We arrived at Cobblers Dingle as the sun was setting and the mild day was giving way to a chill. Mr. Lloyd insisted he get the fire started in the stove before leaving. As he bent to the job, he informed us he would pop in or send his lad to check the stove and set the fire in the bedroom each afternoon, though the shed was full of cut wood and kindling if the need arose earlier.

Lizzie stood when he bid us farewell. His slight bow was offered to her, and although it was my place, she was forced to respond.

“Thank you, Mr. Lloyd,” she said. “We’re most grateful.”

“Anything you need, Miss Lester, I’m but ten minutes up the lane.”

When he’d gone, Lizzie became industrious. As I stood in the doorway, watching Mr. Lloyd’s buggy recede down the long carriageway into the lane, I heard her opening drawers and cupboards, taking a mental inventory of supplies and kitchen utensils. She found the kettle full and put it on the stove, then she prepared a pot for tea.

“We can be grateful for a well-stocked pantry,” she said, replacing the lid on a tin of tea leaves and pouring the boiled water into the pot before turning towards me. I was still standing in the doorway.

“Come and sit, Essymay.” Lizzie took my arm and led me to a chair at the small kitchen table. After she put the steaming cup in front of me, she touched my arm and sought my gaze. “It’s hot, mind,” she said, as if I were five years old. She had cause for such caution.

Lizzie seemed taller, straighter. It wasn’t just that Cobblers Dingle was small. Without the authority of Mrs. Murray and the instruction of Mrs. Ballard, she took on an air of assurance I’d rarely seen in her. She explored every nook and cranny of the cottage and sought to understand its many idiosyncrasies. She is mistress of this place, I thought on our second morning, the idea breaking through the fog of my mind like a shaft of light, but quickly retreating from the effort of further contemplation.

I sat where she placed me and watched her perpetual motion around me. If I roused, it was because she propelled me. I never resisted, but I was incapable of initiating anything.

A few days after we arrived, Mr. Lloyd came to the kitchen door with a cake from Mrs. Lloyd and a basket of eggs. Lizzie was forced, once again, to talk with him. She managed three sentences instead of her previous two.

The day after that, Mr. Lloyd sent his son, Tommy, to tend the fires. Lizzie insisted he join us for tea and proceeded to interrogate him about the opportunities for walking in the area.