A floorboard creaked in the outer hall, and I pulled my hands back into my apron pocket just as the laundry maid pushed her cart past the door.

At half past eleven, I carried a heavy wooden tray down the grand staircase toward the study on the first floor.

The tray held a porcelain bowl of squash soup, two slices of buttered rye toast, and a small pot of black tea for Christopher’s late-morning meal.

I stopped three feet short of the open study door when I heard quick, sharp voices inside.

“The court clerk needs the conservatorship papers filed before Friday,” Christopher said inside the room.