The Care and Management of Lies by Jacqueline Winspear

instinctively laid her hand upon her heart as if to protect herself. “Now, I would like to dine, and I would like you to join me. Is that better for you?”
    “I’ll get my coat.”
    Soon they were back on the street, where Thea linked her arm through Kezia’s.
    “I’m sorry, Kezzie. I don’t mean to snap.”
    “I know. We’ll leave it at that, shall we? Now then, let’s go to that little Italian restaurant, the one where we went to celebrate when you got your job at the school. They were always so nice to us there.”
    “Perfect,” said Thea. “Yes, perfect.”
    As they made their way to the bus stop, they had to push past people going in and out of the pubs and talking on the street. Kezia thought it was like swimming against the tide. A newspaper vendor waved a fan of papers above his head and called out across the throng.
    “England ready for war. Forces assembling. England ready for war . . .”
     
    K ezia sipped from her glass, having been encouraged to order a dark cream sherry by Thea, who chose the larger pour, a schooner.
    “I don’t think I’ve been here since the last time,” said Thea. “Not that I have much to spend on going out to eat. And it’s not as if you’re entirely sure you know what you’re eating, in a restaurant.”
    “Oh, you’re just like your brother, no imagination. If it doesn’t look like anything he’s ever eaten before, he pokes it around as if it were something found on the road. I have to disguise almost everything I cook as a pie.” Kezia laughed, half choking on the unaccustomed sherry. She pointed to the glass. “I only ever use this for cooking.”
    The two women sat back in their chairs, at last settled in each other’s company. Kezia twisted the sherry glass, as if afraid that someone might see her and judge her worth. She thought this fear might be a residue from her church upbringing, a leftover from always having to watch what she said and did, knowing it would reflect upon her father and—ultimately—God.
    “Thea, I can’t remember if you ever told me how your family came to own the farm. I mean, it was leased, originally, wasn’t it? From the Hawkendene estate?”
    “That was years ago now—years ago. In my great-grandfather’s time.” She tipped back her glass and emptied it. “Gosh, I do believe I could do with another—but better not. Tomorrow will be a busy one, mark my words.” She looked at her hands, then at Kezia. “Have you seen it, the estate?”
    “I have, yes. I went for a walk not long ago. Packed a lunch and set off across the fields, then followed the path at the back of Micawber Wood, through the forest there.”
    “That’s not really a path, you know. Not any path you’d see on a map. It’s the old poachers’ way—leads through the woods, across another path, and right up to the lake.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You’re lucky their gamekeeper never caught you and hauled you in. He’d love to bag a Brissenden, and that’s a fact.”
    “No, fortunately I never met him. I met Edmund Hawkes, though. He’s the son, isn’t he?”
    “You met Hawkes? Well, I never. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
    “He was very nice, actually, considering he found me trespassing.”
    “Oh, I bet he was all smiles and accommodating noise, was Edmund Hawkes.”
    “Yes, to a point. He said I could go there any time I wanted.”
    Thea looked at Kezia, as if searching for something in her countenance.
    “What?” asked Kezia.
    “Nothing. Did you tell Tom you’d seen him?”
    “I can’t remember—I came home and was busy with his tea, so . . . um, I’m not sure. I probably did tell him, now I come to think about it.”
    Kezia could feel Thea watching her, and hoped her friend would not credit any sign of her discomfort with significance.
    “I’ll tell you what happened, and why those Hawkeses have never really forgiven us Brissendens.”
    “Mr. Hawkes seemed as if it didn’t matter.”
    “If he’s still like