Laura waved me forward, and I followed a few steps in her wake, because what else was I going to do? Run hyperventilating out of the room?

I was only there to meet Agatha, who was apparently not a very social person.

“Margaret has come to live with us,” Laura said. She put a hand on Agatha’s shoulder.

Up close, I could see that she was as beautiful in person as in the photo—maybe even more so. Wavy hair, pulled back with a white ribbon, reached almost to her waist, and her face, though clear of makeup, was lovely because of her luminous skin and those killer cheekbones. Her eyebrows were slightly furled, coral lips gently pursed.

I saw all this in profile. She never so much as turned to look at me.

Her clothes were like younger interpretations of her mother’s style: a cornflower-blue sweater and a knee-length plaid skirt. Her ears were pierced and she wore small silver hoops. Her shoes were simple penny loafers of smooth gray leather.

Laura gave me a questioning smile, perhaps checking to see if I was planning to run hyperventilating out of the room, and I had no choice but to give her a small smile in return. This was a delicate moment and I needed to play it cool. There would be plenty of time later for freaking out.

“This is our sweet Agatha,” she said to me, letting her fingers trail slowly down a lock of the wavy hair. Then she reached over to a side table for a brush, and smoothed the hair back into place.

Agatha didn’t react. She might as well have been in another dimension.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Agatha, fighting the urge to back away.

This delighted Laura. “How lovely, Margaret,” she said. “You know, that’s a very empathetic instinct, to speak directly to her. You’d be shocked by how many people treat her like she’s not even here.”

“Yes, very good,” John said, startling me. I’d forgotten he was in the room with us. “Perhaps it’s time for us to have a little talk.”

WE DIDN’T RETURN to the west parlor. Instead, Laura stopped short at the base of the stairs and said, “Oh, let’s talk in the library; the view of the grounds is so nice this time of day.”

So we went into the library, which was a large room almost entirely walled in by overflowing bookshelves. In the center, four olive-green leather chairs faced one another, each with its own little wooden table and an antique reading lamp dipping its nose over the chair’s shoulder. On the far wall of the room, an expanse of windows looked out over a breathtaking vista of velvety green hills backed by silver-pink late-afternoon clouds.

I had the distinct feeling they were trying to distract me with how lovely the property was.