Chapter 5
The lamp had burned low enough that Samson had to lean close to the ledger to make out his own figures, and even then the columns of receipts and orders swam a little before his eyes.
He should have gone to bed an hour ago. He knew that the way he knew most things about running the store, by the tiredness in his shoulders more than by the clock. But the numbers needed doing before Thursday's delivery, and there was no one else to do them.
He found himself, not for the first time that week, considering the last letter he'd sent to Boston rather than the figures in front of him.
He remembered enough of it, the careful way he'd tried to say he wanted her to come without saying too plainly how much he'd come to want it.
The way he always put his feelings between two more practical matters, as if to protect himself and her.
He wondered if she'd read past the careful parts and the practical parts. He rather hoped she had.
It surprised him, how much he thought about her now.
It had started as a straightforward matter, a letter written because Mrs. Fenwick had shown him an advertisement and said a man in his situation oughtn't to be too proud to consider it.
He'd expected to feel nothing much beyond relief, if it worked out.
It would be about having somebody to help him in the store.
But the idea grew. Then, when he began writing to Maria, specifically, the idea of her grew, too.
He found himself picturing her at odd hours, wondering what her voice might sound like, whether she laughed easily or held it in reserve the way her letters sometimes did. Or he found himself overthinking letters he’d sent and wondering whether his instinct had steered him wrong.
He heard Meg's step on the stair before he saw her, and he closed the ledger a little, as if she might read his thoughts off the page.
"You're still up," she said.
"So are you."
"I couldn't sleep." She came and stood near the table, not sitting, the way she did when she wanted something and hadn't decided yet how to ask for it. "Papa, there's traveling players coming through tomorrow. Setting up near the church. Everybody's talking about it."
"I'd heard something about that."
"Could I go? Just for the afternoon. I know it's a busy day at the store, and I know that means more on you and Billy, but I haven't seen anything like it, not ever, and Sally Coombs says they've got a real trained dog that does tricks."
Samson thought of the shelves that needed restocking, the deliveries that would want sorting, the simple fact that Meg's hands did the work of a woman twice her age most days without complaint.
He thought about saying no, and how easy it would be, and how much he didn't want to be the reason she missed a trained dog and an afternoon of being nothing but ten years old.
"Go," he said. "I'll manage the store."
Meg's face opened up in a way that made the coming short-handed afternoon feel worth it already. "Thank you, Papa."
"Go on to bed now. You'll want to be up early if you mean to get a good spot."
She went, and Samson sat a while longer in the lamplight, turning the ledger's pages without really seeing them.
He didn't know how he'd manage the store tomorrow with Meg gone and Billy alone to help.
This had been the problem that had plagued their family for so long.
They had time enough together, but it was always a time of responsibility.
He wanted them to have time together where they laughed and played, too.
Sharing the work at the store with another person would make that possible again.
The chores would be done in less than half the time, and maybe they could close up on a quiet Thursday for no other reason than to go for a walk across the hills to the west of town.
He hoped, more than he'd admitted to anyone, including himself, that she'd prove herself every bit the woman her letters showed her to be.
He was scared of the way he was beginning to feel about this arrangement. It had begun life as nothing more than pragmatism. He’d even promised the children that it would only be a practical arrangement once she arrived. He’d almost believed it as he said it. Almost.
But a lot of feelings had grown out of the words he’d found on those pages, and he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
He wasn’t sure what to do, not how he might tell the children about them.