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door.
    ‘‘Nana, what’s happened? What’s wrong?’’ The screen banged shut behind the child, the sound as loud as a gunshot. She was about Sara’s age, and exquisitely pretty, Olivia saw, as she skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs, with hair down to her waist, delicate bones, and huge cornflower-blue eyes.
    ‘‘Oh, Chloe, what are you doing up? It’s after midnight!’’ Callie said in a despairing voice.
    ‘‘She ain’t never been to bed, though I swear I tried.’’ Martha Hendricks, the family’s longtime housekeeper, followed on the little girl’s heels. She was fiftyish, clad in a flowered cotton zip-front robe and pink terry-cloth slippers, a big-boned woman with a plain round face and an unnaturally black beehive of hair. She sounded harassed. ‘‘She saw that there ambulance out of the window, and you know how Miss Curiosity is. Nothing would suit her but that she had to get out here and stick her nose in the middle of what was goin’ on.’’
    ‘‘Oh, dear,’’ Callie said, her hands fluttering uncharacteristically. It was clear that she was torn between the waiting Lincoln and Chloe.
    ‘‘Nana, what’s wrong?’’ Chloe demanded again, resting a hand against a fluted pillar that soared two stories above her and looking down at Callie, who was a little more than halfway up the dozen steps.
    ‘‘Honey . . .’’
    The waiting car honked impatiently. They all glanced toward it. At the same time, Martha saw and recognized Olivia, and her jaw dropped.
    ‘‘Well, I never! Miss Olivia!’’
    ‘‘Hello, Martha.’’ Olivia managed a smile. One hand curled tightly around the wrought-iron railing that ran up both sides of the steps. Her other hand clasped Sara’s. The housekeeper had changed very little, she saw. Martha lived in town, coming into the Big House three days a week to do the heavy cleaning. On other days, she cut hair. Or at least, that was the way it had been when Olivia was a girl. ‘‘It’s good to see you.’’
    ‘‘You, too. Why . . .’’
    The car honked again.
    Callie threw her hands up in the air and glanced distractedly from Chloe to the car. ‘‘Oh, goodness, I have to go. Big John’s had a—spell, Chloe, and they’ve taken him to the hospital, and that’s where I’m headed. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Martha, you and Chloe take Olivia and her daughter in and get them settled for the night. Olivia, we’ll talk tomorrow. At least . . .’’
    ‘‘Oh, my lord in heaven!’’ Martha said, one hand flying to press against her throat, her eyes round as saucers. ‘‘The ambulance—it weren’t ever for Mr. Archer?’’
    ‘‘Nana, I want to go to the hospital with you!’’ Chloe was shrilly insistent.
    ‘‘Honey, you can’t. Hospitals don’t allow children. Now, these are your cousins, come to visit, and I need you to stay here and help them feel welcome. I have got to go. Phillip, Mallory . . .’’
    Those two were already running down the steps. With another distracted flutter of her hands and an admonition to Chloe to be good, Callie followed them. Olivia, whose instinct was to go, too, stayed where she was. Having relinquished her place in the family long ago, she was left to bite her lower lip, tighten her hold on Sara’s hand, and carry on as best she could.
    The front passenger door of the car swung open from the inside as the trio rushed toward it. Phillip snatched open the rear door, and he and Mallory jumped into the back. Callie, reaching the car last, clambered into the front seat. The car took off down the driveway while the doors were still closing. As there was a long line of traffic in the driveway in front of them, the driver honked his horn repeatedly. Other cars pulled over onto the grass to let the Lincoln pass.
    Olivia stared after them, her stomach in a knot and her eyes burning with unshed tears. She should be speeding to the hospital, too.
    ‘‘Well, we sure ain’t doing ourselves or nobody else