Mrs. Betts had come to them through some reference at the embassy. She was about fifty, extremely slender, with blue eyes and graying blond hair she kept tidy in an old-fashioned bun. She’d previously worked for a large, wealthy, traditional English household, and Iris couldn’t break her of certain habits, like calling a seven-year-old boy Master Kip. Still, she appreciated the efficiency with which Mrs. Betts approached her job. Some of the other wives complained about the help—this was a common pastime, apparently—and how you couldn’t get a housemaid to cook or mind the children, or a cook to clean the parlor or wash the laundry; ask for a housekeeper and you’d get a woman who expected to run the other servants, not to do any real work herself. But Mrs. Betts did. Iris considered the family lucky to have her. Mrs. Betts could get away with murder and keep her job, but she only asked for a half day off every week, Sunday morning to Sunday afternoon, so she could visit her mother in Clapham.

She was untying her apron right now.

“Breakfast is all laid out in the dining room as usual, Mrs. D. Anything else before I’m off?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Betts.”

“You’re certain of that? You’re looking a bit pale, if I may.”

Iris looked up. Mrs. Betts had folded her apron over her arm, and she gazed down on Iris with an expression of motherly concern.

“I’m all right, thank you. The party went a little late, that’s all.”

“So it did. I believe I heard Mr. D arriving home at seven minutes past five.”

Iris turned back to Jack and urged a mouthful of egg. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Betts, but I’m really quite well. It’s part of Mr. Digby’s job to attend these functions.”

Mrs. Betts made a noise of disapproval. “Well, I’ll be off now. Oh—good morning, Mr. Digby.”

Sasha’s voice rang from the doorway. “Good morning, Mrs. Betts. Off for your half day, I guess. Coffee?”

“There’s Mrs. D pouring your cup this instant. Pale though she is.” With this parting shot, Mrs. Betts swept out the door and clattered down the hall.

Sasha kissed the top of Iris’s head. “I suppose it’s my fault you’re pale?”

“She’s just a mother hen, that’s all.”

“So she should be. Somebody needs to look after you when I’m not around. Boys? You’re looking after your mother when Daddy’s at work, aren’t you?”

Kip looked up from his magazine. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I helped Mama make the bed yesterday!” Jack cried.