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ended up here,” he said with the steadfast seriousness that had first endeared him to her. He had pulled away from her and pushed himself up to sitting.
    “Oh no?” she answered lightly.
    “No. I knew about this place already. Your father told me about this place.”
    Elizabeth’s breath slowed and she felt a momentary dampness along the lower lids of her eyes.
    The memory of her father was always confused and strong. He had embodied the familial sensibility, its particular grace, but he had never been any good with money. He had made poor decisions about his inheritance and lived largely in a world of his own. She pushed herself up on her elbow to dismiss the emotion. “But how is that…?”
    “Back when I drove him everywhere and we would talk”—Will was saying each word carefully, and his speech was terse, as it always was when he had thought something through several times
    —“he would tell me about the places he had been. He told me about many places that I might want to see, but this was the one he told me to find if I wanted to get rich. He described it exactly. He said that it would be—”
    “Oh, Will.” Elizabeth felt something like cold in the wind at the bare spot on the back of her neck, just below where her hair rose. “Father said lots of pretty things, but he was a dreamer. You know that.”
    Will continued looking in the direction of the cabin and didn’t say anything.
    “I just don’t want you to hope for something so wild. I was reading in the paper just this morning how difficult it is to find oil, how many men came out from Pennsylvania and fell flat. And those 21 ♥elavanilla♥

    were the ones with experience. They couldn’t compete against the big companies; they’re the only ones who succeed.”
    “I’m going to give you just as good a life as the one you gave up.” He turned to look at her and then rested his large hand on the curve at the base of her neck. “It was your father who told me how.”
    Elizabeth never wanted to kiss Will so much as at moments like these. “Oh, I don’t need money, Will,” she whispered. Then she moved into his warm body and kissed him again.
    Later, when they walked back as wrapped up in each other as was possible while still moving forward, she again felt perfectly content. The contented feeling was so overpowering that for a moment she even stopped wondering if that last thing she’d said, about not needing money, could really be true.
    Four
    DEAR LADIES’ STYLE MONTHLY: Could you please give me the answer to a question of great concern? What is the proper mourning period for a young person who has lost their betrothed? The etiquette books are undecided on this sad but pressing subject.
    DEAR READER: You are not alone in wondering, as a very prominent case like the one you describe is now occupying many in society. While the loss of a fiancée is a grave occurrence, we must remember that engaged couples are not yet man and wife, nor are they technically relatives.
    And of course, gentlemen in general must observe a shorter mourning period than ladies. So while a respectful, private period of mourning is essential, two months will perfectly suffice.
    —LADIES’ STYLE MONTHLY, DECEMBER 1899
    H ENRY SCHOONMAKER STOOD AT THE INTERSECTION of two pinched little streets in the old part of town and wondered how soon he could reasonably escape from his father’s parade. The carriage from which Penelope Hayes had winked at him had disappeared—it had been heading in the direction of the East River, though its final destination was almost certainly Fifth Avenue, where she lived. Henry’s family lived along that string of stocky mansions as well, although their arrival, on the Avenue and in New York society, predated the Hayeses’ by many years. But that hardly seemed to matter now. No one particularly cared anymore from where, or when, the Hayeses had come. Penelope had even been able to absent herself from the parade early while maintaining