She hoisted the pail of wash water and headed through the sitting room and around to the side door. I trailed her outside and watched her dump the water over her puddle of vomit. Then she walked to a pump and refilled the bucket.

“Pumping your own water?” I said. “Thank God I was born in the twentieth century.”

Kristof shrugged. “A hundred years from now people will probably be amazed that we cooked our own meals.”

I jerked my chin at the house. “They’d be amazed that we cooked our own meals, too.”

When we got back inside, someone was banging at the front door. Bridget hurried to answer it. She grabbed the door to pull it open and nearly fell over backward when it didn’t budge. She grabbed it again and twisted.

“Bolted?” she murmured, reaching for the lock. “In the middle of the day?”

The banging grew louder. Bridget fumbled with the lock. The moment she got it undone, the door flew open and she toppled backward to the floor. A laugh floated down the stairs.

“That was quite a pratfall,” Lizzie called from the top.

Andrew strode inside and handed Bridget his hat. Clutching a white parcel beneath his arm, he marched into the sitting room and took a key from on top of the mantel. As Lizzie watched him, she fixed a hook that had come unfastened on her dress.

“Back so soon, Father?” she said.

He grunted something about not feeling well, then walked through the kitchen to the side foyer. Instead of heading out the door, he climbed the rear steps. I followed. At the top of the stairs was a landing with a single door, then more steps leading to the attic level. Andrew unlocked the door and went into what was obviously his bedroom. After dropping off the parcel, he locked the door behind him and headed downstairs.

“Where’s Abby?” he asked his daughter as he walked into the sitting room.

“She had a note from a sick friend and decided to pay a visit.”

Andrew harrumphed and, without so much as loosening his tie, stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Note? Sick friend? When had this happened? Oh, wait, I’d been out back with Bridget for a few minutes before Andrew got home. Still, Abby must have left awfully fast…

Bridget walked in, carrying her bucket. Her gaze slid to Andrew. Lizzie shooed her into the dining room and followed, as did I. While Bridget washed the windows, Lizzie set up a board and began ironing handkerchiefs. They chatted quietly about whether Bridget was going out later that day, but Bridget confessed she was still feeling poorly. I only caught snatches of the conversation. My attention kept wandering back to the “note” and the “sick friend.”