“Someone who doesn’t have an awful wife,” Jane said. Her voice was thick.

“Yes,” he whispered. And then seeing that flash in her eyes, he shook his head. “No. That’s not what I meant. It’s just what everyone else would think.”

She stood up. “It’s just as well, because I…” She stopped, biting her lip, and then shook her head. “No, never mind. You’ve just been told that your aunt has passed away. I don’t need to add to your burdens.”

“Just say it,” he snapped, “and spare me your pity.”

Her chin rose. “It’s just as well you don’t want an awful wife,” she told him, “because I had hoped for a husband with a little courage.”

Oh, that hurt. He wasn’t choosing between acceptance and Jane, between a ballroom filled with happy friendship and that dark road alone with Jane. He was choosing between a dark, lonely road with her, and one without her.

“You didn’t go to Eton,” he said to her. “You didn’t go to Cambridge. You didn’t spend years slowly fashioning yourself into the kind of person who could fit in and thus make a difference. Don’t tell me this doesn’t take courage. Don’t tell me that.” His voice rose with every word. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t courage that brought me back again and again, after every attempt to toss me out. Being like me takes courage, damn it.”

She looked at him. It felt as if she looked through him. “Really, Oliver?” One hand went to her hip. “It took courage to walk away from Clemons and let the other boys do what they did? It took courage to consider Bradenton’s offer to humiliate me? My. Courage isn’t what it used to be.”

Those words felt like spears in his stomach. The worst part was, though, he could see her hands, shaking. Her eyes, wide and full of hurt. As badly as she’d struck out at him, he’d hurt her that much, too. And he couldn’t even say that he hadn’t meant it.

“I thought so,” she said, turning away from him. “I’ll send someone over for the rest of my things.” She swept past him.

He wanted to reach for her—to tell her not to leave. To take hold of her arm as she walked past. To do anything at all.

He didn’t. She walked out and he didn’t stop her. He let that moment slip by—the last moment he had to apologize and save it all—and he wasn’t sure if it was courage or cowardice.

Freddy’s funeral was a quiet affair. There weren’t many people who had known Oliver’s aunt—just the boy who delivered her groceries, a few ladies who had visited her, and her family.

Oliver’s sisters had come down—Laura with her husband and Oliver’s smallest niece, an infant who whimpered through the ceremony, and Patricia with her husband and their twins. Free had come, too. She stood for a long time at their aunt’s coffin, looking in, not saying a word. She ran her hand along the edge and wept silently.

It felt wrong to have his aunt laid out in a church. She would have hated lying exposed in a strange place. She would have hated having everyone’s eyes on her—even if it was only the eyes of those few who knew her. Freddy may have been the only person who would have sighed in relief at the thought of being buried six feet below the ground in a tiny coffin. When the grave had been filled in, Oliver laid his flowers on it.

“There you are,” he whispered. “Nobody will get to you now.”

After the burial, they retired with her solicitor to her small apartment.

Oliver had spent every Christmas that he remembered here. It had been a tradition born out of necessity. His mother hadn’t wanted Freddy to be alone at Christmas, and Freddy had refused to leave her rooms to come to New Shaling. Therefore, their entire family had come here—even when the rooms had become too small to fit the family.

They made a multitude now, so many that there weren’t chairs enough for everyone. Oliver and his sisters, his niece and nephews, his parents… His father stood next to a wall; Reuven sat with his boys on the floor.

It was somewhat of a surprise that Freddy had a solicitor. For that matter, he hadn’t supposed she would write a will. It wasn’t as if Freddy had much to give away, and hearing her few belongings dispensed with summary dispatch seemed cruel.

“This will,” the solicitor said, “dates from late last week.” He drew out several sheets of paper—far longer than Oliver would have imagined would be needed under the circumstances.

But then, this was Freddy. The preamble—lengthy and argumentative—had them all exchanging glances, uncertain if it was acceptable to smile so soon after her passing. It sounded so much like her that it almost felt as if she were here. She went on for a page about what she expected from each of them—the legacy that they would be upholding, the expectations she had.

And then the solicitor cleared his throat and started on the bequests.

His aunt left a few family heirlooms and a miniature of their mother to Serena Marshall, her sister.

“To Oliver, my nephew—I would leave you a portion of my worldly goods, but I don’t think you have need of them. I leave you instead the few quilts I have sewn over the years that I have kept for myself. They’re a good sight better than anything that can be purchased in the stores these days, and not a machine-stitch on them. Make sure you keep warm. As you grow older, you’ll find yourself more susceptible to chills.”

He felt a lump in his throat. Freddy had poured so much of her time and energy into her quilts that this was like getting a piece of her as a memory.

“To Laura and Patricia, I leave the remainder of the money I inherited as a child, to be divided equally among the two of them. I also give all my remaining household goods to be divided between them as they agree. I particularly commend the following: my paring knife, which has rarely needed sharpening; the wardrobe I have used for these last few decades, and my good china.”

Laura looked at Patricia over their husband’s arms.

“That can’t be right,” Laura finally said. “I can’t imagine that the contents of Freddy’s accounts are worth much, but this disposes of all her possessions without…”

They both glanced at Free, who sat in her chair looking down. Oliver ached for her. For Freddy. For the argument they’d had and never made up, the one that had led Freddy to cut her favorite niece from her will entirely.

“We did argue,” Free said softly. “And I don’t want—it’s not about that.”