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Mr. Maitland?"
         "Of course not." But you do look like one , he can't help noting.
        Nydia is a wisp of a woman, prone to wearing pastels, and her short hair and uninteresting features are as pale as the tiresome grits she dishes up every morning. Royce has no idea how old she is; she's one of those people who could be in her fifties or in her seventies, but is most likely somewhere in between. He does know she's been with Charlotte's grandfather since his children were young.
        "Some people think this house is haunted," she comments, taking the glass from his hand and opening the dishwasher.
        "Do you think it's haunted?"
        "By the living as much as the dead," is her strange, prompt reply.
        He waits for her to elaborate.
        She doesn't, forcing him to ask, "What do you mean by that?"
        Having placed the glass on the top rack, she closes the dishwasher in silence and turns to the sink, brushing him aside.
        She turns on the water.
        When she speaks, it's only to say, "Tea stains this old white porcelain, you know, Mr. Maitland."
        Royce steps back, watching her wash it away, wondering if he should press her on that cryptic comment about the house. She's lived here for decades. She must know many things he doesn't.
        Before he can speak up, she turns off the water, dries her hands, and faces him once again, dour as usual.
        'There. A place for everything, and everything in its place."
        "I was about to put away the glass and rinse the sink when you came in," he is compelled to inform her.
        "I'm sure you were."
         No, you aren't. You don't trust me, and you don't think I belong here , Royce thinks, not for the first time.
        He can't help but notice, as he also has before, that Nydia owns the only pair of blue eyes he's ever seen that aren't the least bit flattering. They're close-set and' small, the washed-out shade of the sky on a halfhearted summer afternoon, with a smattering of lashes the color of fresh corn silk.
        What a far cry from Charlotte's rich, purply -indigo irises fringed by lush, dark lashes.
        "Where is Ms. Remington?" Nydia inquires, as if she's read his mind.
        He suppresses the urge to remind her that it's Mrs. Maitland now, not Ms. Remington, and has been for over a year.
        "She's upstairs changing. We're going out to dinner."
        "I was about to heat some soup for Mrs. Harper and the little boy."
        And she's none too pleased about that, judging by her tone.
        "What about you?" he asks, determined to be civil. "Did you eat?"
        She shakes her head. "I'm fine."
        "Can we bring something back for you from town? ", he offers generously. "Pizza? Some pecan fried chicken?" Sugar for that lemon you appear to have swallowed?
        "No, thank you."
         Not only doesn't she trust me , Royce notes uneasily , taken aback by her utter lack of warmth, but she doesn't like me. Not at all.
        Well, that's fine. The sentiment is definitely mutual.
        He can feel her gaze following him as he leaves the room, and finds himself wondering if he should mention her to Charlotte later. Hired help, after all, is dispensable-especially now that the master of the house is gone. There's no reason in the world that Nydia should stay on at Oakgate . He and Charlotte and Lianna are capable of taking care of themselves for the remaining time they're here, and Jeanne has her visiting nurse…
        Well, he won't bring up the idea of firing Nydia yet to his wife. It's too soon, her grief too raw. The last thing he wants is to upset her by suggesting any sort of change at Oakgate .
        He'll take her out for a nice dinner, just the two of them, and do his best to get her mind off her sorrow.
        That, Royce concludes, is all a loving husband can possibly do at a time like this.
     
     
        As she walks up the curving