"I promised," the Captain whispered to himself, "I told her that I would trust her to control, to deliver her own fate, even if I thought I could, should be of insistence, or at least not until she asks."
It took a great deal of resolve to stand quietly, invisibly as Carolyn Muir pulled out file after file from the desk. "Taxes," she murmured, "total and absolute rubbish. But necessary to keep a working mother out of jail, so I'd better get down to it." The Captain winced as she juggled the ungainly pile of folders and forms and as she stood, files precariously balanced on one knee, she just barely managed to open the bedroom door (with the slightest ghostly assistance) and make her way carefully downstairs.
Hands clasped behind his back, he paced, listening carefully, making sure she had safely completed the trek downstairs and had landed safely in the parlor with only a small scattering of documents in her wake. This indeed was one of the more difficult parts of their evolving relationship, her insistence that she was quite able to handle all the onerous duties of life.
It was only after he heard the children on their way to school, and Martha back to her household duties that he was willing to return to her side. Honestly, he knew there was little he might offer by way of assistance with her 20th century tax preparation, but he wanted to be there to offer what support he might. "It's unconscionable," he growled, "no widow; no mother of two small children left on her own should be so burdened by the government." Smiling to himself, he thought that might well be a perspective she would welcome, and rehearsing that phrase, disappeared to join her in the parlor.