The short winter day was drawing to a close and the last of Abigail’s few callers had departed, when Jack Briesler tapped at the upstairs parlor door. “Mr. Jefferson to see you, ma’am.”

Jefferson looked as if he had not slept last night. Spots of pink showed high on the Virginian’s elegant cheekbones, and on the end of his long nose. In a year or two his faded hair would all be silver. Abigail had sat next to him at dinner just after the New Year, but this was the first time they had seen one another alone since…

She tried to calculate, running the years back in her mind.

Since London. They’d gone to the theater together, on a night when John had been obliged at the last minute to meet with the Portuguese Ambassador. They’d walked home through the chilly March mists, talking of fossil bones and Indians and mesmerism and the education of women…What one always talked about with Tom.

Everything except what he truly thought on any subject, or the contents of his heart.

That was the evening she’d given him Nabby’s sketch of the garden of the Paris house.