"I should have called you myself," he said to Lydia. "I took your sister's word that she would. That is not an excuse. It is a description of a failure."
"She is used to being believed," Lydia said. "It isn't only your failure." She picked up her copy of the letter. The handwriting, even in photocopy, was so much her mother's that she had to look at the window instead. "When you saw Ruth argue against it, what did she look like?"
Penrose considered. "Like a person refusing a coat in a cold room because she did not want to owe the warmth. Your mother put the coat on her anyway. I have seen worse uses of authority."
Helen stood at last. She smoothed the navy dress, which did not need smoothing. "Tell Ruth," she said to Lydia, "that I am not coming tonight. If I come tonight I will be gracious in a way that feels like a lien. I'll come when I can stand in the kitchen without measuring it." She paused. "Tell her I know where the cups are too. I grew up there. I just didn't stay."