The Weeping Chamber Read online

  Then . . .

  The clattering of horses’ hooves.

  A hackney approached!

  Yes, an outline of a carriage appeared on the rise. Made its way steadily downward toward the cottage. Stopped.

  Had her husband, her beloved Nathaniel, arrived? Hope forced her heart to quicken as she rushed out of the cottage.

  But a man did not get out.

  Instead, the driver stepped down and walked toward her. “Christmas greetings,” he said, doffing his hat. “I’ve been instructed to deliver this.”

  He handed her an envelope with her name on the back.

  Light that spilled from the cottage window showed her enough to recognize her husband’s handwriting.

  “Who gave this to you?” she demanded.

  The driver shrugged. In his long coat, it was a movement hardly seen. “Some man. I saw nothing of his face. He said you’d pay once I delivered. Ten pence.”

  “Yes, of course,” Suzanne said. Now dread filled her as surely as if the gray gloom about her had funneled into her soul. She stepped inside and returned with the money.

  Another doff of the hat. Then the hackney clattered away, back over the rise.

  But the woman did not see this. She reentered the cottage and removed the blanket that wrapped her body.

  With her children asleep, she sat at a table that had been set for two with wineglasses and a meal prepared and waiting in the small oven.

  She sat for long minutes, unmoving. The light of candles glowed against the beauty of her face. The envelope was in her hand.

  She hardly dared open it, such was the strength of her sense of dread. Nathaniel had not returned. But a letter had arrived.

  Finally, with shaking fingers, she opened the envelope. It contained a short letter in her husband’s handwriting.

  Dear Suzanne,

  There is no other way to say this. I have fallen in love with another woman. So I will not return. I have taken care of our family’s financial needs, however. You will receive a monthly stipend through a barrister’s office. His name is William Morgan and he can be reached at . . .

  The address of the solicitor blurred her vision as the tears began to fall.

  She stood. In silence. She took a broom and began sweeping the floor, although it had been clean since she first prepared this evening’s meal for her husband.

  She continued to sweep with slow, mechanical movements.

  The candles burned down to darkness.

  Her children remained sleeping.