Ma, Lilian said. She walked over to the light blue sweater and the white hair. Outside, with the sky dwarfing the two of them, Mrs. Eliot seemed suddenly very small. Her head was upright on her narrow shoulders, but her back had begun to curve over. Lilian felt like a giantess.

Mrs. Eliot frowned, putting out her elbow, to fend off. Who’s that? she said.

It’s Lilian, Ma.

Mrs. Eliot shook her head. I don’t know any Lilians, she said impatiently. Darkness had collected around the trees and Mrs. Eliot’s hair stood out like a white handkerchief.

Come back to the house.

You get off my land, said Mrs. Eliot.

Ma.

Mrs. Eliot’s eyes showed the whites, a faded custard white, and her arms stiffened akimbo. You people think you can go anywhere. This is private property. She took small steps on the gravel, keeping close to her cane. People, she said with disgust.

This isn’t even our driveway, Lilian said absurdly.

I’m going to see Agnes, said Mrs. Eliot.

She’s not there, Lilian said.

Mrs. Eliot regarded her with interest.

They’re away, Lilian said.

Agnes Colchester had died ten years before of pernicious anemia.

Who’s going to cut back the roses? said Mrs. Eliot. Their gardener doesn’t do it right. She shrugged, deciding it was their problem after all. I could get Edward to help, I suppose …

Come on, Ma. Lilian took her arm. Was this how one ended up? Worrying about roses, visiting the dead …

As they walked up the gravel drive, Mrs. Eliot spoke with an ominous tone. Is she there?

Lilian saw a white blur standing behind the narrow window by the door. She was worried about you, she said.

She’s a monster, said Mrs. Eliot.

You said you liked her.

Mrs. Eliot pressed her mouth together, refusing to say more.

When they opened the door the nurse was there. She had a mustache and wide ankles in white stockings. Was this the one named Monica?

Next time we take a walk, said the nurse, we take it together.

Lilian expected her mother’s long-perfected look of disdain and was surprised to see a contrite childish face nodding in submission.

Since it was difficult for Rosie to climb the stairs, Mrs. Eliot’s bed had been set up in a room off the library. She died there in her sleep.

Mr. Eliot’s death, so quiet and sudden on that Sunday evening, had so stunned Lilian that her mother’s death was like adding a bucket of black paint to an already dark barrel.