Whiteout - Ken Follett [38]
The atmosphere inside was subdued. In the back, Sophie was listening to her own music on headphones, while Tom was lost in the beeping world of Game Boy. Ned was quiet, occasionally conducting the orchestra with one waving forefinger. As he gazed into the snow and listened to Elgar’s cello concerto, Miranda watched his tranquil, bearded face, and realized that he had no idea how badly he had let her down.
He sensed her discontent. “I’m sorry about Jennifer’s outburst,” he said.
Miranda looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Sophie was nodding her head in time to the music from her iPod. Satisfied that the girl could not hear her, Miranda said, “Jennifer was bloody rude.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He obviously felt no need to explain or apologize for his own role.
She had to destroy his comfortable illusion. “It’s not Jennifer’s behavior that bothers me,” she said. “It’s yours.”
“I realize it was a mistake to invite you in without warning her.”
“It’s not that. We all make mistakes.”
He looked puzzled and annoyed. “What, then?”
“Oh, Ned! You didn’t defend me!”
“I thought you were well able to defend yourself.”
“That’s not the point! Of course I can look after myself. I don’t need mothering. But you should be my champion.”
“A knight in shining armor.”
“Yes!”
“I thought it was more important to get things calmed down.”
“Well, you thought wrong. When the world turns hostile, I don’t want you to take a judicious view of the situation—I want you to be on my side.”
“I’m afraid I’m not the combative type.”
“I know,” she said, and they both fell silent.
They were on a narrow road that followed the shore of a sea loch. They passed small farms with a few horses in winter blankets cropping the grass, and drove through villages with white-painted churches and rows of houses along the waterfront. Miranda felt depressed. Even if her family embraced Ned as she had asked them to, did she want to marry such a passive man? She had longed for someone gentle and cultured and bright, but she now realized that she also wanted him to be strong. Was it too much to expect? She thought of her father. He was always kind, rarely angry, never quarrelsome—but no one had ever thought him weak.
Her mood lifted as they approached Steepfall. The house was reached by a long lane that wound through woods. Emerging from the trees, the drive swept around a headland with a sheer drop to the sea.
The garage came into view first. Standing sideways-on to the drive, it was an old cowshed that had been renovated and given three up-and-over doors. Miranda drove past it and along the front of the house.
Seeing the old farmhouse overlooking the beach, its thick stone walls with their small windows and the steep slate roof, she was overwhelmed by a sense of her childhood. She had first come here at the age of five, and every time she returned she became, for a few moments, a little girl in white socks, sitting on the granite doorstep in the sun, playing teacher to a class of three dolls, two guinea pigs in a cage, and a sleepy old dog. The sensation was intense, but fleeting: suddenly she remembered exactly how it had felt to be herself at five, but trying to hold on to the memory was like grabbing at smoke.
Her father’s dark blue Ferrari was at the front of the house, where he always left it for Luke, the handyman, to put away. The car was dangerously fast, obscenely curvaceous, and ludicrously expensive for his daily five-mile commute to the laboratory. Parked here on a bleak Scottish cliff top, it was as out of place as a high-heeled courtesan in a muddy farmyard. But he had no yacht, no wine cellar, no racehorse; he did not go skiing in Gstaad or gambling in Monte Carlo. The Ferrari was his only indulgence.
Miranda parked the Toyota. Tom rushed in. Sophie followed more slowly: she had not been here before, though