“I can’t think of anything more boring,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Do you remember having to write the same word over and over till all the letters slanted the same way? Numbers made more sense to me. Their meaning never changes.”

“I never did make all the letters slant the same way,” said Lizzie.

“There’s many that don’t,” said Mrs. Lloyd, taking another biscuit.

I picked up the walking stick that now leaned by the door.

“Will you be all right?” said Lizzie. Her voice was light, but her gaze was watchful.

“I will,” I said. “Enjoy your tea.”

As I climbed the hill, I wondered what Lizzie and Mrs. Lloyd were talking about. It was the first time I’d cared to think about it, and I was shocked that I’d been so self-absorbed. Sheep scattered from the path as I walked along, but they didn’t go far. They watched me pass, and I was reminded of the scrutiny of scholars when I walked into the reading room at Cambridge. It wasn’t an uncomfortable thought. I’d felt a little triumphant then, and I felt a little triumphant now. As though perhaps I’d achieved something.

Lizzie climbed out of the buggy, and Tommy climbed out after her. “I’ll get that, Miss Lester,” he said, reaching for the basket of provisions in the back.

“Thank you, Tommy,” said Lizzie. She watched him take the basket into the kitchen then looked up at Mrs. Lloyd. “Lovely morning, Natasha. For sure, I’ll miss our outings.”

Natasha. What an exotic name for a farmer’s wife. I continued to watch them through the open window of the bedroom. Mrs. Lloyd shimmied across the front seat of the buggy and leaned down to rest her hand on Lizzie’s upturned cheek. “Bostin,” I heard her say. I didn’t know what it meant, but Lizzie seemed to. She covered Mrs. Lloyd’s hand with hers as if she were grateful for the comment. They carried on their farewell in quieter tones. When I saw Tommy heading back to the buggy, I hurried down the stairs to say my own goodbye and wave them off.

As soon as we were back in the house, I turned to Lizzie. “What did Mrs. Lloyd mean when she said bostin?”

Lizzie turned towards the stove, intent on getting the kettle on to boil.

“Oh, it’s just an endearment.”

“But I’ve never heard it before.”

“Nor me,” Lizzie said, taking our teacups from beside the basin, where I’d left them to dry that morning. “Natasha said it once or twice, and other people besides. I thought it was a foreign word so I asked where it was from.”

“What did she say?” I searched my pockets, but they were empty. Lizzie poured hot water into the pot to warm it. She opened the tin of tea in readiness.

“The word’s from here—not foreign at all.”