Despite her desire to be practical, it had been impossible, at first, for Jane to see her life at Ferndean in terms of the tangible, of the material. As if it were but a reflection in a glass, in a basin of water, or the dream shadows on a wall that lose form in the light of day, she was afraid to hold it too closely, to claim it too entirely. What had been given her seemed too great a thing to not suffer impermanence. It was Promethean – a thing intended for gods but surely not men, so fragile, so easily damaged. Even Edward, who faced her each day with the marks of his mortality branded on his skin, had seemed unreal, and she had secretly feared him as a teasing vestige of a hope better abandoned. In her life she had known so much journeying that now she could not shake the feeling of transience, as though, if she gazed too long, kissed him too often, drank of his rich, mellow voice too eagerly, the strain of so much fulfillment would shatter her world like glass. She remembered well this early timidity, how frequently she had to stop herself as she went about her days, noting the backward glances, the soft steps, the pausing to listen – was he still there, still there where she'd left him? She remembered the rolling over in bed, looking at him through squinting eyes that feigned sleep, just in case she should be caught; just in case she should start awake and find herself elsewhere, and him a dream. She remembered the kisses stolen in the early mornings when he was still asleep, while her mind made a study of his face on the pillow, his hair tumbling untidily across his forehead, the way his lashes, long and dark, made little shadows over his cheeks, shielding and shading the beautiful eyes that could no longer see her. She learned him by heart, a precaution against future calamity, that she would always have him, whatever happened. And when the tentative glances grew bolder, when superstition faded and was effaced by joy, she had wanted nothing but to live entirely in the present, accepting every day for the small miracle it was, blessing every hour that ended as it had begun: with a full heart, a glistening eye, an ear ringing with the sound of his voice.

Now, as the first flush eased into a blissful underlying warmth, now as winter settled over England, it was finally safe to begin planning for the future.

For all his past flouting of convention, he had insisted upon a strict observance where she was concerned. She was to have all that befitted her as his wife. She was to have fine gowns, a monthly allowance, a lady's maid if she wished (which she did not, and firmly refused), and her initials on the family linen. Not a month after their union, Edward had generously arranged, albeit with her assistance, for her inheritance to be placed in a private trust, accessible to herself only. Furthermore, he encouraged her to make any changes and improvements she desired with regard to the furnishings and decorating of the rooms.

"You are mistress of this house," he had told her. "I should like nothing more than for you to feel at home in it."

"My home is where you are," she'd replied simply, "and you are here."

Yet she had been secretly pleased at his deference to her tastes, and as Autumn gave way, parcels began to arrive in the post, from London and nearby Millcote and some from the more distant mill towns in the north, filled with samples of fashionable textiles, and wallpaper in the latest patterns. During the shortening afternoons, she sat with Edward before the fire and poured over them, taking time to describe the colors and shapes carefully and extensively, so that he might help her make the selections. "Never before," he would tease her, "has such painstaking consideration been given to any room in which I have dwelled. I confess, I had not thought that such a difference existed between plum and amethyst, but I understand now the variations are of infinite importance."

The renovation was set for the following spring, and meantime, Jane took a full inventory of the house, from attic to cellar. No space escaped her attention. Sketchbook under her arm, she had moved through the rooms taking measurements, holding up the scrap samples to bare windows and naked walls to see how they would suit, making notes of what she liked. She remembered how Edward had followed her, his hand on her shoulder, laughing good-naturedly at her enthusiasm as she drew the wraithlike sheets off the furniture as though waking them from a long slumber, sending clouds of dust into the air to hang and catch the pale sunlight. After their walks she lingered outside the house, noting spaces where turf could be dug up and gardens planted, where a few select trees could be removed to let in more light. She filled pages with sketches and plans, discussing each one with him in intimate detail, and her excitement and cheer was so earnest, so natural that he could not help but share it. Her unspoken hope was that, without being aware of it, he might one day come to love Ferndean, not only for her presence there, but for itself.

December brought the first snows of the year and with them a deep, imperturbable chill that emanated from the wood and settled like fog about the house. They were forced to cease their daily walks, and for the first time since their marriage, Jane met with her husband's disapproval, who, fearing the effects of the cold on her delicate frame, expressly forbade her from venturing out with a group of like-minded ladies from the congregation to visit the parish poor. Jane, though disappointed, did not argue, knowing he acted as much out of concern for her as out of fear for himself – for what he would become without her.

The snows continued. Roads became difficult, then nearly impossible to traverse. Jane thought no more of charitable visits, nor even of struggling out to the church on Sunday mornings. There was no going abroad in such weather. Instead, she and Edward drew their chairs up to the parlor fireplace and sat huddled there, positioned as close to the blaze as safety permitted. There together they formed a barricade against the winter. Daily she kept watch for the torments that beset him – the aching in his left arm, which had begun with the cold and was a constant reminder of the ravaging his body had endured; the guilt he felt over her isolation, now made complete by their snowbound situation. She knew he feared her restlessness – the potential for it, lurking within her, spurred by their particular circumstances – knew he dreaded, beyond all else, that the confinement indoors, the hours she was obliged to spend with him, talking with him, reading to him, aiding him, sitting by him, lying with him, with no respite or opportunity for distraction, would wear away her wifely patience, her youthful affection.

