I caught myself wondering why Mrs. Lloyd never stood to lend a hand—I had plenty of time to ponder, as my reserve had deflected all polite attempts at inclusion. I rejected all the obvious reasons: rudeness, laziness, fatigue from tending her own hearth and four boys. In the end, I decided it was kindness. There was nothing demanding about Mrs. Lloyd’s manner, and she didn’t watch the tea being poured in order to judge its strength. She was simply acknowledging that this was Lizzie’s kitchen, Lizzie’s little cottage, and she was her guest. I’d been watching Lizzie make tea my whole life, but it was always for the Murrays, Mrs. Ballard (who always watched the tea being poured) or for me: her mistress, her boss or her charge. The thought shocked me. I’d never once seen Lizzie with a friend.

I started making my excuses. With little protest, Lizzie began to lay the table for two.

Shropshire had been organised as a kind of treatment for my depression. I couldn’t have thought about it so clearly before, but as the heaviness of living without Her began to lift I realised I might have thrown myself into the Cherwell if I’d had the wherewithal to think of it.

The hill demanded payment, and I knew I would never reach the top without the pain of the climb in my lungs and legs, no matter how fit I became. I’d complained about it those first few days—sat down and cried for lack of breath, and other things. I didn’t want to be there. But Lizzie had never let me turn back.

“It’s the kind of pain that achieves something,” she said.

“What does it achieve?” I moaned.

“Time will tell,” she said, pulling me to my feet.

Then one afternoon I made it to the top without tears or complaint. I stood with my hands on my hips, breathing in the cooling air and looking beyond the valley towards Wales. I’d seen the view every day for weeks, but it was the first time I’d cared for it.

“I wonder what those hills are called,” I said.

“Wenlock Edge, according to Mr. Lloyd,” said Lizzie.

I looked at her in surprise. What else did she know?

She stopped watching me so closely after that, and sometimes, when she and Mrs. Lloyd had more anecdotes than one pot of tea could accommodate, she let me walk the hills alone.

“I’m a bondmaid to the Dictionary,” I heard Lizzie say to Mrs. Lloyd one afternoon as I pulled on my boots.

“And you say young Esme is one of them that finds the words?” said Mrs. Lloyd.

Lizzie laughed and I threw her a look. “You could say that,” she said, giving me a wink.