Cold Pastoral by Margaret Duley

to see where he lived, Lady Fitz Henry was stepping into her emerging garden. The dirty edges of the snow looked like the dwindling of a moth-eaten blanket. Through a clot of last year’s leaves green tongues poked through, showing evidence of a prodigal autumn planting.
    Tall in her garden Lady Fitz Henry relaxed in the sun. Winter was taut, a season of whipcord winds, wearying to the flesh. Spring told her she was muted, but not extinguished when she could feel the pulse of the earth.
    A white-skinned brunette, her sixty-four years were only apparent in skin-sag and fine lines round her eyes. Her nose was ageless, disdaining any toll the years could take. Eyes were brown, but their colour was dead. A trifle myopic, pupil and iris merged into one. Stooping to poke in the earth, she displayed the suppleness of a slender woman. It was in her hands that age was evident. Grey-white they looked bleak, and blue round the long, ridged nails.
    With a quietude of content she picked her way back to the house. Inside, the hall was square with an overhead gallery of wrought-iron uprights, topped with a walnut rail. From a window at the curve of the stairs sunlight streamed in a shaft. It subtracted from walls rendered sooty by furnace-heat. It embellished the gleam of wood and the mellow paint of English landscapes. It made an ebony cap of Philip’s head as he ran downstairs.
    â€œMorning, dear. I heard you go out.”
    From his considerable height he barely stooped to touch his mother’s cheek with his own. As the faces came together their similarity was arresting. Carved noses jutted toward each other with a unity of design.
    At breakfast in a wine-red dining-room with chaste furniture, she poured tea from the Georgian tea-pot saved from the fires. Sitting upright and eating little, she gazed at a conservatory lighting one side of the room. She was enjoying the velvet bloom of a cineraria when she heard Philip’s voice.
    â€œMater, will you do something for me this morning? It’s fit for you to go out.”
    â€œCertainly, my son. It’s a lovely day. It makes me long to see David.”
    â€œHe’ll be out in June, dear, and I’ll be able to get away in July for two weeks’ salmon-fishing.”
    â€œYou need the rest, Philip. It’s been a hard winter. I wish Dave would stay out. It would be more company for you.”
    â€œIt’s the winds, Mater. They pick out his wounds, and Felice doesn’t like the wind in the trees.”
    â€œM’mm,” said his mother dryly. Tolerant as she was, it was dislike a little beyond her. “What do you want me to do, my son?”
    Philip was smiling at a pair of eggs. “See somebody who understands the wind in the trees.”
    â€œYour little girl,” she said at once.
    He gave her a quick look. “How did you know?”
    â€œEasily. You pay her so many visits. It’s a remarkable survival.”
    â€œMedical miracle!”
    Still looking at the cineraria, Lady Fitz Henry pondered out loud. “Philip, why wasn’t she afraid? It’s uncanny….”
    â€œI don’t understand that side of it.” Philip frowned with definite pleats in his white brow. “I’m not a neurologist, but she might be an elemental for all the experience has affected her nerves. There was so much nonsense talked about her.”
    â€œPerhaps the fairies did look after her,” suggested his mother with a small smile.
    The pleats in Philip’s brow looked jangled. “I’ve been trying to diminish that idea. She’s a mass of superstition, but she’s lovely to look at. At least she is now. The modelling of her face is perfect, and her skin…She’s something to see after some patients.”
    â€œNo doubt,” said his mother, regarding him with deeper interest. He was smiling to himself, and she thought his face looked younger. “Perhaps she bears out your father’s