“Come in, come in!” she said. She was drying her hands on a cloth, and the wind picked up her hair and floated it in front of her eyes. With a chuckle, she brushed it away. “I love to feel the air moving like this, right through the building. You English always have such stuffy houses! I hate that.”
Not sure if she was being reprimanded, Dimity followed Celeste into the kitchen, where the table was set for five and a bottle of wine was already open. Dimity had never had wine before-not poured from a bottle, into a glass. Wine was what her mother drank when a visitor had brought some with him-and that was rare. Dimity far preferred the cider they made from the apples of the gnarled tree beside the cottage. Popping open their skins because there was so much juice inside them. She fought the wasps for them every day from August through to September, brushing away their drunken belligerence as they staggered from fruit to bubbling fruit.
She thought about The Watch, with its heavy thatch, thick walls, and small windows. This was a different place indeed. Light poured in through wide sash windows, and the walls had fresh white paint on them, not yellowed with age or dirt. The floor was laid with red clay tiles; the lower portion of the walls clad in wainscoting painted a soft green color. It was the first time Dimity had ever been inside somebody else’s house. She knew their back doors well; their front steps; their rooflines from a distance. But never before had she been invited inside.
Élodie had decided to play the hostess. She made Dimity sit down, and complimented her on her blouse, and fussed around her and brought her a glass of water, all with only the merest hint of disdain. Delphine had an apron tied neatly over her sundress, and was standing on a small stool at the stove, stirring something that steamed and smelled good. She turned and smiled at Dimity.
“Come and taste this-I made it! It’s pea and ham.”
“My budding cook. So good, you are,” said Celeste, putting her arm around Delphine’s hips and squeezing her. Dimity obediently sipped some soup from a spoon. She thought it would be much improved by adding fresh bay leaf, and by having used the water in which the ham was boiled as a base. But she smiled, and agreed that it was good.
“I can cook too, you know,” Élodie interjected. “I made cheese biscuits the other day. Daddy said they were the best ones he’d ever tasted.”
“Yes, yes. They were excellent. I am lucky to have such talented daughters,” Celeste said soothingly. She stroked Élodie’s black hair back from her forehead and planted a kiss on it. “Now, stop showing off and fetch the bowls for the soup.” She said it lightly, but Élodie scowled as she did as she was told. Dimity sipped her water, perching on the edge of her chair with the alert, uneasy feeling that she should be doing something to help. But when she tried, she was pushed back into the chair by Celeste’s long, elegant hands.
“Be still. You are the guest here! All you have to do is eat and enjoy,” she said, in her heavy accent. Dimity longed to ask her where she was from. It might be as far away as Cornwall, or even Scotland.
Charles came in from outside just as the soup was put on the table. He was windswept, his cheeks pink and the bridge of his nose scorched to match. Hair in disarray. He put down the canvas bag he was carrying and slipped into a seat with a distracted air. A glance passed between Celeste and Delphine, which Dimity couldn’t read. When he looked up at them, it was, for a second, as if he didn’t know them. There was a pause. He blinked, and then he smiled.
“What a bevy of beauties,” he murmured. “What more could any man wish to come back to?” His daughters smiled, but Celeste watched him carefully for another second, her expression intent.
“What more indeed?” she said quietly, then picked up the ladle and started to serve the soup. Aubrey’s eyes lit upon Dimity.
“Ah! Mitzy. So good of you to join us. I hope your parents didn’t mind sparing you for a couple of hours?” Dimity shook her head, wondering if she should mention that she had only a mother.
“My father was lost at sea,” she blurted out, and was then horribly embarrassed to see Celeste’s expression cloud with dismay.
“You poor child! What tragedy for one so young! You must miss him terribly, and your poor mother, too,” she said, leaning forward and gripping Dimity’s arm, staring at her fiercely with those glorious eyes. Dimity had hardly expected such a reaction. Lost at sea, for all I care. She nodded mutely, and said nothing of Valentina’s anger whenever she mentioned him. “How does your mother cope? Oh, it must be hard, living in a backwater like this, just a woman alone with a child to support. No wonder we see you always looking so-” She cut herself off. “Well. Tell us instead about your mother. What is she called?”
“Valentina,” Dimity said woodenly.
She could think of nothing she wanted to speak about less, and nothing else to say about her mother. But there was a long, significant silence, and she felt her throat go dry with nerves, felt herself teetering on the brink of failure. “She’s a Gypsy, her people were, originally. From far, far away. She makes medicines and charms from herbs and all sorts, and she teaches me how. The people in the village, they pretend not to believe her, but they all come sooner or later, to buy something, or ask something. My mother is very special,” she said, and even though none of it was lies she still felt the deceit hanging heavy around her, like thick clouds; thought at the same time how wonderful it would be if the real Valentina matched this portrayal.
“A hedge witch,” said Charles, staring at her. She was acutely aware of the sun from the window shining on her face, making it impossible to hide. “Fascinating… I’ve never met a real one. I must go and introduce myself.”
“Oh, no! Don’t!” Dimity gasped, before she could stop herself.
“Why on earth not?” he said with a smile. Dimity couldn’t think of anything she could reply, so she sat and stared miserably at her soup, and jumped when his hand settled on her forearm, the fingers thick and strong. They squeezed, and a shiver ran through her. “Don’t worry, Mitzy,” he said softly. “I don’t shock easily.”
“What do you mean, Daddy?” said Élodie. She spoke quickly, keenly, and looked a little crestfallen when Charles ignored her.
After the soup, Celeste fetched a round pastry pie from the oven, cutting it open to reveal spiced minced lamb and whole almonds. The pastry was sweet, thin, and crispy, and Dimity had never eaten anything as delicious, and when she said so, Celeste laughed.
“You and your people are the masters of herbs, maybe, but my people are the masters of spices. This is a pastilla. In here you can taste cinnamon, ground coriander seed, nutmeg, and ginger. It is very Moroccan. Very typical of my country,” she said proudly. She cut another slice and held out her hand for Dimity’s plate.
“Where is Morr… Mocc… your country?” she asked, and jumped when Élodie snorted with laughter, almost choking on her mouthful.
“That will teach you, hmm?” said Charles mildly.
“Don’t you know where Morocco is? We’ve been three times! It’s amazing,” said Élodie. Celeste smiled fondly at the child.
“It is good to be proud of your heritage, Élodie,” she said. “Morocco is in North Africa. It is a country where the desert blooms. The most beautiful place. My mother is of the Berber people, from the mountains of the High Atlas, where the air is so clear you can see right up into heaven. My father is French. An administrator for the colonial government in Fez.”
“Are all Berber women as beautiful as you?” said Dimity meekly, trying desperately to hold on to all the foreign names as they began to slip at once from her head. Celeste laughed, and Charles joined in, and Delphine smiled around a mouthful of pie.