‘There’s no reason to imagine the northwest is Kansas,’ he began.

‘What difference does it make?’

‘Sarah—’

‘Farming’s farming.’

‘This is childish,’ he said.

‘I could have married any one of half a dozen farmers around Sweetbrier,’ she wept. ‘But I didn’t. I married a preacher—’

‘You married a preacher who’d lost his vocation. And you knew it.’

‘But you said—’ She broke off.

‘I said what?’

‘Before we got married, you—’ She broke off again, frowned, sniffled, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. The baby held his breath.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘There wasn’t enough money then. Remember?’ She cocked her head (the baby cocked his, too). ‘Remember?’

‘So?’

‘So where are you going to get the money now? You’ll need a lot of money. There, there, Rayner. There’s a good boy. Where’s the down-payment coming from?’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Nobody will loan you money like that.’ The sudden pleasure in her voice was so rich that the baby began to croon.

‘I’ll get it,’ he said again.

‘No you won’t. Oh, goodness, what a relief. I don’t care how poor we are as long as we don’t have to farm. You had me scared.’ She got up impetuously, kissed his nose and stroked his shoulder.

He shook her off.

‘Don’t be like that. Read to me, will you? Read my father’s letter. Over there. On the table. It came in a week ago.’

Early in Sarah’s pregnancy, Jonathan had begun reading to her in bed before they turned off the gas lamp. He read her poetry sometimes, sometimes the novels of Hawthorne and Dickens, sometimes letters that came in from her mother and father. Sarah said she loved listening to him; she said reading hurt her eyes. He took the letter out of the envelope and scanned it. Then he read it again carefully, a little shaken by the speed of the victory it represented.

He looked up at her and back down at the letter. ‘How can you do this to me?’ he said. He was a fine tactician, my grandfather.

‘What do you mean? What is it?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you can’t read?’ There was an odd combination of wonder and contempt in his voice.

‘Of course I can read. I skimmed—’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘Look at that!’ She snatched the letter out of his hand, jostling Rayner, who let out a shriek. ‘How can I read handwriting like that? My father can’t write properly – that’s all. How dare you—’

‘Sarah, your mother is dead.’

She froze, mouth agape, then shook her head and formed the questions with her lips. ‘It says so? In that letter?’ She took in her breath. ‘I could never get the words the right way around somehow.’ The baby’s cries almost drowned her voice; she searched Jonathan’s eyes. ‘I tried and tried, but the letters kept sliding away into one another. Don’t blame me too much, Johnny. I really did – How long has she—?’ Jonathan spread his hands. ‘Only that she’s dead? Just like that? Nothing more?’