“Such a sweet girl,” Celeste said warmly. “It is a long time since I was paid a compliment so sincere.” She flashed a challenging look at Charles, then held out her hand for his plate. As she did so, Dimity noticed there was no wedding ring on her finger, or on his. She swallowed, and said nothing, trying to picture those mountains Celeste had mentioned, where the people shone their beauty back up at the sky.
After lunch, Delphine was excused the washing-up because she’d helped to cook, and she interrupted Dimity’s stuttering thanks to pull her friend outside. Dimity took a deep breath once they were out in the garden. However fascinating the house had been, and the food, and the people and the feeling of being a guest, they had been bewildering, too, and she felt as though some vast pressure was released once the clouds were high above her head again. Delphine showed her the vegetable patch, where a few stunted radishes and lettuces were growing.
“Look! More droppings! The rabbits keep eating everything I grow!” she lamented. Dimity nodded, crouching alongside her to examine the evidence.
“You need wire to keep them out,” she said. “Or some snares to catch them.”
“Oh, poor bunnies! I don’t want to hurt them… Why don’t you want Daddy to go and say hello to your mother?” Delphine asked curiously. Dimity picked up a couple of the telltale rabbit pellets, rolled them around in her palm, and didn’t know how to answer. “It’s okay,” Delphine said at last. “You don’t have to say.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Come on. We’ll find a crayfish to make up for the one you lost, and the scaredy-cat clams that got away!”
Delphine was brave enough to touch the crayfish this time, letting a droplet of water from the tip of her finger wash over one of its black eyes as it flexed its legs and curled its tail protectively. But she still couldn’t bear for Dimity to keep it, since it had waved its feelers at her just so, and she decided to name it Lawrence. Bemused, Dimity returned the creature to the stream, and instead showed Delphine how to tell watercress from marsh marigold, since there was so much of it growing nearby and the rabbits had so decimated her crop of salad leaves. The skinny girl was an apt pupil, and as the days passed, the lessons ranged farther from Littlecombe, along the cliffs and inland to the woods, always skirting the village and steering clear of The Watch. Soon Delphine, with Mitzy to guide her, was adding wild fennel, fat-hen, marjoram, horseradish roots, and lime blossoms to Celeste’s kitchen supplies, the latter of which caused Celeste to exclaim with delight, holding the flowers up to her nose and breathing deeply. Ah! Tilleul! She sighed appreciatively, putting the kettle on to boil.
One morning, Dimity arrived to find Élodie on the front lawn, standing with her arms rigid at her sides and her face frozen in fear because a huge bumblebee, with a dusting of yellow pollen on its jet-black fur, was buzzing around her legs. Delphine was standing nearby with her arms folded.
“Dumbledore won’t hurt you, Élodie. He’s got no stinger. It’s only the honeybees that might,” Dimity said.
“That’s what I said, but she doesn’t believe me,” said Delphine patiently. “What did you call it?”
“Dumbledore. That’s how they’re called, isn’t it?” Dimity shrugged.
“Not in London, or in Sussex. Tell us some other Dorset names for things.” They all turned to watch as the bee gave up on Élodie, rose into the air, and let the bass rumble of its flight carry it away. With a small cry of relief, Élodie flew into her sister’s arms and hugged her tightly. “There you go, Élodie. Safe now,” said Delphine, patting her shoulders. Then they passed a contented hour as Dimity named as many things around them as she could, and the two younger girls leaped delightedly upon those they’d never heard before. Want-heave for molehill; palmer for caterpillar; emmet butt for ant hill; vuzzen for gorse; scrump for apple; tiddy for potato.
They called in at Southern Farm one day, and Dimity shyly introduced Delphine to the farmer’s wife, Mrs. Brock, who was friendlier than most and sometimes gave her lemonade or a slice of bread, if she wasn’t too busy. The Brocks were both in their fifties and had steel hair, lined faces. After a lifetime of farming, their hands were creased and brown, the nails thick and stained, hard as animal horn. They had two grown-up children: a daughter who had married and moved away; and a son called Christopher, who worked on the farm with his father. The one who clubbed the rats, and was never without a terrier at his heels. A tall, silent young man with a thatch of ruddy hair and soft, steadfast eyes. Christopher came into the kitchen while Delphine was telling Mrs. Brock all about her Moroccan mother and her famous father. Dimity had been marveling at her boldness, the way she hid nothing about herself, and when she looked at Christopher, she read a kind of muted marvel on his face, too-or perhaps it was just curiosity. As if here was a puzzle he might have to solve at some point.
Often, as she approached or played near Littlecombe, Dimity was aware of being watched. Sometimes she caught sight of a far-off figure standing on the cliffs while she and Delphine were on the beach; or a shadow at a window in the house if they were in the garden. Once, by the stream, with her sleeves pushed up and her skirt rolled around its waistband to raise it-not foraging for once but playing with Élodie, trying to keep the younger girl occupied because Celeste had a migraine-Dimity looked up and saw him leaning on the doorjamb, smoking and watching her with his eyes half shut against the sunshine. So intent, so lost in thought that he showed no sign of having noticed he’d been spotted. Dimity colored and looked away quickly, and saw that Delphine had noticed him, too. Delphine tipped her head to one side and considered her friend for a moment.
“He wants to draw you again. I heard him telling Mummy so, but she says he can’t if you don’t want him to, and definitely not without asking your mother first. He says you’re a true rustic. I heard him,” she said in a low tone.
“What’s that mean?” Dimity asked. Delphine shrugged.
“I don’t know. But Daddy only draws nice things, so it can’t mean anything bad.”
“I don’t see what’s so special about her,” Élodie complained to her sister. “I don’t see why Daddy should want to draw her at all.”
“Don’t be so mean, Élodie. I think Mitzy’s very pretty. Mummy was angry because he’s meant to be working on a big painting-he’s meant to be painting the portrait of some famous poet in time for it to go on the front of his new book of poems. But there isn’t much time left and all Daddy wants to do is draw your picture instead,” Delphine said to Dimity. Élodie sulked and Delphine swirled a stick to and fro in the water, and there was a long pause in which Dimity digested all this information.
“Do you really think I’m pretty?” she asked at length.
“Of course. I love your hair. It’s like a lion’s mane!” said Delphine, and Dimity smiled.
“You are, too,” she said gallantly.
“When I grow up, I shall be as beautiful as Mummy,” said Élodie.
“Nobody is as beautiful as Mummy,” Delphine pointed out patiently.
“Well, I will be. She told me so herself.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one, then? Eh, Smelly Élodie?” Delphine sank her fingers into her sister’s ribs, and they squealed and squirmed for a moment before collapsing, giggling helplessly, onto the grassy bank.
While the two sisters tussled, Dimity cast a quick glance back at the house, where the girls’ father still stood, lean and watchful, thinking and puffing out mouthfuls of blue smoke. After a while, she found she didn’t mind his eyes on her as much as she had at first. His face was inscrutable, a pattern of planes and angles she couldn’t read. He only draws nice things. She felt herself stand a little straighter, felt her face relax, the blush recede from her cheeks. Nice and pretty, two words she’d never heard used to describe herself, now used within seconds of each other. She hoped that both were true, and that all the other words hurled at her before now had been the wrong ones. The thought made the blood seem to tingle in her veins, made her suddenly want to smile, when really there was no reason to. Not with her feet going numb in the stream, and Valentina’s knife of a tongue to go home to later.