She wondered how many years—if ever—it would be before the monster of awakened longing was subdued and she could return to placid acceptance of a limited life. The journey into love was so effortless and graceful; the journey out such a long and labored climb.

One evening, when her mother was settled for the night and the walls of the house were pressing in, Jean slipped out and walked up to the church. She was not religious, but she thought of herself as culturally Christian and had accompanied her mother to services on the major festivals, before the falling-out over the knitted dolls.

Choir practice was just finishing and the singers were leaving, buttoning coats against the chilly night and calling farewells to each other, so Jean hung back in the rectory garden until the last of the footsteps had died away. The heavy wooden door was still unlocked, so she let herself into the cool darkness and sat in a pew at the back, as if prepared to make a quick getaway from God, should He appear.

The only light came from a bright moon through the stained-glass windows. The altar gleamed palely; all was peaceful. She had never been in the habit of praying, for herself or other people, and wouldn’t stoop to it now just because she was needy. Instead, she sat contemplating the silence, and the smell of polished wood and candle wax and ancient stone. Minutes passed and she felt her eyes filling with tears, which she allowed to flow down her cheeks, gather at the corners of her mouth and drip off her chin unchecked.

There was a sudden noise—shocking in the stillness—and a shaft of light as the door to the vestry opened. Jolted from her trance, Jean hurriedly wiped her face on her coat sleeve as Mrs. Melsom, no less startled, appeared in the doorway.

“Oh my goodness,” she said, clutching her chest and peering into the gloom. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here still.”

She was wearing a fur hat that might have done service in the Russian steppes and sheepskin mittens that were somewhat disabling her efforts with the latch.

“Sorry,” said Jean, rising. “I was just . . .”

“Oh, it’s you, Jean,” Mrs. Melsom said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I stayed behind after choir to sort out the sheet music—it was all in a muddle.” She looked closer. “My dear, is something wrong?”

Jean blinked hard. She could take the path of denial and hasty departure, or accept the sympathy that was offered. A memory nudged at her—the downtrodden daughter from the hotel in Lymington, refusing her hand of friendship. She had clung to her proud self-sufficiency and they had both been diminished that night. Insight, overdue but dazzling, opened Jean’s eyes to the truth that when help is accepted, both parties are enriched.

She gave Mrs. Melsom a grateful smile. “Nothing serious, but the truth is, I was feeling rather low. When I look at the future everything seems a bit . . . bleak.”