“But, Mummy…” Cammie had wiggled from beneath her mother’s grasp. “He does look different. Cos his-”
“Camille! Stop that this instant!”
Silence at that. Into it, cars from the road in front of the house swooshed by, a dog barked, Tess lifted her head and growled, the motor of a lawn mower sputtered. Suffer the little children, Robbie thought bleakly. Didn’t they always tell the truth.
He felt all thumbs and elbows then. He might as well have been a two-headed bull. He looked round and wondered how long he had to remain in the garden in order not to seem rude by running off at once.
Meredith said in a low voice, “I’m that sorry, Rob. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
He managed a chuckle. “Well, it’s not like she’s saying something we don’t all know, is it, Cammie.” He offered the little girl a smile.
“Still and all,” Meredith said. “Cammie, you know better than that.”
Cammie looked up at her mother, then back at Rob. She frowned. Then she said quite reasonably, “But I never ever saw two colours of eyes before, Mummy. Did you?”
Meredith’s lips parted. Then closed. Then she rested her head against the back of her chair. She said, “Oh Lord.” And then to Cammie, “Only once before, Cam. You’re completely right.” She looked away.
And Robbie saw, to his surprise, that Meredith was deeply embarrassed. Not by her daughter, however, but by her own reaction, by what she’d assumed. Yet all she had done was reach the same conclusion that he himself had reached, hearing Cammie’s words: He was truly ugly and all three of them knew it, but only two of them had thought the matter worthy of comment.
He sought a way to smooth the moment. But he could come up with nothing that didn’t draw further attention to it, so he finally just said to the little girl, “So it’s hedgehogs, is it, Cammie?”
She said, not illogically, “What’s hedgehogs?”
“I mean what you’re liking. Hedgehogs? That’s it? What about ponies? D’you like ponies as well?”
Cammie looked up at her mother, as if to see if she was meant to answer or to hold her tongue. Meredith looked down at her, fondled her rumpled hair, and nodded. “How do you feel about ponies?” she asked her.
“I like ’em best when they’re babies,” Cammie said frankly. “But I know I’m not meant to get too close.”
“Why’s that?” Robbie asked her.
“Cos they’re skittish.”
“What’s that mean, then?”
“Means they’re…” Cammie’s brow wrinkled as she thought about this. “Means they’re scared easy. An’ if they’re scared easy, you’ve got to be careful. Mummy says you always’ve got to be careful round anyone scares too easy.”
“Why?”
“Oh, cos they misunderstand, I expect. Sort of…like if you move too fast round them, they c’n think the wrong thing about you. So you got to be quiet and you got to be still. Or move real slow. Or something like that.” She wriggled round again, the better to look up at her mother’s face. “That’s right, isn’t it, Mummy? That’s what you do?”
“That’s exactly right,” Meredith said. “Very good, Cam. You take care when you know something’s scared.” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head. She didn’t look at Rob.
Then there seemed to be nothing else to say. Or at least that was what Robbie Hastings told himself. He decided he had done his duty and, all things considered, it was time for him to leave. He stirred on his chair. He said, “So…,” just as Meredith said, “Rob…”
Their eyes met. He felt himself colouring once again, but he saw that she, too, was red in the face.
She said, “Cammie, darling. Will you ask Gran if her lemon cake’s ready? I’d like a piece and I expect you would as well, hmm?”
“Oh yes,” Cammie said. “I love lemon cake, Mummy.” She clambered out of the lounge chair and ran off, calling to her grandmother. In a moment, a door slammed shut behind her.
Rob slapped his hands on his thighs. Clearly, she’d given the signal for him to take himself off. He said, “Well. Dead happy you’re all right now, Merry.”
She said, “Ta.” And then, “Funny, that, Rob.”
He hesitated. “What?”
“No one else calls me Merry. No one ever has but you.”
He didn’t know what to say to this. He didn’t know what to make of it either.
“I quite like it,” she said. “Makes me feel special.”
“You are,” he said. “Special, that is.”
“You, too, Rob. You always have been.”
Here was the moment. He saw it clearly, more clearly than he’d seen anything ever. Her voice was quiet and she hadn’t moved an inch, but he felt her nearness and, feeling this, he also felt the air go dead cold round him.
He cleared his throat.
She didn’t speak.
Then on the roof of the garden shed, a bird’s feet skittered.
He finally said, “Merry,” as she herself said, “Will you stay for a piece of lemon cake with me, Rob?”
And ultimately, he saw, the reply was simple. “I will,” he replied. “I’d like that very much.”
Acknowledgments
The New Forest itself served as enormous inspiration for this novel, but inspiration is nothing without details. So I’m grateful to people both in Hampshire and in London who assisted me with various aspects of the book. First among them must be Simon Winchester, master thatcher, who allowed me to observe him at work in Furzey Gardens and who explained the myriad techniques and tools of his craft. Additionally, Mike Lovell met with me in Lyndhurst and explained his work as one of the New Forest’s five agisters, while the Honourable Ralph Montagu and Graham Wilson added a great deal of information both on the history of the New Forest and on the purpose and employment of verderers and keepers, respectively. Alan Smith of Hampshire Constabularly supplied me with all of the policing details, and in London, Terence Pepper and Catherine Bromley of the National Portrait Gallery gave me the necessary information that allowed me to create my version of the competition for the Cadbury Photographic Portrait of the Year. Jason Hain kindly allowed me access to the Segar and Snuff Parlour in Covent Garden, and a lovely Peruvian mask maker in Jubilee Hall nearly convinced me to have my likeness rendered in plaster, thereby inspiring me to create my own mask maker in this novel. The always resourceful Swati Gamble sorted out the answers to countless questions I threw at her regarding everything from the Home Office to the location of educational institutions. Finally, the New Forest Museum was a treasure trove of information in Lyndhurst, as was the British Museum in London.
In the United States, Dr. Tom Ruben once again fielded medical questions, for which I thank him, my assistant Leslie Kelly did mountains of research for me on dozens of topics, and both my longtime reader Susan Berner and my new reader Debbie Cavanaugh gave me extremely valuable feedback on the penultimate draft of this novel.
I am always supported in my work by my husband, Tom McCabe; by my literary agent, Robert Gottlieb; by my U.S. and UK editors, Carolyn Marino and Sue Fletcher; and by my U.S. and UK publicists, Heather Drucker and Karen Geary.
Elizabeth George
WHIDBEY ISLAND, WASHINGTON
About the Author
ELIZABETH GEORGE is the New York Times bestselling author of fifteen novels of psychological suspense, one book of nonfiction, and three short-story collections. Her work has been honored with the Anthony and Agatha awards, the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière, and the MIMI, Germany ’s prestigious prize for suspense fiction. She lives in Washington State.
www.elizabethgeorgeonline.com
