And Annie Chamberlain’s mother, Martha’s favorite of all her friends’ mothers, had said that if it turned out Annie didn’t like it, why that meant her husband was as new at the business as she, or if not, he was a selfish bugger who needed an education. If they worked at it, Jane Chamberlain explained, they’d soon find it was a fine way to spend an evening alone, and the best way there was of really getting to know each other.

Technically Martha understood what was supposed to happen. Certainly animals had provided a lot of information over the years: dogs in the garden, pigeons on her windowsill, cows at pasture. None of whom kissed, which brought her back to the original problem. If he didn’t kiss her, what then? Was she to wait until he was ready? And did it mean she was not attractive to him?

He said, “You look as though you’re trying to do long division in your head.”

That made her laugh, a little at least.

Then he sat up and, without another word, got out of bed. Martha was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. Maybe he wanted to go right back to Paradise, but it was raining so hard, that seemed unlikely. He disappeared behind the dressing screen and began the noisy business of emptying his bladder into the commode. Martha wondered if all men took such a long time. She knew so little about the way they were put together. There was splashing at the washbasin, and when Daniel appeared again he was damp and half dressed.

He said, “I’ll be right back,” and to her astonishment, he went out and closed the door behind him.

Martha sat up in her surprise and tried to make sense of what had just happened. Apparently there was to be no kissing—he hadn’t even kissed her after the ceremony in the lawyer’s office—and nothing else either. Why this should be the case was unclear. Certainly no explanation was coming her way. She didn’t know if she should be insulted or thankful. Or simply sad.

There was nothing for it, and so she lay down again and watched the rain pearling on the windowpanes.

There was no sign of Mrs. Allen in the kitchen, but she had left a note. It was written in a spidery, uphill hand and announced that her daughter had fetched her to help deliver her eldest granddaughter’s first child, and she would likely be away until tomorrow. If they cared to stay they were welcome. She had made up a breakfast tray, and they were to help themselves to whatever else they found to eat. There was a bath in the workroom and if anybody wanted to bathe she suggested the best place to do that was before the kitchen hearth. In any case she hoped they would stay. Michael would be pleased if they did.

Daniel thought of the horses, and remembered that one of the farmhands was there to see to them.

By blind good luck they had come to a place where they could be alone. They had the house to themselves, and firewood enough, and food. It would be foolish to set out for Paradise in a downpour when there was no pressing need.

Molly’s litter was playing in front of the hearth. He whistled and they all looked his way, but Hopper was the only one who came running in his tumbling puppy way. Daniel took a minute to rub the potbelly and let his fingers be nibbled.

“So,” he said to the pup. “I have to go back upstairs. I’m as nervous as a girl, but that stays between the two of us, if you please.”

The tray was heavy with dishes: warm biscuits under a folded tea cloth, a lump of new butter sweating water, a plate of bacon, a jar of gooseberry preserves, and a jug of water.

He found Martha seated on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap. She was watching the storm, and she gave him no more than a glance as he put down the tray.

He had done something wrong, clearly. Rather than ask about it he sat down beside her—he didn’t need the stairs as Martha did—and took her hand and folded his fingers through hers.

Martha shifted a little, as though she might want to get up and walk away.

He said, “The biscuits are still warm. Aren’t you hungry?”

She looked at him then, and he saw that he had insulted her somehow but that she was trying to control her feelings. They would eat breakfast, her look seemed to say, if that was what he really wanted.

What he really wanted was something very different, but again he reminded himself that she should be the one to set the pace.

The truth was that Martha really was hungry and so they went about filling plates and then they sat there on their perch on the side of the bed and ate. Daniel told her about Mrs. Allen’s note, but his tone didn’t indicate how he felt about any of it. And why, she asked herself, was she so ready to be insulted?

The food helped. The biscuits were tender and the preserves sweet and tart at once. She would have liked tea, but the water was very cold and good. None of that changed the fact that Daniel had run off without even kissing her, but on the other hand it was nice to sit beside him like this in the quiet house with the rain coming down. Outside the world was wrapped in mist, but this chamber over the kitchen was warm. She felt her irritation seeping away, and try as she might to call it back, it was soon gone for good.

She heard herself sigh.

“That bad?” He was smiling, but there was a wariness about it.

What an odd thing marriage was. Two people who could—by laws of man and God both—do what they pleased together, who liked and even believed that they loved each other, though those words hadn’t been spoken out loud. Who had spent a good part of the previous day wrapped together on a settle, trying to stop doing what they now could not start.

She said the first thing that came to mind. “This butter is very good.”