Shaking my head, I back away from him, toward the door. “I’ll come and visit again, just as soon as I can, with our own doctor. And I’ll bring you some books, too. They’d be good company for you.”

“Don’t want ’em. Can’t read ’em. Fran, stay awhile. Smoke a pipe with me. I’ve got a whole raft of Durham tobacco under my mattress. Please, Fran?”

No, no, no. I shake my head, I can’t bear to hear anymore. Tomorrow I’ll send someone with a crock of soup and blankets, and a note for Doctor Perkins. But I can’t stay here a moment longer.

Nate continues to entreat me. “Please, Frances, darling? Won’t you please?”

“I’m so sorry… so sorry.” Head tucked, I hurry from the room and close the door. Nate’s voice follows me down the stairs and echoes in my ears, even after I’ve escaped the tavern, and Wigs’s gimlet stare, and have headed back out into the night.


14.