Those We Fear by Victoria Griffith

Author:Victoria Griffith [Griffith, Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Astor + Blue Editions
Published: 2017-02-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

The pencil scratched across the sketchbook, pausing to accentuate the curve of a cloud. No surprise that British artists like Constable were renowned for their clouds, Maria reflected. They certainly got enough practice. Balancing the pencil on the rusty bench, she held the sketchbook at arm’s length. Maybe she had made the mountains look too imposing, because Harley appeared much smaller than she had intended, vulnerable almost. Maria breathed in the stench of smoke and glanced toward the garden, where Malcolm was hunched over a small fire. Black ashes floated lazily up from the burning pile of weeds.

Lorraine had been correct about the weather. It was unusually warm, and Harley was busy for such an early hour. Charlotte and Emily chased half-heartedly after a squirrel. Minutes earlier, Maria had observed Lord Carlisle slouching out the front of the house with a small box. Maria was surprised to see him about considering how much alcohol he had consumed the evening before. The drawing session had soothed her nerves a little; she felt better able to face the day after the disturbing discussion with her employer the previous evening.

Reluctantly, Maria stowed the sketchbook and pencils in a bag and stood up. The children would be down for breakfast soon, and she’d have to break the news to Henry that the lake was still off limits. Maria wasn’t completely convinced of the wisdom in it. It might be therapeutic for them to visit the place their mother had passed away, perhaps even throw flowers on the water in her honor. Maybe that’s why they were so eager to go there. People often felt the need to memorialize the spot where a loved one died. That’s why they placed crosses alongside the highway to mark the site of fatal car crashes. With death, there was always the dilemma of how much to remember, and how much to forget.

“You’re up early,” Maria called to Malcolm as she passed him.

“The place is going to weeds and rot,” Malcolm mumbled, poking aggressively at the fire with a stick. “Must be burned.”

Maria left the gardener to his fire and heaved open the door to the kitchen. She had expected to see Lorraine preparing breakfast, the children sitting at the table. So she was very surprised to see Cecile alone, nibbling on a piece of toast. She was dressed in another pair of tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt, makeup smudged black under her eyes, hair thrown up in a ponytail.

“Where are the children?” she asked dully as she looked up at Maria’s entrance. “Why aren’t they with you?”

“They’re not down yet. We usually plan our day over breakfast,” Maria resented Cecile’s accusatory tone. “I wonder where Lorraine is.”

“Me too. I had to get my own breakfast. I don’t understand the point of having a maid if you have to cook for yourself.” Because making toast is such a challenge, Maria thought. She was starting to see why the children didn’t care much for Cecile. “So let me see it.

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