“No, not unwell. Just the usual anxiety that I’ve overlooked something,” she said.

“It will do you good to get away. You work too hard at that job. Always dashing around.”

Jean refrained from pointing out that without her wages—the fruits of all this inconvenient “dashing around”—there would be no holiday. Instead, she took silent refuge in her notebook, reviewing the transcripts of her initial interviews with Gretchen, Howard, Alice and Martha, the floor plan of St. Cecilia’s and her jotted observations since. One page was divided into two columns headed Virgin Birth +/-:

Her mother, opposite, was crocheting another lace doily, the oatmeal-colored circle turning and growing quickly under her hands like potters’ clay. They had dozens of these at home, little puddles of string under every vase and lamp and ornament, with still enough to fill an entire drawer in the sideboard.

As she watched, her mother glanced up at her and quickly down, the light catching her glasses and turning them to dazzling mirrors, and it occurred to Jean with a jolt that she had no idea what color her mother’s eyes were. She must have known once, but it was years—a decade, perhaps—since they had made proper eye contact.

They had both been witnesses to each other’s disappointments and tragedies, but it had always been understood by Jean that it was weak and shameful to dwell on them and so their conversation never strayed far from the surface of things. Sometimes Jean had the sensation that they were adrift in a perilously overladen boat; a moment of emotional turbulence would be enough to capsize them.

Her mother put down her crocheting and removed her reading glasses, blinking hard to bring into focus the Surrey countryside as it flowed past: neat farms, tamed hedgerows and plowed fields of crumbled soil.

Gray, Jean thought with surprise. They are gray.

Dear Dorrie,

Mother and I are at Lymington for a week’s holiday. The picture on the front shows the main street. Our hotel is on the right with the pillars. It is low season and very quiet, which suits us. There is a pretty cobbled street of quaint shops leading down to the harbor, which looks across to the Isle of Wight. We sit and watch the boats for hours.

The walk up is a bit of a challenge for Mother, but yesterday an old boy in a Bentley took pity on us and gave us a lift back to the hotel. She has talked of little else since. On Monday we took a coach trip to Bucklers Hard, a charming row of fishermen’s cottages leading down to a river. We have been lucky with the weather so far.

Love to Kenneth and the twins.