The Twisted Root

for the cabbage. If she chopped it fiercely it would not take long.
    He said nothing for a few moments. "I suppose it’s the only answer," he concluded. "Treadwell must be involved somehow, or why didn’t he come back?"
    "He saw his chance to steal the coach, and he just took it," she suggested, putting the potatoes and carrots into the pan, a little salt in it, then the lid on. "William?"
    "What?"
    How should she approach this without either inviting him to tell her to give up working at the hospital on one hand, or on the other, implying that she expected a higher standard of living than he was able to offer her?
    "Are you going to take the case?"
    "I already told you that. I wish I hadn’t, but I gave my word."
    "Why do you regret it?" She kept her eyes on the knife, her fingers and the cabbage.
    "Because there’s nothing I could find out that would bring anything but tragedy to them," he replied a little tartly.
    She did not speak for a few minutes, busying herself with getting out the mutton first and carving slices off it and then replacing it in the pantry. She found the last of the pickles— she should have purchased more—and set the table.
    "Do you think..." she began.
    He was watching her as if seeing her performing those domestic duties gave him pleasure. Was it she, or simply the warmth of belonging, particularly after the unique isolation of his years without memory, the comforts of the past which did not exist for him, except in shadows, and the fear of what he would find?
    "Do I think what?" he asked. "Your pan is boiling!"
    "Thank you." She eased the lid a little. It was time to put the cabbage in as well.
    "Hester!"
    "Yes?"
    "You used to be the most straightforward woman I ever knew. Now you are tacking and jibbing like..."
    She pushed past him. "Please don’t stand in the doorway. I can’t move around you."
    He stepped aside. "What do you think made Miriam Gardiner change her mind so suddenly?"
    Fear, she thought. Sudden overwhelming knowledge of what promises she was making. Her life, her fortunes for good or ill, her name, her obedience, perhaps most of all her body, would belong to someone else. Perhaps in that moment, as she had stood in the sunlight in the garden, it had all been too much. Forever! Till death do us part. You have to love someone very much indeed, overwhelmingly ... you have to trust him in a deep, fierce and certain way that lies even closer to the heart than thought, in order to do that. "William, do you think we could afford to have a woman in during the day, to cook for us and purchase food and so on? So that we could spend together the time we have, and be sure of a proper meal?" She did not look at him. She stood with body tight, waiting for his response. The words were said.
    There was silence except for the bubbling of the water and the jiggling of the pan lid. She moved it a little farther off and the steam plumed out.
    She wished she knew what he was thinking. Money? Or principle? Would someone else be an intrusion? Hardly. Everyone had servants. Money. They had already discussed that. He had accepted Callandra’s help earlier on as a matter of necessity. Now it was different. He would never permit anyone else to support his wife. They had battled over her independence already. She had won. It was an unspoken condition of happiness. It was the only thing in which he had been prepared to give ground. It was probably the surest gauge of his love for her. The memory of it filled her with warmth.
    "It’s not important," she said impulsively. "I ..." Then she did not know what else to say without spoiling it. Over-explanation always did.
    "There’s no room for anyone to live in," he said thoughtfully. "She would have to come every day."
    She found herself smiling, a little skip of pleasure inside her. "Oh, of course. Perhaps just afternoons."
    "Is that sufficient?" He was generous now, possibly even rash. One never knew what cases he would have in the future.
    "Oh, certainly," she agreed. She took a skewer and tested the potatoes. Not ready yet. "Could she have discovered something about Lucius that made the thought of marrying him intolerable?" she asked. "Or about his family, perhaps?"
    "Not that instant," he answered. "No one was standing anywhere near her, far less speaking to her. It was just a garden croquet match, full of social chatter, very open, quite public. She couldn’t have surprised him with another woman, if that’s what you are thinking. And