The pages of the book were well-worn, and the cover had suffered. No doubt it had been with him on many a walk among the hills, on days when the rain had run off his hair into his mouth and eyes and neck, and soaked into his pockets, or when the sun's warmth had curled the leaves while he read. Had he taken it to Oxford? Quickly she began to read. Questions in ancient history she could allow, but these more modern ones were unforgivable.
She read until she heard James Rutherford come home. There were sounds outside, then her father's step on the stairs and the closing of his door, and Clara's voice ringing clear through a mournful muttering; more steps on the stairs, the brushing of bodies against the wall, another door opened and shut, and then peace. She blew out the light.
When she woke it was to find the book held in her body's curve.
Downstairs there was a note for Edward Webb. "You won't be surprised that we have gone out—probably for the whole day," Clara wrote. "There's plenty of food in the larder, and Mrs. Spencer will come and help if you send for her."
"It will be rather nice to be alone," said Theresa. "Who's Mrs. Spencer? We don't want her, do we?"
"No. It's Easter Sunday. She will be going to church. She is a carter's wife, down by the inn."
"What a man to be married to! Mr. Rutherford, I mean."
Edward Webb would not discuss his host. He helped to prepare breakfast.
"After handling pens and typewriters for three years," said Theresa, as she cut the bacon, "it's a relief to turn to the homelier arts. Put that in the pan, please."
He hesitated. "It looks remarkably greasy."