Page 137 of Eleanor’s Earrings

“Eight miles,” he said.

“Thomas says ten.”

“Thomas is young.”

“He is thirty-one.”

“Very young.”

“You are thirty-six.”

“Exactly. Ancient.”

She laughed again.

Nathaniel watched her. “There. Again.”

“What?”

“Laughing.”

“I did that before I met you.”

“Not this often.”

Eleanor looked down at the page. “After Father died, happiness felt disloyal. As if laughing meant I had stopped missing him.”

Nathaniel took her hand. “Grief makes strange rules.”

“You know that.”

“Yes.”

They sat quietly until Lydia’s voice came from the darkness.

“Are you kissing?”

“No,” Eleanor called.

“Why not?”

Nathaniel laughed hard enough to wince.

Martha pointed a floury hand at him. “If you injure that shoulder again, I truly will sit on you.”

Lydia whispered, “Worth it.”

Eleanor looked at Nathaniel. “This is the family you wish to join.”

“I have been warned.”

“You may reconsider.”

“Never.”

She kissed him anyway.

Being in charge while Nathaniel recovered changed the balance between them in ways Eleanor found unexpectedly entertaining.