Chapter 1 — Dressing for the Archive

The silver fork in Jonathan’s hand never made a sound against the porcelain.

He cut his roast beef into perfect, identical half-inch squares, his movements slow and deliberate, and across the dining room the grandfather clock ticked out its heavy brass rhythm while I waited to find out what the evening would require of me.

I had learned, over the nine months of our engagement, that his quietest moments were the ones to watch.

A loud man tells you where he is.

A quiet one makes you guess, and makes the guessing your responsibility.

“There is a mark on your collarbone, Clara,” he said, his eyes never leaving his plate.

He pointed with the tip of his knife toward my throat, where a thin red line from a wild rose thorn had scabbed over.

I had been pruning the bushes near the porch that afternoon, and I told him so.

He set the knife down without a sound and rotated the gold signet ring twice around his pinky finger, the slow motion that always came with his most careful words.

“The family portrait is at noon tomorrow,” he said.

“The photographer from the historical society is very particular about the lighting.

You will wear the cream silk blouse with the high collar.” I pointed out, mildly, that the forecast was eighty degrees and that short-sleeved linen seemed more practical for an outdoor shoot.

“We are not dressing for the weather,” he said.

“We are dressing for the archive.

You must look the part of a Duncan bride.”

I felt a cold tightness close around the center of my chest, a physical thing that made it hard to swallow, and I nodded and said of course, keeping my eyes on my water glass.

The question of why a man would be so determined to hide a scratch under a high collar did not get answered that night.