Gladys pursed her lips but continued. “I like the name too. And I hate to be the one to throw water on that, but will the baby be a Beck?”

Margaret and Dottie looked at each other and realized the truth of her words. Without a marriage, the baby would be born a Troutwine.

The color drained from Dottie’s face, and she put her hands to her forehead. “Oh my goodness, she’s right.”

It struck Margaret that Dottie had never lamented the loss of the army stipend that she would have received if she’d been John’s widow. But the withholding of the legitimacy of his last name seemed to crush her.

“And the baby can’t be a Troutwine either. My father would never agree to a bas—”

“Don’t say it, Dottie,” interrupted Gladys with a force that took Margaret and Dottie by surprise. “Don’t even think that word.”

Margaret nodded. “What you mean to say is that your father would not agree to a child born out of wedlock sharing his name.”

Dottie’s cheeks colored. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I meant to say.”

They turned upon hearing a knock at the door.

“That will be Oliver,” said Gladys. “And don’t you two get any ideas about what that means. I told him we’d be here tonight, and he wanted to stop by and check on you, Dottie.”

Margaret held back a smile. Gladys could pretend all she wanted.

But it was not Oliver at the door. It was George.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Tom set his pencils down on the desk near the fireplace in the Browns’ house. He was testing out a sketch of a corncockle and wanted to get it just right before adding it to the bottom of the next letter. Its tips were a vibrant pink, which was difficult to accomplish with the limited colors in the box he’d bought at the newsstand. But at last he was satisfied and began to fade it into a white at the flower’s base.

“Are you sure?” he asked William.

“I’m sure.”

“But your cast is finally off and you’ve healed up well. You could start writing these letters yourself.”

“Nah. Your handwriting is better than mine anyway. Probably from all those papers you wrote in college, Professor.”

Tom shrugged. He wasn’t going to put up any more of a fight. He’d come to anticipate writing to Margaret as much as anything he’d ever enjoyed. William continued to dictate, though he gave Tom carte blanche to fill in words of his own to make it sound better.

“Besides,” William continued. “The girl has lost her brother. She needs constancy right now. No need to give her a jolt with my scribble when she’s probably come to love receiving the envelopes you’ve written.”