Night Music by Jojo Moyes Page B

was as she watched him go that she remembered the last part of the von Dittersdorf symphony. The stag was in fact a young prince, who had been transformed into an animal when he had strayed into the wrong part of the woods, then been torn to pieces by his own dogs.
    Asad was checking the eggs, removing one or two from each box and using them to fill others. The organic eggs from the farm down the road were all very well, but they tended to be covered with . . . organic matter, which did not always go down well with ladies of a sensitive disposition. He was cradling the dirty ones in his hands, about to clean them, when the woman came in.
    She stood in the doorway for a moment, casting around her as if she were looking for something. She was wearing a long blue velvet coat, whose hem was splashed liberally with mud. Family resemblance told Asad who she was.
    ‘Mrs Delancey? Would you excuse me while I put these down?’
    Her eyes widened when she heard her name.
    ‘Not too many casual passers-by around here,’ he explained, wiping his hands as he returned to her. ‘And you’re very like your daughter.’
    ‘Oh. Kitty. Of course.’
    He hesitated. ‘Are you all right? You seem a little . . . startled.’
    She lifted a hand to her face. Beautiful pale hands, he observed. Long white fingers. She was trembling. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘do many people around here own a gun?’
    ‘A gun?’
    ‘I’ve just been threatened . . . well, perhaps not threatened, but confronted by a gun-wielding man on what I thought was private land.’
    ‘That would be startling . . . yes.’
    ‘I feel a bit shaken. I’m not used to meeting people with guns. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even seen a gun up close before.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    She described him.
    ‘Sounds like Byron, Mr Pottisworth’s land manager. He’s doing some work for Matt now. But I believe he only uses an air rifle.’
    ‘Matt McCarthy.’ The woman appeared to mull this over, then deflated.
    ‘I was about to put the kettle on,’ he said. ‘I believe a cup of hot sweet tea is very good for shock. Let me introduce myself. My name is Asad Suleyman.’
    She bestowed on him a sad, sweet smile that expressed all manner of gratitude for his offer. She was not conventionally good-looking, thought Asad, but she was undoubtedly beautiful. And her hair, when most people’s was neatly cut and coloured, was extraordinary.
    ‘I suppose it must have been him, which is reassuring. But I hate the thought of someone with guns roaming so close to us. And it’s difficult,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where my land ends and Mr McCarthy’s begins.’
    Darjeeling. She looked like a Darjeeling woman. Asad put a mug into her hands, and cocked his head to one side. ‘Have you not thought of asking your solicitor for the deeds?’
    ‘Would they show me?’
    ‘I believe so, yes.’
    ‘Thank you so much. I’m pretty hopeless at judging these things. I haven’t had much experience of . . . land.’
    They sat in companionable silence, sipping their tea. Asad stole surreptitious glances at her, trying to register the details that Henry would demand from him later. Rather exotically dressed – in the muted browns and greens favoured hereabouts. The pale, slender hands. He could easily imagine them on some magical instrument. The long, rather unkempt tangle of dark blonde hair tied back chaotically – the antithesis of her daughter’s glossy bob. Eyes that strayed off to the side, their downturned corners perhaps betraying her recent sadness.
    ‘This isn’t what I expected,’ she observed.
    ‘No?’
    ‘Your shop. It’s beautiful. You have things I’d want to eat. Parma ham! Sweet potatoes . . . I thought village shops were all crates of apples and synthetic cheese slices, run by fat, middle-aged women. Not tall . . .’ She was suddenly discomfited.
    ‘Black men,’ he finished. ‘Actually I’m Somali.’
    ‘How did you end up