Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Season of Mists
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE letters were waiting for her when they got back to the flat.

It had been an awful day. First the blow that Bourne Electronics was about to close, then the call from Matthew’s form-master, asking her to come and see him after school, and now these two letters, postmarked Rothside, and bringing back memories Abby would have rather forgot.

Matthew followed her into the tiny living room of the flat, flicking a glance at the letters in her hand before flinging himself carelessly on to the chintz-covered sofa. He was a tall boy for his age, easily five feet six inches, and already on eye-level terms with his mother, which did not make for easy admonishment. But right now, Abby was more concerned about the reason why Piers should be writing to her after so long than with the latest chapter in her son’s chequered school career. Matthew was a problem child, or at least within the past two years he had become so, and she was rapidly losing faith in her own ability to control him.

It didn’t used to be like that. For ten years they had been close, very close. And then he had discovered that his father was still alive, that contrary to the stories his mother had told him since he was a baby, his father was not dead, and everything had gone wrong from that time on.

Abby had tried to exonerate herself. She had tried to explain that her reasons for keeping his parentage a secret was to save him from the very feelings of rejection he was suffering now, but Matthew had refused to listen. When he learned that she had, in fact, left his father before he was born, he refused to listen to any explanations, blaming her entirely for the breakdown of her marriage.

To begin with, Abby had not forced the issue. She had believed that given time, Matthew would come round, would try to understand, would forgive her. But it hadn’t worked that way. Time had not healed, it had festered, and the deterioration in their relationship—and in Matthew’s school behaviour—could be measured from that date.

But now, the news that unless her son stopped playing truant and started attending lessons with the intention of learning something, she would be asked to remove him from the school, took second place to the need to know why her husband should have written to her. Piers never wrote. From time to time, she had word of him via Aunt Hannah. But since his visit to the hospital after Matthew was born, he had never contacted her direct, and in spite of all the years between, Abby’s fingers shook as she slit the envelope open.

It was strange, she thought, how she could remember his handwriting after so long. But then perhaps not so strange when she considered the long hours she had spent translating his scrawled script into neatly-typed letters and reports. She had enjoyed typing for him, she remembered unwillingly. She had enjoyed the thrill of going to the Manor every morning, and working in the elegant luxury of the library. All the other girls had envied her, working for Piers Roth, who was something of a heart-throb around Rothside and Alnbury. She had basked in the glory of landing such a marvellous job, and when Piers had started to show his attraction to her, she had seen her life developing like some wonderful romantic novel, where she and Piers fell in love, and married, and lived happily ever after …

The letter emerged from its envelope, the paper thick and vellum-bound, bearing the familiar address in the centre of the page at the top.

Dear Abby …

‘Who’s it from?’ Matthew, sprawled on the couch, his closely-cropped fair hair reminding her of pictures she had seen of the inmates of a prison camp, was regarding her with unusual cariosity. Perhaps he had noticed the way her hand was shaking, she thought, moving to the window as if she needed more light. It was something for him to address her without being spoken to first.

‘Give me a moment,’ she said, not yet prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of telling him, and Matthew shrugged and studied the white laces in his black boots.

Dear Abby, she read again, drawing a deep breath, You will probably not be entirely surprised to learn that I have decided to divorce you.

Divorce! Abby found she was not just surprised, she was stunned. Somehow, foolishly she now realised, she had begun to believe Piers was never going to seek a divorce. Perhaps, in the back of her mind, she had even nurtured the hope that one day this whole awful mess would be resolved and Piers would believe her story. But now, it seemed that she was wrong, and the words he had used stung her unpleasantly.

She read on:

I realise I had no need to inform you of my intentions in the circumstances, but I wanted you to know that I no longer feel any hostility towards you. What’s done is done. You were too young to be tied down to matrimony, and I was old enough to know better.

Abby’s teeth were digging into her lower lip now, but she forced herself to finish reading.

I trust you and the boy are both well. You will be hearing from my solicitors within the next few days. Yours, etc. Roth.

Just Roth, thought Abby bitterly, folding the page. Not Piers, or even Piers Roth; just Roth: as if he was writing to some business acquaintance. Her jaw quivered, but just for a moment. Then she steeled her emotions. So what? she asked herself severely. What difference would it make to her? She would still call herself Mrs Roth. Nothing could alter that. So why did she feel so abysmally shattered?

‘Well?’

She had forgotten Matthew for a moment, but now she glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, pushing the letter back in its envelope. ‘Nothing important, that is. Oh—and this one’s from Aunt Hannah.’

