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ribbons—Kitty and Lydia always had a hum of men around them. Curl-tossing, a bold look: it wasn’t hard to copy—she copied it now, as there was no one to see her do it. They pitched themselves at every unmarried man who came their way, which made for rowdy card-parties and dances. Their approach required nothing more of a girl than enthusiasm, stamina and a copper-bottomed sense of self-importance. But really, did it amount to anything? Any man at all, gentle or otherwise, would surely be squeamish about attaching himself to a woman who had already flirted with every other man of her acquaintance.
    Sarah lifted the copper milk pan, tilted it, watched her reflection spindle up and down the side: tadpole head, tapering body; swelling body, shrinking head. Bringing the pan close up, she regarded herself with a bull’s eye. There was little benefit in making a show of yourself, when you were a wrung-out dishrag of a thing.
    She could not model herself on Mary, either; she was unfledged still, a shabby nestling, her plumage not yet grown.
    Mr. and Mrs. B., then. Married love. No good in that at all. The mistress had no understanding of her husband; she persisted in tackling him head-on, when, as everybody else already knew, you were better off taking a more circuitous path, and weaving your way around the obstacles.
    If anything, the Hills were a better model of understanding between the sexes. Mrs. Hill maintained a calm and mild demeanour towards her husband, and Mr. Hill was always respectful, and deferred to her in all material things, and insisted too that others show deference and respect. Sarah had had plenty of cross words off both of them in her time, but she had never once heard a cross word between them. Maybe that was just what it was like, when you had been married for ever: all fell still as a pond, and passionless.
    She was, she realized, entirely on her own, and without example or a guide.
    The best that she could think of—and it did have a pleasing simplicity to it—was to be civil. To be civil and polite and welcoming; natural manners were always considered the best—she’d heard Miss Elizabeth say so.
    So she would say, “Good morning.” That would start things off.
    She rubbed the mist from the window and looked out. Low sun now, after all the rain. The light was golden: it caught on the damp flagstones and made them brilliant. And there he was. He was wiry, of middling height, his shirtsleeves rolled back and his forearms bare and weather-tanned, and he moved with a pleasing briskness about his work. His shirt, she supposed, had once been white, but was greyish now with wear; he kept his long dark hair tied back in a queue. She noticed all this through a welling sense of delight.
    “Polly!” she called. “Polly, come and see.”
    Polly came down the step from the kitchen, wiping her hands. They both leaned in against the sink, and peered out through the clear patch in the misty window.
    “Oh my—”
    Sarah put her arm around Polly’s waist. The girl rested her head against Sarah’s shoulder.
    “That,” said Sarah, “is one job we won’t have to do.”
    They watched in silent happiness as the new man swept the yard.
    When she went out—cap neat, cheeks pinched, teeth rubbed shiny with a corner of her apron—to feed the gallinies, she could hear him moving around in the stable loft. Could she go inside and call “Good morning” up the ladder to him? Then he might look—or even climb—down, and she could say thank you for all his hard work, and he’d have to reply to that, and that would be almost a conversation in itself.
    Mrs. Hill came bustling out of the house; Sarah looked down at the bowl of chicken scraps, and then up at the housekeeper: she could summon no excuses for loitering there. Mrs. Hill, though, was too busy to notice Sarah’s dawdling. She had a sheaf of old clothes slung over her arm, and was dragging the clothes-horse out behind her. She thumped it down, then set