“I will.” The cloud had lifted. He spoke firmly.

Hannah once more appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, Hannah, this time I’m really on my way.”

“We were interrupted by a dead owl,” Jane said.

“Crazy people!” Hannah sniffed and vanished.

Alone again, Jane sat for some time turning the turtle over in her hands. She had a great deal to think about.

CHRISTINA’S JOURNAL—November 27

This is my last moment for several days to write something. John came last night, dear man, to help make beds and get things started. Little Mary Loveland did a wonderful job of cleaning, and even washed the kitchen floor for me. The pies are ordered (I do wonder whether Ellen’s daughter will have thought to bring theirs) and will be delivered. I still have to boil the onions, make cream sauce, stuffing for the turkey. But I am full of joy and energy. It is so exciting to think of seeing the children and the darling grandchildren. How silent the house has been! Wish I had thought to get the piano tuned, but someone will bring a guitar, and there’s Christy’s flute. Surely we can make some music.

Cornelius has planned to have Thanksgiving dinner on a tray by the fire. It will be more comfortable and less of a strain for him that way. But it will be strange not to see him at the end of the table, although he assures me that Bruno can carve like an angel. I think perhaps Mamzelle can stay with Cornelius, to keep him company. I am so glad she is coming, if only she feels well and is not in one of her cranky moods! She wrote me a most extraordinary letter explaining all the things she felt she required, such as cotton blankets that she will use instead of sheets as she is afraid, apparently, of catching cold. A waste basket by her bed! A long list of what she can and cannot eat! Poor old dear!

For so many years she was a faithful servant, never thinking of herself, absolutely there for the children. For her, old age has provided a reversal of roles all right. She now commands and demands, and behaves like Queen Victoria, and, because she loves me I suppose, has become frightfully critical. She will be sure to notice the paper napkins and lament the decay of our standards. Oh, well, who else is there who still treats me like a child? I must remember to put some French books by her bed.