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“Is my husband dead?”

Sayer clearly surprised him with the directness of the question. She had been waiting month after month, year after year, first for a letter or some word of him, then for Thomas Henry himself, and she couldn’t bear to wait any longer.

“Is that why you’ve come here?”

Jack hesitated, then looked into her eyes again. “Yes.”

She made a small sound and looked away, clutching at her skirts in the great effort it took to stay upright and in control.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said again. “To bring you such bad news. I see this isn’t the time for us to talk, ma’am—you aren’t well enough yet. I shouldn’t have said anything. I will take my leave. When you’re stronger—”

“I want to hear what you’ve come to say. I want to hear all of it, Mr. Murphy.”

The Soldier's Wife

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