She had no qualms about letting him fill her world, but for his sake she bethought herself of ways to draw his mind away from the gathering troubles, to draw him beyond the house and himself to where he had lived fully, a witness to life's vibrancy.

"Tell me of Vienna," she would say, and they would be off. The winter twilight around them would fade, and he would be leading her down broad avenues flanked by stately white edifices, stopping to enter a concert hall where the rich strains of some great master came wafting to their ears, pausing by the grand residence of the emperor, straying into a fine park to watch the city's ladies and gentlemen promenade by. During that winter she roamed all the great cities of Europe at his side, learned the names of places and things seen only through his eyes, gazed upon with his gaze.

By way of these armchair travels, these fireside explorations embarked upon together, Edward gradually came to see – or rather, to know, with a great swell of gratitude and relief – that he need not fear the house being to small, or his sole company too meager. What there was, what he had to give her, was enough, and she expressed her contentment in a hundred small ways: not only by her eager listening (to which he always reacted with a deep inner delight, associating past memories of a curious upturned young face, of wide green eyes that hung on to his every word as though he spoke a gospel of the world) but by the absolute ease of her manner in all things, which hinted at no inner upset, no secret longing for things he could not provide. He was sustained by this assurance of her happiness and found himself able, at long last, to begin envisioning a broadening path before him, down which lay the promise of hope. He was a living man once more.

A picture of pleasing domesticity could be seen in the parlor this afternoon. It boasted nothing extraordinary to the eye, and to the ear the words exchanged were such as are found in commonplace conversation, though perhaps the epithets were more tender than mere cordiality demanded. A stranger looking on would note nothing awry in the young woman's pause, would detect nothing but mundane politeness in the man's attention as she spoke of retrieving some linen from upstairs. And so they would move on, perhaps, their curiosity quelled. Or perhaps…yes, perhaps, they might stay, and glimpse a shard of heaven.

Jane had already risen from her chair, but before she could as much as stir in the direction of the door, he caught her hand and stayed her. Rising himself, he touched her shoulder, and when his fingers met with only the thin wool of her gown, frowned. She realized her mistake at once. She might have known he would remember, most especially when she herself did not. From the very beginning he had predicted her needs and desires with an insight that was almost uncanny. In the chill, grey mornings, if he felt her begin to rise, he begged her to stay put while he ventured out of the warm cocoon of covers to fetch her dressing gown from where it lay draped over a chair before the fire, that she might be spared those few moments of cold. In the afternoons it was he who asked if there were enough coals on the fire, who urged her to put on more if her reply betrayed the slightest hesitation. And at night, it was he who insisted she bathe first, that the water would be warmest for her. He fought the cold on her behalf with the passion of a personal vendetta. It was but one of the ways in which he showed his love.

Edward reached toward her chair, caught the thick gray material of the shawl and wordlessly wrapped it around his wife like it was something his love had spun.

"Thank you, darling," she said.

He smiled his welcome. He asked nothing of her – elicited no promise to be quick, made no effort to delay her – and perhaps for that reason, before quitting the parlor with her candle, she lifted her hand to his face and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

The clock in the hall chimed the hour as she passed it and started up the stairs. In the ringing silence that followed it, how still the house was – only the sound of her gown brushing over the treads reached her ears. No noise from the kitchen, none from the parlor. The snow outside seemed to muffle even the inner traces of life. But the warmth of his touch remained, the image of his smiling face lingered, a ray of sunshine in the chill corridor. These moments alone were scarce and precious, not because she relished being absent from him, even for an instant, but because every small parting brought a reunion when, coming again before him, letting the idea of Edward's simply being surge through her, she would be struck anew by the joy and improbability of it, as though they were two old friends meeting in a crowd. As she grew day by day ever closer to him, she willed that this feeling of overwhelmed awareness might never fade.

Jane entered their chamber and at once found herself drawn to the window, to the beauty of the snow. Such whiteness! Such a cold, pure, glimmering light it cast! She knew he had resented it, seeing in it oppression, isolation, fearing it would breed discontent in her, flakes landing around her like so many apples of discord. He had been afraid the snow would show her that he was not enough, that he could never be enough. He need not have feared. If anything, the snow had revealed to her the simplicity of her needs. To live, to suspire, she needed nothing and no one but him.

As the short winter day drew toward its close and the fire burned the brighter in the purple dusk she would sit by his side and begin the much-prolonged embroidery, and every stitch that spelled her initial or his would be another joining, another thread in the knot that was their shared destiny. And at evening's end a hot bath would be waiting, and when they had both soaked up as much heat as they could hold within them and he had helped her dry her hair before the fire, winding and twisting it through his fingers in his gentle way, they would both climb into the large mahogany bed with its great heavy quilts and its promise of a sheltered repose. And the long dark night would not be long enough for her to show – with words, with touch, with the warmth of her body – all that he was to her.