"Twenty-two."
He folded the codicil along its creases with great care. He was thinking, absurdly, of the engine: of the great beam he had not yet seen, rocking in its house above the Lode, lifting the black water out of the fen and pouring it into the river, nine thousand tons an hour, while the old man slept and while the old man died. He thought of Badajoz, the night of the breaches, the ditch full of water and the men drowning in it under the walls.
"I have conditions," he said.
She drew a breath. "Name them."
"I will not touch the trust. Not a shilling, not a field. I want Lusk to draw a paper to that effect and I will sign it before the will is read."
"Mr. Lusk drew the trust so that you cannot touch it. But yes."
"I will not ask anything of you. You may live where you please, at the house or the dower house or in the engine-house itself for all I care. When your mourning is over, if you wish to live apart, you shall."
"And?"
"And you will tell me the truth. Always. Even when it is unpleasant. Particularly when it is unpleasant." He held out the folded codicil. "He has managed us both, Miss Quarrie. I should like there to be at least one person in this marriage who is not lying to me."
Something moved in her face that he could not read. She took the paper.
"I have one condition of my own," she said.