The parlor was quiet, the winter valley spread out through the wide windows like a painting that hadn't quite decided what season it wanted to be. Patches of snow clung to the low places, reluctant, while the dark earth began to show itself where the sun had warmed it.
Peg gazed out the window, arms loosely crossed, looking out over the dormant vines. Imogen sat, watching her daughter watch the valley. "It's turning," Peg said finally. "I'd forgotten how quickly winter wanes here."
"Another few weeks," Imogen agreed. "The valley doesn't hold it long."
"England holds it forever." Not unkindly. Just truthfully. "You forget what it feels like when the ground softens."
A comfortable silence settled between them. The kind that only exists between people who have earned it. Imogen waited. She was good at waiting.
"I met Matthew the day after I arrived," Peg said. She turned toward the window.
"He's trying," Peg said finally. "Matthew. He's trying very hard to be something different than what he came from." A pause. "I understand that particular effort."
Imogen looked at her daughter's profile. The way she held herself. The careful composed line of her that had been there since she was a girl and had only become more practiced with the years.
"How are you, my darling," she said quietly. Not a segue. Not a subject change. Just the question that had been waiting since Peg walked through the door.
Peg was quiet for a long moment. "I'm managing," she said.
"I know you are," Imogen said gently. "That wasn't what I asked." Peg was quiet for a long moment.
"I miss him," she said finally. Simply. The way you say something you've been carrying so long the weight of it has become familiar. "Every morning I wake up and for just a moment I forget, and then..." She stopped. "And then I remember."
Imogen said nothing. Just listened.
"Prim has his eyes," Peg continued, her voice steady, "and sometimes she'll look at me a certain way and it's just..." A breath. "It's a lot."
"Yes," Imogen said softly. "I imagine it is."
"I couldn't stay," Peg said, and there was something almost apologetic in it. "In that house. With all of his things and all of his absence. I tried and I just..." She shook her head slightly. "I needed to come home."
"I know," Imogen said. "I'm glad you did."
Peg turned then and looked at her mother fully for the first time since she'd begun talking. Something in her expression that was almost surprised, like she'd expected to have to explain herself further. "That's it?" she said. "No lecture about running away?"
Imogen's mouth curved. "You didn't run away," she said simply. "You came home. There's a difference."
Something in Peg's face quietly came undone. She didn't cry. But something shifted in her, visible only in the slight drop of her shoulders, the way she exhaled, long and slow, like she'd been holding it since Southampton.
Imogen reached over and put her hand on Peg's arm, the way mothers do when words would only get in the way.
They sat together looking out at the warming valley, the melting snow, the bare vines waiting for spring.
"He would have loved it here," Peg said after a while. "Nathaniel. He and Father would have..." A small sound that was almost a laugh. "They would have driven you mad talking about the vines."
"They would have," Imogen agreed, warmth in her voice. "Endlessly."
"He was worried about the business," Peg said quietly. "In his letters, toward the end. Whether Father needed help." A pause. "That was Nathaniel. Worried about everyone else."
Imogen's hand tightened slightly on her daughter's arm.
"He was a good man," she said simply.
"He was the best man," Peg said. And then, very quietly, "I was so lucky, Mama."
The word landed softly between them. Mama. Not Mother. Not Imogen's careful composed daughter performing grief tidily. Just Peg. Just her girl.
Imogen said nothing. Just kept her hand on her daughter's arm. Let the silence hold them both.
After a while Peg straightened slightly. Not pulling away. Just finding herself again, the way she always did, quietly and without announcement.
"I want to speak with Joseph," she said. "Properly. I haven't..." She paused. "I haven't had the chance yet. Not really."
"Was he happy?" Peg asked quietly. "Julius. Before the war, was he..."
"Yes," Imogen said simply. No hesitation. "He was happy."
Peg nodded once. Filed it somewhere important. "Good," she said softly. "That's good."
They sat a moment longer, the valley warming itself outside, the last of the snow letting go. Then from the main hall came the quiet sound of the front door. Peg turned.
Joseph stood in the doorway, coat still on, clearly not expecting to find anyone in the parlor. For just a moment neither of them moved. Peg rose. "Mother," she said quietly, "would you excuse us?"
Imogen rose, smoothing her skirt with unhurried grace. "I'll go see about luncheon," she said simply.
