“Welcome back, Maisie Thomas,” she answered, but her gaze did not stop upon me longer than the instant, as Mama had held out her hand for aid in stepping out. And Miss Grange took it up. Thus following behind my mother and Miss Grange and Cook, I came back again into Grange House, the gray interlude of the dismal winter crossed over.

Inside, there was the general din of companionable and aimless chatter. Several of the guests were up late over their brandy and water, and there was a clutch of women in the writing room, though none seemed to be writing. Mrs. French rose from her seat to greet us, her dark green skirts skimming the painted gray floor.

“Welcome, dear Mrs. Thomas, and Maisie. I am so glad to have you here with us again.”

Mama smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. French.”

“Do you wish anything after your journey? A cordial? A bit of cold supper?”

Mama looked at me and I shook my head in answer, too overcome by finding myself back in this House once again. I had forgotten the beauty of the place—how simple it was and how satisfactory all at the same time.

“I’ve made sure to place you in the rooms you always occupy, and Jessie will be next door for your convenience.” Mrs. French and Mama were moving toward the staircase up to the second floor.

“Thank you, Mrs. French. I think we shall retire straightaway.”

“Certainly. You must be quite tired after such a long journey.”

Just for an instant, standing there amidst the ordinary conversation, I thought Papa would come in behind us, his cigar box safely dispatched to the pantry, as if the year we had lived between his death and this moment had been suddenly tipped and poured away. The bayberry still shivered in its enormous copper pot on the long hall table. Might he not walk in?

Mama turned. Written upon her face I saw at once the tremendous effort to withstand all this kindness. I stretched my hand to her and said softly, “Come, Mama,” and we proceeded together up the stairs.