Wilma scarcely heard Terese’s admonition: Cooped up, why, yes, she had been! For months, she had endured the strict supervision of Dr. Seguin. This was at John’s insistence; most of the well-off ladies in town waited until the last possible moment to consult a doctor, for modesty’s sake. Those who were not so well off dispensed with the doctor altogether and consulted a midwife when the time came. Wilma knew that most other women worked until the last possible moment, but the doctor had suggested it would be a good idea for Wilma to rest a good portion of each day, warning her especially not to excite herself too much with her music. She did her best to follow his orders, but playing the piano was another appetite over which she had no control—just as now she could not hold herself back from the lure of fresh air.

As Terese helped her on with her cape and her favorite green hat, Wilma said, “You’ll do me the favor of not mentioning this to Mr. Mickelson, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said the maid, the gray skin around her eyes wrinkling kindly, as she saw Wilma to the door. “I know just how you feel.” A widow with five grown children of her own, who had been unable to afford to keep her farm after her husband had died, Terese was the senior of the two maids and Wilma’s favorite of the household staff. Two immigrant girls, one Norwegian and one Swedish, were laundress and cook, and there was a yard man named Nathaniel, whom Wilma avoided at all costs. He was in charge of the cistern, the boilers, and all the mysterious things in the basement, plus the horse and carriage, the grounds, the plumbing, the gas lamps—all the things that Wilma considered John’s domain to supervise (indeed, John’s father, Knute, supervised most such matters). Wilma stuck to the more feminine areas, and Terese was kind enough to coach her through the daily struggles of managing the household: planning the meals, overseeing the household budget, making sure that the staff was always busy accomplishing their duties, and in the proper priority.