A pause.
"And it cost her everything."
Eleanor's heart broke for him.
"Thomas, you cannot know whether another choice would have changed anything."
He said nothing.
"And even if it might have, punishing yourself can't bring her back."
"No."
Thomas nodded.
"It can't."
His eyes stayed on the darkness outside.
"But it reminds me not to make the same mistake twice."
Grief filled the room.
Regret.
Vulnerability he normally kept locked away.
Eleanor wanted to cross the room and comfort him.
To touch his hand.
His shoulder.
Something.
But instinct told her he wasn't ready for that.
"The boys need to know they can talk about her," Eleanor said instead. "Not constantly. Not in a way that keeps the pain fresh."
Thomas remained silent.
"But when memories come, they shouldn't feel ashamed of them."
A long while passed.
Finally Thomas spoke.
"She used to sing to them."
Eleanor listened.
"Irish lullabies her grandmother taught her."
He smiled, but the smile was brief and sad.
"Samuel's too young to remember. Daniel hums the melodies sometimes when he thinks nobody's listening."
"That's beautiful."
"She wanted them to learn piano."
Thomas returned to the desk but did not sit.
"We were going to buy one when the railroad finally came through and shipping got easier."
A distant look entered his face.
"She had all sorts of plans for when the boys got older."
He almost laughed.
"Wanted to start a lending library. Maybe organize a quilting circle for the women."
Eleanor felt an unexpected pang.
Envy, perhaps.
Margaret hadn't only been Thomas's wife.
She had been the person with whom he built dreams.
A companion in imagining a life beyond mere survival.
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was."
Thomas met Eleanor's eyes.
"She was everything good and gentle in this world."
Then his expression changed.
Careful again.
"And I need you to understand that what you and I have, what we arranged, isn't the same thing."
Eleanor went still.
"It can't be."
The words hurt more than they should have.
Still, Eleanor appreciated honesty.
"I understand."
"Do you?"
Thomas studied her.
"Because I don't want you expecting something I can't give."
His voice lowered.
"I don't want you hoping for something that died 2 years ago."
Heat rose in Eleanor's cheeks.
"I'm not hoping for anything beyond our agreement."
She forced herself to maintain his gaze.
"I know what this arrangement is."
Even as Eleanor said it, she knew it wasn't entirely true.
During the previous week, she had begun hoping.
Not for grand romance.
Not for storybook passion.