“I’m sure she forgives you,” I said, not that I had any such confidence. On the other hand, from the look of things, Mrs. Thorpe would be discovering the limits of her daughter-in-law’s forgiveness firsthand, before long.

Mrs. Thorpe claws a little at the edge of the sheets. “I had no choice. But he understood. He’s a good boy. A good son.”

“Do you mean Wilfred?”

Her eyes make little spasms of effort, remembering. She nods and says, “Wilfie,” and then the words fall into babbling again. I give the blankets a final pat and rise from my chair, bid her good afternoon, tell her Annie will be back soon with her tea. And indeed, when I descend the stairs and find the kitchen, the kettle’s whistling on the top of the range, and Annie’s spooning leaves into a blue-and-white teapot. Margaret sits at the table before a dozen or so letters, arranged in orderly rows. A cigarette smokes away in the ashtray at her elbow. She makes no sign of noticing my arrival. I carry the bowl and spoon to the sink and wash them, dry them, set them in the cupboard. Through the window, I spy a patch of blue sky, a gleam of sunshine on the wet grass. I sit down at the table and Annie sets a cup of tea before me. When I reach for one of the letters, the nearest, Margaret snaps—not looking up—Don’t touch!

“Sorry.” I stir in the milk and the honey.

Margaret lifts her cigarette, drags lengthily, places it back in the ashtray. She’s holding a letter in her left hand, and though I don’t mean to snoop, I can’t help noticing that it’s typewritten.

“Find anything interesting?” I ask.

“They’re all interesting.”

“I mean anything in particular.”

“Annie,” she says. “Tea.”

Annie rolls her eyes and sets the teacup in the patch of bare table next to the ashtray. Brings the milk and the honey. Margaret adds both and stirs with the teaspoon, clinkety clink, without taking her eyes from the paper before her.

“What’s that?” I say. “The Magna Carta or something?”

“It’s in French, that’s all.”

“Let me have it, then. I’m practically fluent.”

She shoots me a murderous glance over the top of the paper. “So am I. It’s just that I can’t make heads or tails of what’s in it. Annie?”

“Yes, Miss Margaret?”

“You don’t remember any legal dealings in Paris, do you? Oh, Lord. Of course not. You were the housemaid.”

“It’s from a lawyer?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, snapping again.

“Do you mind if I—”

“It’s none of your business.”

I set my hands around the teacup. “I disagree. I think it is my business. He’s my father-in-law, isn’t he?”

“He’s my father.”

“I’m carrying his only grandchild.”