“A deadly harvest,” said Esther, noting that he, however, appeared to relish the anecdote.
“I suppose so. Apparently the original owner lived here by himself. A hermit of sorts,” he continued. “Mad old fellow.” Dr. Creswell boomed a rich, deep laugh that was, Esther imagined, honed on schoolboy rugby fields and cavernous dining halls. It bounced off the room’s high ceilings, giving her the impression of boundless bonhomie and a welcome as warm as the fire. She relaxed her grip on her gloves. Perhaps this would not be the ordeal she imagined.
“And is there a Mrs. Creswell?” Esther was shocked at her outspokenness and her curiosity; it seemed that she had lost her ability to make polite conversation, to interest herself in the superficial. She rather thought, however, that he wouldn’t be the kind of man who would mind.
“Not one that would put up with me,” he said with a generous smile that went some way to contradict his comment.
“Richard has been here, what . . . nearly three years, didn’t you say, old chap?” John interjected.
“About that,” he replied, not explaining what had brought him there, nor what kept him on this bleak, windblown isle. “Now how about some tea? I expect you worked up something of a thirst on your walk up here, not to mention a chill. It’ll warm you right up.” He clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. “There’s no sugar to spare, I’m afraid, though we do have Darjeeling—a gift from a grateful patient,” he explained. As he was speaking, the door to the drawing room opened, and the housekeeper bustled in with a tray. “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Biggs,” he said as she set it on the table before them.
Esther wondered idly what kind of patients would come all this way to see him. Or perhaps he had a practice on one of the larger islands they had passed on their journey here?
“Shall I be mother?” His voice interrupted her musings and Esther flinched.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” The doctor looked mortified and Esther felt almost sorry for him. “Slip of the tongue.”
She smiled thinly and felt a pang of longing for Teddy again, for the satin feel of his skin, and the way his thick blond hair lay flat to his scalp after a bath. He’d become quite a chatterbox in recent months, and spoke with a delightful lisp that charmed everyone who came across him. She still couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been able to bring him with them. It would be a very long week without him.
Dr. Creswell busied himself pouring tea and then handing yellow-and-white flowered cups and saucers to John and herself. There was a matching plate on which three plain biscuits rested, but she had no desire for one. Her hand shook as she raised the china cup to her lips and she had to concentrate to avoid spilling it.
Dr. Creswell and John began to reminisce about their school days and Esther was free to let her gaze wander about the room. It was spare, no extraneous decorative touches that the lady of the house might perhaps have brought, but scrupulously clean: not a mote of dust had been allowed to rest on the polished escritoire nor on the windowsills. Stacked next to the gramophone were a number of vinyl records. She recognized Prokofiev, Schumann, Delius, Satie. She had enjoyed concerts at the Royal Albert Hall, the London Symphony Orchestra, the summer Proms series, but there had been no such outings in the summer last gone by. Once, music had been a pleasure, filling the rooms of Frogmore, accompanying her afternoons, the background to quiet evenings at home after Teddy was in bed, but that had been many months ago, before . . . before . . .
She was wrenched back to the present by the realization that Dr. Creswell had asked her a question, had repeated it several times judging by the furrow between his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon,” she said, the barest hint of apology in her voice. “My attention was elsewhere.”
She noticed John and the doctor exchange a look of understanding. Their complicity rankled, but good manners meant that she let it go unremarked.
“No matter, Mrs. Durrant. I was merely asking if you had a pleasant journey.”
“Oh, oh, yes, I suppose.” She glanced at her husband for confirmation. “The sleeper was more than adequate, though the boat journey left something to be desired,” she said dryly. She put her cup down on the table and stood up. “A little air, if I may. I’m sorry, I feel rather dizzy all of a sudden.” She walked toward the window and raised the sash. A gust of wind blew toward her and she leaned into its chilly embrace, taking several deep breaths. After a moment she lowered the frame and turned back to them both, seeing Dr. Creswell crumpling up a small piece of paper in his hand and depositing it in the pocket of his jacket. John didn’t seem to have noticed; he was looking at her with a mix of sorrow, regret, and what seemed like relief. Even in her numb state, she was attuned to the way her husband treated her differently now. He said he didn’t blame her for what had happened, that it wasn’t her fault. Over and over he had said it, but she knew better than to believe him. After all, she blamed herself, so why shouldn’t he?
“Finish your tea, darling. Before it gets cold.”
Esther nodded, but as she was about to return to her chair an old map, framed and hung on the wall, caught her eye. It showed a scatter of islands and at the bottom left a small boat being rowed by a serpent, and the words There Be Dragons in flowing script.
“Oh, take no notice of that,” Richard laughed. “The dragons here became extinct a long time ago.”
Esther raised an eyebrow but sat down again, taking a deep draft of the now lukewarm tea. The dregs felt chalky on her tongue but that was nothing unusual—kettles coughed up limescale unless they were regularly cleaned. Perhaps the housekeeper wasn’t as efficient as she looked.
Dr. Creswell and John moved on to the topic of the increasing London fogs and she sat back in the chair, letting the conversation swirl around her once more. Unaccountably sleepy, she leaned her head back against the antimacassar and her eyelids fluttered closed. She felt almost as if she were in a fog herself.
As she drifted toward unconsciousness, her mind flickered back to the doll, muddy and abandoned, that she’d seen on the path. Should she have picked it up? Was there a child crying somewhere because they had lost their favorite toy? How could that be, on such a wild and remote island where no one save for the doctor and his housekeeper appeared to live? It was very curious indeed. She must remember to ask John about it.
Chapter Five
London, Spring 2018
The shopping cart had a faulty wheel and Eve yanked it sideways, narrowly missing a display of turquoise baked bean cans. She could imagine the fuss if she knocked over the towering pyramid: the apron-clad supermarket assistants would come running, possibly the manager, shoppers would tut judgmentally and any small children in the vicinity might scream. She could do without any of that today, thank you very much, and breathed relief as she passed it without incident.
She consulted her list again, and checked the contents of the cart. Milk, bread—“the soft stuff, none of those chewy grains if you please” her grandmother requested—bananas, oatmeal, ham, tomatoes, green beans, and broccoli, sparkling water and a trio of prepared meals. That was everything. She pulled the bothersome cart toward the checkout, noticing as she did, buckets of bright yellow blooms. Daffs. Grams’s favorite. A couple of bunches of those might cheer her up. On impulse she shoved them into the cart and then reached into her jeans pocket for her bank card.