Chapter 14 – February 1910 - You can fool yourself if you want

It wasn't that she was trying to go through his pockets. In order to clean the coat, she necessarily had to empty them; that wasn't her fault. Maybe it was a little bit her fault that she had read the return address on the letter though.

Mrs. Jane Hughes. Hamilton.

A sister maybe? Or the wife of a business associate? Or even a business associate herself – you never knew these days. The letter hadn't been opened, and the momentary thought that she might hold it up to the light was dismissed quickly as well out of bounds. A "Mrs." wouldn't be anyone with whom he was intimately connected, would it? Well, maybe, if it was a widow. She remembered then what Ned had told her that day in the mercantile, the rumor that Henry had taken up with a married woman.

She shook her head. It was probably completely innocent. After all, she and Henry were friendly themselves, and she was married, and that was perfectly fine. They had just gotten themselves past another encounter where she had been too quick to distrust his gentlemanliness, and she wasn't about to start questioning it again. Besides, he clearly wasn't in any hurry to open it.

Unless he was waiting to open it in private.

And he had become very cagey when she mentioned the cabin…

No. It was none of her business, and there was no reason for her to care. She resolved to ignore it. Other than the twenty times her eyes drifted to where it lay next to her as she plunged the coat into the washbasin. Other than that, she was definitely ignoring it.

ooo


On Friday, as promised, she headed into town to meet Henry, having finished up the mending that morning after Noah and Peter had gone. She'd tucked the letter back into the coat pocket, just as she'd found it. A futile gesture, given Henry would clearly know that she had to have taken the letter out to do the washing. But the alternative was to blatantly hand it to him, and that wouldn't do.

He was waiting for her on a bench just outside the saloon, apparently having arrived before 11:30. The newspaper was folded out in front of him, hiding his face, but she could see the ever-present bowler hat peeking out from over the pages.

"So," she said slyly as she slid in next to him, "how are the markets?"

"On the way down again, it would seem," he sighed, closing the paper up to give her his attention. "Good news on railroad expansion today though."

Abigail blinked back in surprise. She hadn't expected an actual response.

"What is it? Got some money tied up?" Henry asked, confused by her reaction.

"No, no, it's just… thank you. For taking me seriously." A little shake of her head and furrow of her brow gave away how oddly touched she was.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Why wouldn't he? Well, there was the obvious reason – that he was a successful, property-owning businessman and she was a provincial homemaker. But she'd never prescribed to that particular belief herself, or at least she didn't think she had. So then… why wouldn't he? Besides the fact that it seemed no one else ever did?

"You must know how many people in this town sing your praises, Abigail," he continued. "You're thought of very well here."

Now she was even more stunned. Who was he talking to that would say such things? Not that she ever thought she was viewed poorly, but… when was he having conversations about her?

"Well, what a lovely thing to hear," she said, modestly dropping her gaze. "Though I assume they're not talking to you about my investment prowess, so I can't imagine…"

"Oh, I see, you do this type of fishing too! Well, let's see…"

She let out an honest-to-God bark of laughter, both delighted and embarrassed at how he'd seen right through her. People said she was always calm and in control, he told her. That she was gracious, smart, witty, resourceful, the first to silence an unkind word. And that once she'd even helped nurse Mrs. Hayford through a fever before the doctor could arrive.

She crinkled her nose. "They didn't tell you about the time I walked on water?"

"Nah," he sniffed, "Only how you turned it into wine."

They smiled broadly at each other, and she drank him in. She wondered for about the thousandth time how there could be no one here with him. He was handsome, wealthy, funny, and so easy to be with. The kind of man you went to when you were troubled – to talk to, perhaps, but mostly because just seeing him again could make everything feel like it would be okay...

"Your coat!" she remembered, startling them both as she clapped a hand on the pile in her lap. Yes, always calm and in control. That was her.

She handed the garment over to him, cleaned and folded. His newspaper flapped in the light wind as he set it on the bench and stood, taking off the coat he'd worn there and shaking out the repaired one to put it on. The freshly pressed coat hugged his shoulders as he stretched his arms out through the sleeves. She felt a bizarre urge to pull on the hem of it, stand up and adjust the collar, straighten the fur-lined lapels out over his chest. She imagined it so clearly, she nearly convinced herself that she'd done it. But she had stayed, glued to the bench, watching him spread open the coat fronts and admire her handiwork.

"This is excellent, Abigail, thank you. What do I owe you?"

"Oh, it was no trouble really."

"Now don't do that. This is your work and you should be paid."

"Really, it's fine, I like – I like sewing," she stumbled over the words. "And besides, you've done so much for my family. And I had other mending jobs to do anyway. For the ladies' swap tomorrow." She took a breath, readjusting her halted speech. "So please, I insist."

"Well, let me swap you then. How about lunch?" Henry offered.

Abigail gave a side-eye to the wall. "At the saloon?"

"No, I wouldn't make that mistake again," he joked. "At the café."

She followed the tilt of his head down the road to the other building, the winter sun shining down outside the shaded saloon porch.

I like doing things for you.

That was what she had wanted to say. And what she wanted now was to go to the café and spend the whole afternoon there with him. She wanted it to be that simple. She wanted to ask him questions and make him laugh, and listen to the way his voice turned rough when he was being sincere. She wanted his attention – to know that where he wanted to be was right there, sitting across from her. She wanted to watch him tap his fingers and sigh when it was almost time to leave… then smile when he found one more topic, one more way to renew the conversation so that they could linger there together, just for a few more minutes.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him. That she had fallen, completely, in love with him.

This discovery did not come to her with any great shock or horror. In fact, the only thing surprising about it was how unsurprising it was… how little it affected her to name it. The feeling had already become a part of her, taking root long ago. It had grown, intertwining itself with all the other habits and well-worn thoughts, until being in love with him had become as natural to her as breathing.

The peaceful warmth of having finally confessed it to herself gave way only to a deep sadness. Because in naming it, she had picked up something beautiful and dear, disturbed its rest and examined it, and now had to face the heartbreaking truth that she couldn't keep it.

Because actually, it had been Molly's week to do the sewing.

He was still standing over her; he had called her name. Her eyes snapped back up to meet his.

"I'm sorry," she said with a soft regret. "I can't today." Rising to leave, she continued graciously, "There's all the other mending, as I said. Maybe another time."

"Of course," he answered, with the polite disappointment required of him. "Well, thank you again."

She waved goodbye and stepped off the porch, careful not to hurry away. She wasn't sure if she was about to cry or turn back or fall to the ground, but she knew that a storm had begun to brew beneath her chest that she couldn't let him see.

Once she got home, she could sit and allow herself her tears for a few brief moments. But then she would need to move on, without regret or fuss. For she had known plenty of grief in her life, and she recognized the form of it now. And she would do what she had always done with it and put it away, sparing other people the sorrow inside her heart.