A Spear of Summer Grass. Deanna Raybourn
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Название: A Spear of Summer Grass
Автор: Deanna Raybourn
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9781472015471
isbn:
“Serve him right for keeping that meat,” I said, pointing to a slab of mutton that was heaving with maggots.
Dora picked it up with a pair of tongs and threw it out the door. She returned and surveyed the rest of the kitchen. “It’s completely foul. The entire place will have to be turned out and scrubbed before we can eat anything.”
“You sound defeated.”
“No, I’m just wishing I hadn’t ground out that cigarette,” she told me.
I laughed. “That’s the spirit. It really was good. I wonder where he got it.”
She gave me a reproachful glance. “That’s quite enough of that. I was only joking, you know. Such things are sinful and wrong. Besides, Aunt Mossy expects me to keep an eye on you.”
I lifted a brow at her and she went on. “She took me to luncheon in Paris and we had a lovely chat. I didn’t think I ought to tell you before, but I suppose it’s time. She’s quite keen that you really settle down, Delilah. She thinks you need purpose, direction. And she thinks that this may be the best opportunity for you to find it.”
“The best or the last?”
“Both.”
We stared at each other a long moment, then I gave her a small smile. “Not yet, Dodo. Not just yet. Now make a list of what you want done and Pierre will organise some boys to do it.”
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk. Africa beckons.”
* * *
I changed my clothes, leaving off my printed silk frock for a pair of riding breeches and tall boots and a man’s silk shirt. It had been Misha’s. After his death I had taken more than the Volkonsky jewels. Misha always had gorgeous taste in clothes and he had been slender as a Grecian faun. I had hauled armfuls of his shirts to the tailor to have them taken in, and I wore them carelessly, open at the throat with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. They reminded me of the soft cotton shirts I had worn during the hottest dog days in Louisiana. Of course, Misha would never have worn anything as pedestrian as cotton. He had dressed with flair, buying only the very best materials. I wasn’t surprised his shirts had outlived him.
I started off down the path Pierre had pointed out, heading towards the savannah. The air was cool, touched with the faintest tang of woodsmoke and dung, but the sun was warming the earth, sending up the fragrance of fresh soil. The farm had once thrived growing pyrethrum, I remembered, a crop related to chrysanthemums. The flowers were pressed for their oil, a pungent substance used in pesticides. Only a few of the fields were still in production. Most of the farm had fallen fallow and the disused fields were now long stretches of earth that had surrendered once more to the wilderness. Here and there thickets of acacia had grown up, sheltering birds and small twittering creatures that sent up an alarm as I walked. I had only gone a few yards when I realised I should have brought a gun. A gun, a club, even a stick would have been smart. But no, I had charged into the African bush with nothing more than a silk scarf to defend myself.
“Idiot,” I muttered. But I pressed on. The path was wide and level and the going was easy. I stepped around a scorpion that raised his tail in challenge and sent a flock of pretty little deer vaulting away. At least I thought they were deer. They were most likely some form of gazelle, and I regretted again not having brought a gun. I had heard gazelles were excellent eating, and even if they weren’t, they had to be preferable to the teeming mutton the cook had left behind.
After a while, the ground rose a little. Just past the slope of a slender hill it fell away again to reveal a cottage nestled in a grove of acacia trees. The doors and windows were thrown wide, and I knew from the smell of turpentine that I had found the artist’s cottage.
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