Chapter 4: The Cold House

When Clara opened her door at dawn, the hall was empty.

A folded grey blanket lay on the floor where a man had sat all night, with a thermos of tea beside it.

She picked up the thermos.

The tea was still hot, and there was no sugar in it.

Downstairs, the Tilghman house smelled of toast and coffee and furniture polish.

The cook was a broad woman with flour on her sleeves, and she put a plate in front of Clara before she had sat down.

"Eat," the cook said. "He told us you'd skip breakfast. He said don't let you."

"He told you that?"

"He told us a lot of things this week."

Margery was already at the table, reading the paper through a magnifying glass.

"The harbor says he keeps his wives in the attic," she said without looking up. "Check the attic if you like. It's mostly my hats."

"Margery," Alexander said from the doorway.

He had shaved, and he looked tired.

"Sit down and eat," Margery told him. "Your wife has been waiting for you to say good morning."

Clara glanced around.

The cook, the housekeeper and the young maid were all standing in the kitchen door, trying not to look at her.

"They're curious," Alexander said, and sat down. "You are the first person in this house who has asked for the marmalade."

"It was on the table."

"It's been on the table for seven years."

The maid giggled and was quickly sent for more coffee.

Clara looked at the long room, the sunlight, the old woman with her magnifying glass.

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