I wasn’t sure what I should say. I offered a nod, but barely a smile. When he held out his large hand, I gave him mine. He saw my funny fingers and didn’t flinch, but I still expected his grip to be limp from the fear of crushing what looked so fragile. Instead, his grip was firm enough to keep my hand from slipping free. When he let go, it was at just the right moment. You can tell a lot from the way a man takes your hand, Da once told me.

It was Tuesday, and Mrs. Travis had left for the day. Sarah was due for afternoon tea, and the sisters were in the kitchen getting the tray ready. When I came in, Ditte was arranging slices of cake on a plate, and Beth was heating the teapot. I was about to ask if I could help when I felt a trickle down the inside of my leg. Before I could register what it was, I felt it gush out. I gasped and the sisters turned.

“I think it’s my waters,” I said.

Ditte held a slice of cake and Beth the kettle. For a few seconds they hardly moved. Then suddenly they were flapping around like chickens in fright: turning this way and that and speaking over each other. They debated whether I should eat or avoid eating, continue with the raspberry-leaf tea or stop drinking it. Lie down or have a bath.

“I’m sure the doctor said not to let her have a bath,” said Beth.

“But I remember Mrs. Murray saying that a bath was such a relief, and she’s had hundreds of babies,” said Ditte, with none of her usual calm and precision.

I didn’t feel like eating, drinking or bathing, but neither of them thought to ask.

“I think I just need to change into something dry,” I interrupted. I was still standing in the puddle that had sent the sisters into such a flurry.

“Have the pains started?” asked Beth.

“No. I feel just as I did ten minutes ago, only damper.”

I hoped my response would calm them down, but they looked at me, bewildered. When they heard a knock at the door, they both rushed to answer it, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

“Where is she?” Sarah’s voice.

All three came into the kitchen, Sarah in the lead, an enormous smile on her freckled face.

“This is all perfectly normal,” she said, holding my gaze until she was sure I understood. Then she turned to the sisters and said it more sternly: “Perfectly normal.” Noticing the cake on the kitchen table and steam rising from the pot, she said, “Ah, excellent. Tea will be just the thing. Esme and I will join you in ten minutes.” She took my arm and led me up the stairs.