“I’m not sure,” she stammered. “We’ll have to talk about that. If he’s expected in New York, he might need to be on his way.”
Oliver remained silent until after Matthew dashed past him and out the front door, which he shut fast behind him.
“He’s a wonderful boy,” Oliver said. “You should be proud.”
Emma smiled, and it was the first time her expression truly warmed to him. It made him realize that she was no longer the impassioned young woman who thought herself in love with him and couldn’t wait to share intimate thoughts and feelings. She must now reserve that part of herself for her husband.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
“I don’t want to impose if you’re busy,” Oliver replied. “Matthew said it was bread day.”
“It’s no imposition. I just put a few loaves in the oven, and the last of the dough is rising. All the hard work is done. Please, come into the kitchen, and I’ll put the kettle on.”
He followed soberly and entered the room that he remembered so very, very well. His eyes settled on the sink. He recalled escaping thegentlemen’s company one evening and speaking to Emma while she washed dishes. He also remembered the window above the sink, with a view of the rolling dunes and waving marram grass.
His gaze swept across the floor, sprinkled with flour. A blue floral apron, also dusted in flour, hung on a hook by the back door.
“Have a seat at the table,” Emma suggested, “and we’ll get caught up.”
While she filled the kettle, Oliver sat down and wondered if coming here had been a mistake. He’d expected her father to greet him on the beach. He’d imagined the animated pumping of hands and manly talk about the conditions of the sea and the might of his new steamer. But it was Emma who had welcomed him, and in that sphere, nothing was entirely comfortable. Oliver’s feelings were complicated, and he suspected the same of hers.
Emma carried the kettle to the stove and switched on the burner, then moved to fetch a few tea bags from the cupboard. When at last she faced Oliver, she leaned back against the counter by the sink, her hands curled around the lip of the countertop.
“You asked about my husband,” she said, casually but bluntly. “I’m afraid he’s not here because ... well ... it didn’t work out.”
More than a little shocked, Oliver shifted uneasily on the chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. Your father never mentioned that in any of his letters.”
Emma lowered her gaze, and he sensed a resignation in her, or perhaps shame. “I’m not surprised.”
“May I ask what happened?” Oliver carefully asked.
Emma moved to the table and sat down across from him. “It’s quite embarrassing, to be honest—not something I’m particularly proud of, because ...” She paused. “I suppose I was a bit naive.”
Sympathy rose up in him, and while he waited for her to continue, she couldn’t manage to look at him. When her eyes finally lifted, they held a touch of animosity.
“I might as well just come out with it,” she said. “The man I married came to Sable Island to hide from the law.”
“Oh dear,” Oliver replied. “What did he do?”
“He killed someone.”
Oliver nearly lost his breath. “My God. Really.”
She sat back and nodded. “Imaginemyshock when I found out. Obviously, he never revealed that to me when he came courting. I only found out after Matthew was born.”
Still reeling from shock, Oliver asked, “How did you find out?” He craved every detail.
“The police finally tracked him down and arrested him in Halifax. And he’s been in prison ever since, for the past six years, halfway across the country, in Saskatchewan, which was where he’d come from.”
Oliver shook his head. “I can’t believe it.” They sat in silence for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry, Emma.”
Her eyes were downcast again, and she spoke, surprisingly, with indifference. “Thank you, but it’s been six years, and I’m over it. I’ve been fine here on my own. I’m grateful to have Matthew. He’s my whole world now.”
Something inside Oliver broke, for this was not the spirited young woman he’d once known. The woman before him had experienced betrayal. She’d learned that the world was not always a kind or safe place, and not everyone could be trusted.
He wanted to reach across the table and take hold of her hand, to show her some sympathy and understanding—because God knew he understood—but the kettle began to whistle, so he sat back as Emma stood and poured the steaming water into the teapot.
A moment later, she was seated again, and they were sipping their tea.
