But Nathan had asked it quietly, without pressure, just the way he asked everything.
"He's twenty," she said. "He got the scholarship through the Methodist College Board. Three years of academic competition. He earned every penny of it." She paused. "He wanted to come home when Henry died. I wouldn't let him."
"That must have been hard for both of you."
"It was necessary." She set the cups on the shelf. "He writes every two weeks. He's studying land law, actually." Irony being what it is, she didn't say what she thought every time she read those letters: that Thomas studying the very law that Mercer was weaponizing against her was either the cruelest joke the universe could have managed, or the most useful preparation imaginable, depending on how things turned out.
"He sounds like he got his mother's mind," Nathan said.
She turned from the shelf. He was looking at her steadily, no particular expression she could name.
"Henry always said that," she said. "He said, 'Thomas thinks sideways same as you, got it from your side.'"
Something crossed Nathan's face—not pity, something older than pity. "Henry sounds like he was a good man."
"He was," she said, and then, completely: "He wasn't perfect. He trusted people too easily. And he avoided confrontation when he should have pushed back. And he let Mercer into his business further than I would have allowed if I'd known what was happening. But he was a good man, and he loved this land, and he loved Thomas. And he deserved better than dying of a sickness that would have been treatable if we'd had enough money for a doctor in time."
She stopped. She hadn't meant to say that last part.
"Good night, Nathan."