Trigger Warning: Some readers may find the mention of child loss and the depiction of assault in this chapter to be triggering. Please read at your own discretion.

April 1940

She'd been crying so much on the train back from Concord that no fewer than three people had asked her if she were all right.

That was nice of them. She was rarely asked nowadays.

And it was true; she hadn't been all right. But she couldn't tell them that. So she nodded politely and made up some silly excuse about losing her favorite scarf in the city, and the two men and one woman also all nodded politely because it was just like a young newlywed to worry her pretty little head about something inconsequential as a silk bauble.

If only they knew the real reason her heart was breaking.

She pedaled the bicycle faster to avoid thinking about it, but the closer she got to the house, the more she wanted to share the awful news. Too bad Art wouldn't be home for hours yet. The wait was just going to make the reveal that much worse in the end.

But of course, Art had to work. His job in the city didn't allow for dilly-dallying around the house on a Wednesday afternoon. No siree. Ever since he was hired by that up-and-coming investment firm in Boston, he was practically chained to his desk. Why, sometimes he wouldn't be home until eight at night and she'd have to reheat his dinner, which she'd had waiting at the head of the table for him.

Feeling as if every eye could see right through her, she lowered her gaze as she sped through the town square. There was no way to avoid the juncture, unless she went miles out of the way to go around the whole of New Bedford. But she didn't have the strength for that. Not today, anyway.

When the school bell in the large, redbrick K through 12 rang, she looked up. It was just in time to see the children with their bright smiles spill out through the double doors. They bounded down the stairs with their school bags, ecstatic to be out of their lessons.

She choked back a sob, pushing the hopes of seeing her own little kiddo do the same back by at least another year. Sure the doc said it could always happen right away, but it took almost two the first time and look how that ended.

Her belly ached, the exertion so soon after her ordeal obviously taking its toll. Gritting her teeth, she pushed onward and left the town behind. From here, it was a straight shot down a packed dirt road that led to little else, but her home. The trees lining the road gave enough shade in the perfectly spring-like weather to keep her cool, yet sweat dripped down her brow. Her breathing was also rapid and shallow, and an escalating unease bubbled within her.

She needed to get home and rest. To turn her mind away from her loss and focus on the future.

After what seemed like a lifetime, she finally saw the house in the distance. It loomed, dark and foreboding, reminding her of those same feelings she got when she first stepped foot into it. Art had assured her it was all in her mind and once they'd made it their own—made it their home—the bad juju would disappear.

But it hadn't. She still got a chill every time she walked through the front door, the presence of something cold and menacing haunting her every moment. Strange, how all she wanted to do now is get there, climb into her bed and not emerge from under the covers until at least tomorrow.

The sight of an automobile parked at the curb took her aback. And no matter how much she tried to justify it being someone—anyone—other than her husband, she couldn't. When she finally rolled up and read the number plate, her chance of being wrong was dashed.

A jumble of emotions overtook her. But just as quickly as she feared the worst—the escalating war in Europe made jobs even here in the US redundant every single day—she looked on the bright side. She could immediately have a shoulder to cry on, a kindred heart to share her pain with, instead of waiting until nightfall.

Art was home, and he would make things better.

"Honey!" she called out to him as soon as she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Silence greeted her.

"Art? Are you in here?" she asked, shuffling toward the kitchen when she found the parlor unoccupied. That, too, was empty.

With no other place downstairs to check, she began to scale the steps to the bedrooms, removing her gloves as she ascended. The rattling of furniture and the squeak of mattress springs made her stop.

She held her breath, listening. Meanwhile, the ruckus continued, loud enough to be unmistakable, but soft enough, as if from behind closed doors.

Was Art all right? Surely he wasn't being attacked, in which case there would be manly curses being hurled along with fists. Violent curses and insults, not . . . pleasurable moans and shy giggles.

"Art?! What's going on?" she cried out, unable to move from her spot at the top of the stairs, rooted to the floor by the fear of what she would find if she went any farther.

The house fell silent. She gingerly placed her gloves on the top banister while willing herself to step onto the top landing. In the master bedroom, a feet hit the floor with a thud before they began to move around. A moment later, the door opened.

"What the hell are you doing here?" asked her husband, his wrinkled trousers held up by suspenders he was hastily slipping into. But he had no time to manage to put on a shirt.

She was taken aback by the unwelcome address. "Me? I . . . I—"

"You told me you had an appointment and then would go shopping. I thought you wouldn't be home for hours. Did you lie—"

"No! No, of course not, darling," she cut him off, moving closer as he shut the bedroom door behind him.

It wasn't fast enough. She was able to get a quick glimpse of movement inside.

"Is someone else here?" she asked, looking past him.

He closed the gap between them, grabbing her by the arm. "You haven't answered my question. Why are you home so early?"

With her heart beating in her throat, she pulled herself straight. "I could ask you the same."

Although he dropped his hold, the same hand returned to smack her on the cheek.

"I will not have your insolence!" he yelled, huffing his breath in and out.

Tears began to stream down her face.

"You have it all wrong, Art. I meant to do as I planned. I swear I did," she cried. Gathering enough courage to break the news to him, she instinctively put her hand on her stomach. "But the doc said there was nothing there, and I didn't have the will to do anything, but come home right away after that."

His expression fell as confusion washed over his face. Stepping back, he put his hand to his forehead. "Whadda ya mean 'there's nothin' there'?"

She swallowed hard and shook her head. "The baby's gone. He said it happens. There's nothing anyone can do—"

He hit her again. "You whore! It's all your fault! I knew I shouldn't have trusted you."

She shook her head even faster, the sting of his palm on her face burning strong. "No, no, no, no, no. I didn't do anything, I swear to you. I didn't even know there was anything wrong. It's so early, you see. Lots of women—"

"I don't care about other women! You were to be the mother of my child and you couldn't even get that right," he growled, turning away. "My God. How stupid do you have to be to not even get that right?"

She stepped behind him, tugging at his arm to engage with her again. "We'll try again. It'll all work out this time. I'll do everything as you say and . . .."

She bedroom door creaked open and she didn't get to finish. A young woman with smeared make-up and tussled hair, but dressed impeccably stuck her head out.

"Mr. Tuffin, I think it's best if you drive me back to the city now," she said, acting as though there was no one else in earshot, but him.