which faced one another around a grass courtyard. I looked across the meadow, which was peppered with rows of the gnarled, flowering apple trees of an aging orchard. It stretched out to the road beyond, Munger Lane, bounded by the sort of lichened, blue stone wall one sees crisscrossing all of Litchfield County like a Chinese jump rope.
I stopped and watched Caroline run toward the far barn, hair long and blond, caught up in a scarlet ribbon. At eleven years old she was all arms and legs.
“Father, there’s an old schoolhouse back here,” Caroline called out from behind the barn. “With its own stove.”
Henry shouted to her from the barn door. “We can move that out to the meadow for a playhouse. Would you like that? We’ll fill it with Shakespeare for you.”
Caroline ran off through the orchard. “Most definitely,” she called back over her shoulder. “ ‘Joy’s soul lies in the doing.’ ”
I stepped into the low-ceilinged barn and inhaled the scent of hay and cedar chips. Sparrows chirped in a nest in the loft and two rows of abandoned horse stalls lined the walls. I stopped at the sight of Henry in the barn, standing on the hayloft ladder brushing a beam with his finger.
“Look. In the old days, they counted bales of hay here with chalk.”
“It’s getting dark, Henry.”
He climbed down off the ladder and walked to me in the clothes I’d laid out for him that morning, his tweed jacket and flannel trousers, in the colors of the Scottish Hebrides, russet, teal, and tawny sage, as if made for him with his strawberry-blond hair and grand mustache.
“They were horse lovers,” I said.
Henry took me in his arms and pulled me close, the sweet scent of him puffing up from the warmth of his chest. It was his favorite, Sumare, a woody fragrance with just the right amount of pine, and it mixed beautifully with the musky scents of the barn.
“Oh, you’re right, Eliza, this place is a wreck.”
I slid my arms about his waist. A ray of light from the hayloft fell across his flushed cheek. “Gentleman farmer suits you.”
“We should scrap the whole idea.” Henry kissed me, long and deep, transporting me to our honeymoon on the French Riviera, color-blind Henry emerging at breakfast, so proud of his wide, blue Cote d’Azur trousers, red beret, striped pink Riviera shirt, and lavender Basque espadrilles.
I held one cheek to his shirtfront and felt his lungs expand.
“It would take so much work,” he said.
“This place is not so bad, I guess.”
“Oh, it isn’t practical.”
“There’s an orchard,” I said. “You do like preserves.”
“But you’d prefer a Tuscan villa. Though this is a lot easier to get to.”
There was a reason Henry had become such a rising star at Poor Brothers. He had all the qualities that made a man successful back then: ambition, boldness, and a flair for sales.
“I wouldn’t mind a visit here now and then as long as it didn’t prevent my travels. Caroline could have a pony and I could keep horses. With ninety-six acres there are plenty of trails to explore.”
“But, with Southampton, we’d have two summer places.”
“With Caroline’s lungs—we need this, Henry.”
“I don’t know,” he said, toeing the wood chips.
Henry was selling me, of course. But it was lovely being sold by him.
“You must have imagination, Henry. Given time and money, I suppose we could make that kitchen workable.”
“We can just stay in the city. Who needs the fresh air?”
“If you don’t buy it Henry, I will.”
He smiled at me, his blue eyes bright in the growing darkness. “If you insist. All right then, consider this place ours. We’ll call it ‘The Hay’ after Grandfather’s place in England and I’ll have a pony delivered for my girl, a little gelding with pinto markings. How does that sound?”
He held me out from him. “And don’t worry, you won’t be stuck here. I wasn’t going to tell you until the day of, but I’m arranging a trip—”
“Oh, Henry.”
“I can’t tell you where we’re going, but I know you’ll like it.” He smoothed one hand down my cheek. “I want to go everywhere with you.”
I clasped his forearm. “Please tell, Henry. Via the Orient? We can’t go anywhere near the fighting in Europe, of course. It feels wicked to plan a glorious trip when Sofya is stuck at home in such dire straits.”
“This war will be over soon and she’ll come visit you. If the conflict winds down soon she could even meet us.”
“Is it India, Henry? Sofya would