Deciding When

The conversation began because Eleanor was brushing her hair.

Ernest sat at the edge of the mattress in the quiet upstairs bedchamber of the Willowbrook lodge, his boots already set aside and his fingers working the silver buttons of his waistcoat. The oil lamp on the washstand threw a circle of warm amber light across the floorboards, catching the gleam of the looking glass where Eleanor stood in her white linen nightdress.

The evening had passed without incident. They had taken dinner on the veranda, walked the river trail until dusk, and argued briefly—and with immense dignity on both sides—over whether Ernest should be permitted to dismantle a rattling sash window using his pocketknife. Eleanor had prevailed, and the window remained unmolested.

Now the only sound in the house was the rhythmic whisper of the boar-bristle brush through her hair.