The Muse by Jessie Burton

envelopes. ‘ Tomate, perejíl, cebolla ,’ she said in Spanish.
    â€˜Tomato, parsley, onion?’ Olive said.
    Teresa nodded. She had not intended these seeds as a gift. She had in fact brought them to the finca in the hope that she could quietly sow them in the duchess’s more fertile soil, and ultimately harvest them for herself. ‘They are for you,’ she said to the other girl. Teresa had never, in sixteen years, given anyone a present.
    Olive looked over her shoulder into the dark of the house. From deep within could be heard Sarah’s laughter, and the lower bass of the men. ‘Let’s plant them,’ she said.
    â€˜Now?’
    â€˜Now.’
    From the outhouse at the end of the orchard, Olive found two rusting garden forks and handed one to Teresa. Teresa was struck by the other girl’s readiness to be here with her, turning over hard earth, weeding as she went. She didn’t want to be so happy about it, but she couldn’t help herself. Surely it was rare that a girl like Olive might choose to be here, rather than with those inside? When she protested that Olive should put on some boots over those socks, Olive looked down at her feet in surprise. ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said, wiggling her darned toes. ‘I like the feeling of the ground.’
    Teresa thought that only a rich guiri , with more pairs of socks than sense, would ever say such a thing. Miss Banetti, who’d also come for the rustic life, might have said it and appeared an imbecile. But there was something different about Olive, her thoughtless determination, her acceptance that was so whole-­hearted, that Teresa not only allowed the girl her whim, but was delighted that she had no care for shoes.
    Olive rolled up her sleeves and lugged two huge watering cans of spring water from the well at the end of the garden, and Teresa admired the sinews in her forearms, their pale endurance, the fact that nothing was lost along the way. Up and down the newly furrowed earth they walked with the cans, and as the water fell, Teresa spied a rainbow arching in the drops. If Olive felt the hard soil poking into her soles, she said nothing.

 
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    HarperCollins Publishers
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    3
    H arold invited Teresa to start by cleaning the ground-­floor rooms, sweeping away the cobwebs that draped from corner to corner. Using rags that looked ripped from a man’s shirt, dipping them in a bowl of vinegar and some of her lemon juice, she scrubbed the windows where dirt had layered round the frames. From the garden, she burned rosemary and sage on the flagstones. In a cupboard in the pantry Isaac found two electric heaters and set them up in the front east room, warming up the bare chalk walls as the sunlight moved over them. He promised them firewood.
    Teresa made the Schlosses lunch from the chicken, refusing to eat it with them, although Isaac accepted the offer. By the time the chicken was out of the stove, it was clear to Olive that they had a new servant. But what of Isaac – under what pretence could they keep him near?
    The clock in the hall dragged its pendulum four times. ‘God!’ Sarah said, as they sat at the dining-­room table. Her mood was excitable, a great improvement on the day before, but not without its dangers. ‘Where’s the day gone? It’s so cold – I thought the south of Spain was supposed to be hot?’ She’d changed into a long-­sleeved cream house jacket covering new red woollen trousers, and a blouse in matching scarlet polka dots. At some point she’d painted her toenails, and Olive saw ten small squares of vermilion on the terracotta floor.
    â€˜It will get hotter,’ Harold said.
    In the kitchen, Teresa clanged the tin plates on the draining board, a noise like an armoury.
    â€˜Oh well then, I shall fetch my bathing suit,’ said Sarah. ‘Have you