Grace stared.
“That's an alarming thing for a husband to say.”
Calvin rubbed the back of his neck.
“You're upset.”
“I am.”
“Your dress is torn.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m trying to be respectful.”
Grace stepped closer.
“How difficult is that?”
Calvin looked at her.
Very slowly.
His voice dropped.
“Considerably harder than chopping cedar.”
Grace's entire face burned.
She pressed her lips together.
Then, despite everything, smiled.
Calvin saw it.
His expression changed.
Not bold.
Hopeful.
Grace took another step until barely a foot separated them.
“You've been married eight days, Mr. Porter.”
“I’m aware.”
“You've slept three feet away from me every night.”
“Closer than three.”
“You measured?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised a laugh out of her.
Calvin smiled.
Grace's hand rose.
She placed her palm against his chest.
Through the work shirt she could feel his heartbeat.
Fast.
Much faster than his expression suggested.
Her smile widened.
“You're nervous.”
“No.”
“Your heart disagrees.”
“Manual labor.”
“You've been standing still.”
Calvin looked down at her hand.
Then up.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to stop being good at this.”
“At what?”
“Behaving.”
She swallowed.
The playful courage suddenly felt more dangerous.
More real.
She whispered:
“Maybe tonight I won't ask you to try so hard.”
Calvin went completely still.
Grace felt his chest rise beneath her palm.
Then she became embarrassed all over again.
She stepped away too quickly.
“I should mend this.”
Calvin caught nothing.
Did not reach for her.
He simply watched as she gathered the skirt.
“Grace.”
“What?”
“Before anything else.”
She looked at him.
“We need to talk.”
Her stomach dropped.
Of course.
Of course they did.
The flirtation vanished as quickly as it came.
Calvin looked toward the little bedroom.
“What else is in that carpetbag?”
Grace stopped breathing.
For a moment, the cabin seemed to tilt.
“What?”
“The bag you arrived with.”
She stared.
Calvin continued.
“You've been hiding it beneath the table every time I enter the bedroom.”
“I have not.”
“Yes.”
Grace's heart pounded.
“You noticed?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“I thought you wanted privacy.”
She almost laughed.
Kindness again.
Always kindness.
Making everything harder.
Calvin's expression became serious.
“You carried that bag like it contained something breakable.”
Grace said nothing.
“Does it?”
“No.”
Another lie.
Calvin looked disappointed this time.
Not angry.
Worse.
Grace turned away.
“Calvin.”
“Yes.”
“If I show you what's in there…”
She could not finish.
He waited.
She tried again.
“If I show you, you may regret sending for me.”
Calvin's face became still.
“Is someone after you?”
Grace looked toward him.
“What?”
“Did you steal something?”
“No!”
“Are you married to someone else?”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“Wanted by the law?”
“No.”
“Did you kill somebody?”
“Calvin!”
He lifted both hands.
“I’m narrowing possibilities.”
Grace stared at him.
Despite the fear crawling up her spine, part of her almost laughed.
“Nothing funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“You think I murdered someone?”
“I don't.”
“But you asked.”
“You said I might regret marrying you.”
Grace looked toward the bedroom.
“Come.”
She walked slowly.
Calvin followed.
The carpetbag sat beneath a small table.
Old brown leather.
Cracked at the corners.
One brass clasp.
Grace knelt.
Her torn dress spread around her.
She opened the bag.
Two sets of underclothes.
One comb.
A hairbrush with missing bristles.
A faded photograph of her parents.
A small Bible.
Every letter Calvin had written her.
He noticed those first.
“You kept them.”
Grace looked embarrassed.
“Yes.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She stared.
“Because you were the first man in years who wrote to me as though I were worth knowing.”
Calvin said nothing.
Grace continued.
“You never asked my weight.”
“I don't care.”
“You never asked whether I was pretty.”
“I assumed.”
She looked up.
“Assumed what?”
“That you were.”
Her breath caught.
Calvin looked suddenly self-conscious.
Grace turned back to the bag before he could see how much those words affected her.
She lifted the clothes.
Removed the photograph.
Then his letters.
Beneath them was the lining.
Her fingers shook.
There was a hand-stitched seam along one edge.
She worked it loose.
Calvin crouched beside her.
“Grace.”
She stopped.
“Yes?”
“If this is something you don't want to show me—”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“I need to.”
She reached inside.
Pulled out a folded packet wrapped in oilcloth.
Calvin stared.
Grace unwrapped it.
Inside were legal papers.
And one photograph.
Not old.
Only months old.
Calvin picked up the photograph first.
A brick building.
Boston.
Three floors.
Sign above the door:
HARGROVE TEXTILE WORKS
He looked at Grace.
“What is this?”
Grace unfolded the papers.
Her hands shook so badly Calvin took them carefully.
She let him.
The first was an employment ledger copy.
Then a statement.
Then another.
Finally, a letter bearing the seal of a Boston attorney.
Calvin read.
Grace watched his face.
Confusion.
Then concentration.
Then anger.
“What did they do?”
Her throat tightened.
“I worked there.”
“At the textile mill?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Seven years.”
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Calvin remained crouched.
Grace looked toward the photograph.
“After my father died, my mother and I needed income.”
“You said both your parents were gone.”
“They are now.”
“What happened?”
“Mother became ill.”
Calvin said nothing.
“I took more shifts.”
“Sometimes nights.”
“Eventually Mr. Hargrove put me in charge of the women on the second floor.”
“Bookkeeping?”
“Partly.”
“Inventory.”
“Wages.”
Calvin looked at the papers.
Grace continued.
“That is when I noticed the numbers.”
“What numbers?”
“The workers were being charged for damaged cloth that wasn't damaged.”
“Meal deductions they never agreed to.”
“Boarding fees for rooms they didn't use.”
“Some girls worked sixty hours and took home less than half what the ledger said.”
Calvin's jaw tightened.
“You confronted him?”
“No.”
“Not at first.”
Grace looked down.
“I copied records.”
Calvin stared.
“You stole company records?”
“Copies.”
“You made copies?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“At night.”
He looked almost impressed despite himself.
Grace continued.
“One of the clerks helped me.”
“Who?”