I would not have been surprised if she had uttered “to save us” beneath her breath, for now I distinctly saw she was uneasy, incapable of sitting down again once she had ordered more hot coffee for the latecomer, standing at the top of the kitchen stairs and ringing the bell upon the chain there. Ringing it long after there was any doubt it had been heard.

“Mama?” I repeated softly. She turned round. “Shall we walk out?”

With a swift glance at Mr. Cutting, who was thrust deep into the pages of his journal, she looked at me, and this time her eyes did rest upon me for a touch longer than an instant before they shifted by. A seagull’s sharp-voiced toy toy toy passed overhead.

“There is something we must speak of, Maisie.” She was sharp, although reluctant, almost fearful.

I rose and went to stand by her.

But she could not meet my gaze, indeed could not keep from glancing back to see what Mr. Cutting did, as if the world’s answers lay within that bald dome; within or nearby, for she set her eyes upon the place just slightly to the left of his seated figure.

“Just look at that Lady Rose, will you please?” Her gaze fastened upon the vine climbing up one of the verandah columns, and through force of habit, I looked where she looked; indeed there was a new rose bursting into bloom.

“Yes, Mama.” I did not shift position.

“So late in the year.” She grew thoughtful.

Irritated, I touched her arm to bring her gaze back round. “Mama”—I broke my morning resolution and cast off the anchor—“Miss Grange wished that I—”

“Miss Grange wished!” she repeated sharply, turning right round so her words might be heard in the full breadth of the room. “Not only did you disobey me—”

“Disobey!”

“Yes, Maisie. You never came down.”

“Forgive me, Mama,” I said quickly, hoping to mollify. “I forgot myself.”

“Indeed. Indeed you have forgotten yourself. Look at you: You have become a regular servant to the servants.”

“Mama! Miss Grange was never a servant.”

“She ran a hotel, Maisie,” Mama responded very quietly.

“Yes.” I nodded. “But it was once a great House, and her father once was Papa’s partner, and—”

“Maisie!” Her voice thinned. “Why must you invent such nonsense?”

I looked at her carefully. “I do not think it is nonsense, Mama. It is the truth, and I must grant that truth its due.” I smiled to reassure her and moved a step away. “I promise I shall see you at luncheon.”

“I rather think, Miss Thomas, that your mother might wish a bit more notice than an announcement.” I started at the sound of Mr. Cutting so close.

“An announcement?” The insufferable man stood just at my shoulder.

“In my day, no young woman would dare to speak to her own mother this way, telling her what she intended rather than asking leave—as she should.”