Beautiful Wild - Anna Godbersen Page 0,41

up and falling back from the beach.

There was the turquoise water spreading forever beyond the long white beach, the cornflower blue of the sky, the big gray rocks.

And there was herself, Vida—the same girl whose name had once appeared in society notes in newspapers—encased in that pale pink dinner dress, which had been dirtied and magically cleaned again, almost bleached white, by its trial in the elements. That lace and cotton fitted tight to her body. Her small body, which she’d walked in all her life. For long, unthinking stretches of existence that body was all she really knew. Now her physical form seemed a tiny, insignificant doll thrown against the infinite variety of sights and sounds, harsh and sweet, which themselves were nothing when compared to the incomprehensible vastness that rolled out from the beach.

How deadly, Vida thought with a shiver. I am being awfully profound.

She turned away from the scene, and looked around for an accomplice in kindling-gathering. Ideally Eleanor, Miss Flynn’s maid, who was the most level-headed of the female survivors—the least mute with despair, and the most able when it came to almost any task. But when Vida’s eyes settled on Eleanor, she saw that Eleanor was busy drying seaweed on the rocks (unfortunately, this had become a staple of their diet). Miss Flynn would have been her second choice, for though she was not as clever as Eleanor, and tended to tire easily, her desire to be considered helpful was deep and abiding. But she caught a glimpse of Miss Flynn—who had been fated to live out her time here in a flowered nightdress—hurrying away from the group in the direction of the private grove where the ladies went when they were called by an activity that they found too shameful to name.

The children, because of their enthusiasm, were always off collecting something or other.

And the men, for reasons everyone found too obvious to discuss, were always engaged in building a structure or a better, more elaborate water-gathering system, or something else that Fitzhugh deemed too important to be known by the group at large.

The only idle body anywhere was that of Camilla, who sat by herself halfway down the beach, her arms wrapped around her knees and her head bent.

So Camilla, who had not bothered to be faithful to her husband while alive, was so devastated by his death that she could now do nothing to contribute to her own quite tenuous survival, while all around her others worked?

In her old life, Vida might have well enjoyed an hour in uncharitable analysis of Camilla’s state (though Nora, who was ever Vida’s ally, had an inner sweetness and could not abide that sort of chatter). And now, in this place, having subsisted on rainwater and kelp and the occasional coconut shard, Vida would have liked to savor the spice of another’s contemptible self-pity and hypocrisy.

She did try.

But before she could sink her teeth into that thought a different thought had her attention, which was that the pale skin of the back of Camilla’s neck was exposed to the sun. It would burn, and blister, if Camilla just sat there in silent mourning.

Vida walked briskly over. She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Farrar.”

Camilla sat motionless and the ocean waves continued to lap at the shore. “You must really hate me,” Camilla said eventually, speaking into her knees.

“Why would you say something so stupid? Of course I don’t hate you.”

“Oh?” Camilla raised her face and Vida saw how washed-out her eyes were and how puffy the skin around them had become. After all these days it was hardly news, but it still amazed her how different a lady appeared without the preparations of makeup, of comb and lash crimper, minus the enhancement of sparkling ornaments. “Then why would you use that name?”

“I’m sorry,” Vida replied impatiently. “What would you prefer?”

“What does it matter?”

“Well, if you want to be like that. I mean, why does anything matter?”

Camilla thought about that a while. “What do you want?”

“Could you help me?” Vida tried to sound as entreating as possible although she wasn’t sure she really wanted Camilla’s help at all. “Fitz asked me to do something, and said I ought to find a discreet accomplice.”

“Oh.”

“And if you stay where you are, your neck will burn.”

“All right.”

“All right you want to burn?”

“All right, what do you want my help with?” Camilla extended her hand, and though Vida felt a blush of outrage at Camilla’s expecting to be assisted in this way—when of