit of affection for each other because I didn’t want to give my body to a stranger. I don’t think of you as a stranger anymore,” I say, as confidently as I can. “I would like to be with you tonight, if that’s all right with you.”

It takes courage to say those words because I’m risking that he might say that it isn’t all right. He might say he still mourns his wife even though I’m sure he visits the Barbary Coast brothels. I’ve smelled the hints of cologne on him. The brothels are a place for mindless relations and nothing else. He surely doesn’t think of his wife when he is with a prostitute. But letting me in his bed, his new wife who bears his name? I’m sure it will be different with me.