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“And your name?”

Maud hesitated. Some instinct led her to hold back her first name. “Mary,” she said, skipping to her middle name. Then she bit her tongue. Caroline’s middle name was Mary, too. “Mary Fagin.”

Mrs. Lambert brushed her palm against her skirt and offered her hand. “Mine is Mrs. Lambert.”

Maud didn’t want to take her hand. She plucked at her dress. “You prob’ly think I’ve only got this one dress, but that’s not true. I have lots of dresses — real pretty dresses — but I wear this one in case I might want to bathe. It’s kind of — a bathing dress. I sewed it myself. My mother made me. She was teaching me to sew.”

Mrs. Lambert nodded. A shadow had passed over her face. “Then — your mother died only a little while ago?”

Maud’s stomach knotted. She wished she had run away earlier, when it was possible. Already she had talked too much. She had not made any fatal errors — not yet — but she dared not trust herself. It had been over a week since she exchanged spoken words with anyone, and she wanted to go on talking.

She saw a drop of moisture fall on the sand, turning the ivory grains to amber. Mrs. Lambert’s eyes were overflowing. “I’m so sorry.” She fumbled in her bosom for a handkerchief and offered it to Maud. Maud handed it back. She wasn’t the one crying, after all.

Mrs. Lambert gave a little gulp of laughter. “I’m afraid — I cry — very easily — since my daughter died.” She wiped her eyes. “What was your mother like?”

No one had ever asked Maud what her mother was like. She had even been told that she couldn’t remember her mother. It was true that her memories were hazy and few. What she remembered best was lying in bed and listening for her mother’s footsteps. If they made one sound, her mother was happy and it would be a happy day. Another sound, and it was a workday, when her mother flew from one task to another so energetically that Maud could not keep up with her. She remembered snatching at her mother’s skirts, trying to capture her attention.

“She was a schoolteacher before she married my father,” Maud said slowly. She was sure about that. She had been told. “And she used to read to me. Mother Goose and fairy tales.” She squeezed shut her eyes, trying to see the book with her mother’s thumbs at the sides. “And one day I just started reading — I was four years old, but I knew how. She told everyone I was clever. She was proud of me.”

Mrs. Lambert was smiling. Maud cast her mind back a second time. Her memories included scoldings as well as fairy tales — Maud had an uneasy knowledge that her mother’s love had been fierce as well as tender. All the same, she never doubted that her mother had loved and prized her.

“We had red geraniums,” she said tentatively. She remembered the peppery smell. “There were . . . pots of them and I used to water them and she used to tell me when to stop.” The image came clear: a red-brown pot with a bead of water swelling to a bulge at one side. She had been blissful, watering the flowers while her mother stood by. “I think she thought I was pretty.”

“I’m sure she did,” Mrs. Lambert said simply.

Maud felt a lump in her throat. Something about those four words pierced the scorn that she felt for the rich woman. She’s nice, Maud thought unwillingly, and her heart sank. She didn’t want Mrs. Lambert to be nice. “What was your little girl like?”

“Caroline?” Mrs. Lambert spoke the word very gently. She gazed out over the waves, as if expecting to see Caroline out to sea. “Caroline was very bold. That was one of the things I loved about her — that she was so free and candid and brave. I was such a timid child. My father and mother were strict, and I was always afraid of doing something wrong. But Caroline was fearless.”

Maud squinted into the sunset. The blue of the sky was turning violet, with streaks of mauve and tangerine. The green of the ocean had darkened. “How was she brave?”

“Oh, in so many ways! For one thing, she was never shy — she always thought everyone would like her, so of course, they did. All kinds of people — and she liked