Free The Muse by Jessie Burton Page B

jumpy. Teresa had watched the girl when Sarah had called her a coward; she’d looked as if she had the words to fight back, but was keeping every single one locked inside her skull. There was an urgency in Olive’s body, in the movements of her hands. She reminded Teresa of a trapped animal, restless because someone had approached the bars of her cage.
    â€˜So,’ Olive said, in Spanish again. ‘How long have you been married?’
    Teresa stared at her. ‘Married?’
    Olive frowned. ‘ Casados – that’s right, isn’t it?’
    Teresa laughed. ‘Isaac is my brother,’ she said, now in English. She saw the blush spread over Olive’s face as she pulled a loose thread of wool from her jumper.
    â€˜Oh,’ said Olive. ‘I thought—­’
    â€˜No. We have – we had – different mothers.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Olive seemed to gather herself. ‘Your English is very good.’
    Teresa removed the lemon gently from Olive’s grip, and Olive gazed in surprise at the fruit, as if she had no recollection of taking it up.
    â€˜There was an American lady in Esquinas. I worked for her,’ Teresa said. She decided not to mention the German family she had also worked for, who, before returning to Berlin merely months before, had given her a rudimentary facility in German. Life had taught her that it was wiser not to play all your cards at once. ‘Her name was Miss Banetti. She did not speak my language.’
    Olive seemed to awaken. ‘Is that why you’re here today – you want to work for us? What does your brother do?’
    Teresa crossed the veranda and stared out at the skeleton trees in the orchard. ‘Our father is Don Alfonso. He works for the woman who owns the land and this house.’
    â€˜Is it really owned by a duchess?’
    â€˜Yes. Her family is very old.’
    â€˜She can’t have been in this finca for a long time. The dust! Oh – but I’m not saying it’s your fault—­’
    â€˜ La duquesa is never here,’ said Teresa. ‘She lives in Barcelona and Paris and New York. There is nothing for her to do here.’
    â€˜I’m sure that’s not true,’ Olive replied.
    â€˜You are English or American?’
    â€˜Half English. My father’s from Vienna. He married my mother, who’s English, but thinks she was born on Sunset Boulevard. We’ve lived in London for the last few years.’
    â€˜Sunset Boulevard?’
    â€˜Never mind . . . so – you’re from Arazuelo?’
    â€˜Will you stay long?’ Teresa asked.
    â€˜That’s up to my father.’
    â€˜How old are you?’
    â€˜Nineteen,’ Olive replied, and when she caught Teresa’s frown she went on, ‘I know. It’s a long story. But my mother’s not well.’
    â€˜She looks well.’
    â€˜It’s deceptive.’
    Teresa’s skin prickled at the hard edge that had crept into Olive’s tone. She wondered what was wrong with the beautiful, brittle woman in the oversized jacket, who was now inside the house, talking to her half-­brother. She decided to change the subject. ‘You will need someone here, señorita,’ she said. ‘This is not London. You cook?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Clean?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You ride a horse?’
    â€˜No!’
    â€˜I will help.’
    â€˜Well, how old are you ?’
    â€˜Eighteen,’ Teresa lied, for in truth, she was sixteen years old. She had learned that foreigners often had a romantic, infantilizing attitude to age, keeping their children as children much longer. This girl was clearly a case in point. She herself had never had such a luxury; sometimes she felt as old as a stone. ‘My brother—­’ she began, but stopped. She didn’t feel like talking about Isaac any more than was necessary. From her pocket, she brought out three