A Spoonful of Murder by Robin Stevens

Author:Robin Stevens [Stevens, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141373805
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

11

My mother sat very upright on a cream silk sofa, glaring at Mrs Svensson as she wandered around the music room, tapping out a few notes on the piano, touching the ornaments on the sideboard and exclaiming at their prettiness. A maid came in and poured out the tea.

‘Goodness, this is beautiful!’ Mrs Svensson said, holding up a cloisonné bowl, goldfish chasing each other’s frothy tails in a deep blue pond. ‘You really do have the most lovely things, June.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Svensson,’ said my mother icily. ‘It was very expensive. Do not drop it, if you please. Tea, Hazel?’

‘Thank you, Mother,’ I said, ducking my head, and the maid pressed a little cup into my hands, its heat streaming through my fingers, the steam from it curling sweetly around my nose.

I sipped awkwardly, sitting sideways on the sofa next to my mother. Coldness radiated from her, and even Mrs Svensson’s cheerful glow was dimmed. It was up to Daisy to rescue the situation, and, of course, she did.

‘I do so admire your dress, Kendra!’ she cried, and Mrs Svensson beamed gratefully. Soon they were discussing fabric and cut, and somehow they moved on from there to jewellery. Daisy praised Mrs Svensson’s engagement ring, with its flashing blue stone, and then turned to my mother. ‘Your bangle is delightful,’ she said, and my mother thawed an inch or two.

‘It’s jade,’ she said. ‘Jewellery is important to a woman. I wish I could make Hazel wear more.’ She took my hand unexpectedly and twisted it around in hers, looping her fingers about my wrist and pinching my fingers. ‘She would have pretty hands if they weren’t so dirty.’

She meant, of course, the dust from my pencils. I write so much that my hands always seem to be covered in dark marks. I pulled my hands away from her in shame and alarm. My mother doesn’t touch me much, and so, every time she does, it makes my heart jump.

‘You ought to take more care of yourself,’ said my mother, flicking my arm with her long, polished nails.

‘I do my best to help Hazel, Mrs Wong,’ said Daisy seriously. ‘But she won’t take time to consider important things like hats.’

I wanted very much to say that it’s no good caring about clothes and hats when I can never look as well in them as other people do – but I saw Daisy narrow her left eye at me in the smallest of winks, and knew she did not mean it. I kept silent.

‘I’m sure you must be planning outfits for your Season already, Daisy,’ said Mrs Svensson. ‘Oh, the fun of it! Mine was the happiest time of my life. No cares at all!’

‘Oh yes. Being a grown-up sounds simply wonderful,’ said Daisy blissfully.

‘I remember when I thought just like you, dear,’ Mrs Svensson went on. ‘But in fact, now that I am one, I feel just like I did when I was a child, only with a dreadful lot of extra things for one to remember – and heaps of bills to pay.

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