‘If she’s my aunt, how come I never meet her?’ Matthew countered, swinging his feet to the floor. Then he pulled a face. ‘Oh, don’t tell me, I know. She lives in Northumberland, and we can’t afford to go all that way to see her.’ He grimaced. ‘What you really mean is, that’s where my father lives, too, and that’s why we never visit her. Because you’re afraid I’ll meet him!’

‘No!’

Abby’s cheeks flushed, but she knew he didn’t believe her. Matthew would never believe the truth, even if she told it to him. He was firmly convinced she had deprived him of his father by running away to London.

Turning back to Aunt Hannah’s letter, Abby scanned the unsteady print with smarting eyes. The letter was shorter than usual. Just one page, instead of the half dozen or so Aunt Hannah usually wrote. Her letters tended to be epistles, describing every small incident that happened in Rothside, with an attention to detail born of loneliness; and although Abby told herself she only read the letters to please the old lady, secretly she devoured every word.

Hannah Caldwell was not in fact her aunt, but her mother’s, but when Abby’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn child, she had brought the little girl to Rothside to stay with her. Abby’s father had been terribly distraught over his wife’s death, and after selling their house in Newcastle, had moved to Scotland, to work in Aberdeen. It had been arranged between him and Aunt Hannah that Abby should join him when he had found a house and obtained a housekeeper. But it never came off. Laurence Charlton was drowned in a sailing accident only a few weeks later, and Abby’s visit with Aunt Hannah became permanent.

Now she viewed the old lady’s letter with growing concern. It appeared that Aunt Hannah had had a heart attack only ten days ago. Nothing serious, you understand, she wrote, with endearing understatement, just a reminder that I’m not as young as I used to be.

Abby shook her head. How old was Aunt Hannah now? Eighty-two, eighty-three? She frowned. Too old to be living alone in the cottage, she thought anxiously, particularly if her heart was not strong.

Doctor Willis is talking of moving me into Rosemount, the letter continued, but I told him he’d have to carry me out of here on a stretcher. That’s all these young doctors can think about these days—herding old people into homes, so that they can be lumped together like cattle. I don’t want to live with a lot of old fogies. I like young people around me. I just wish you and Matthew lived a little nearer. I do miss you, Abby.

Abby’s conscience smote her. It had been hard on Aunt Hannah, she knew that. Her marriage to Piers, when she was only eighteen, had been hard enough for the old lady to bear, but at least she had believed Abby would be happy. Then, Abby’s leaving Rothside less than a year later had changed all that, and Aunt Hannah had blamed herself for allowing it to happen. Of course, in the beginning, when Matthew was just a baby, she had made an occasional trip to London to see her great-great-nephew, but inevitably the cost—and her advancing age—had made the journey impossible. It was almost ten years since they had met, and although Abby corresponded regularly, she knew it was not the same.

And now this—Aunt Hannah having a heart attack, and Abby not learning about it until the old lady was able to write and tell her. She was her only relative, after all. And she owed her a lot for the way she had looked after her all those years ago.

Sighing, she turned to the last few lines of the letter:

You’ll have heard, no doubt, that Piers is planning on marrying again.

Abby blinked. The divorce!

He called to see me a few days ago, her aunt went on. I expect Doctor Willis had told him about my little bit of trouble, and he walked in, large as life, with a basket of fruit and some lovely brown eggs from the home farm. I said he shouldn’t have bothered, but he insisted it was no trouble, and I suspect he wanted to warn me, before I heard the news officially. It’s Valerie Langton, of course. You remember, I told you the Langtons bought Manor Farm, after Ben Armstrong retired. She’s a pretty thing, not much more than twenty-three or four, and she should suit Mrs Roth, seeing that she’s fond of hunting and charity work.

Well, my dear, I haven’t the strength to write any more now. Do write soon. You know how much I look forward to your letters. All my love….

Abby found she was breathing rather heavily as she replaced her aunt’s letter in its envelope. So Piers wanted a divorce so that he could get married again. She couldn’t help the sudden surge of resentment that gripped her. How could he? she asked herself, how could he?

Aware that Matthew was still watching her, she forced herself to behave normally. ‘Aunt Hannah’s had a heart attack,’ she declared, taking off the jacket of the suit she had worn to work. ‘The doctor thinks she shouldn’t be living alone at her age, and I’m inclined to agree with him.’

Matthew shrugged. ‘So why doesn’t she come and live with us?’ he asked practically.

Abby sighed. ‘Because she wouldn’t want to leave her home. And besides,’ she took a deep breath, ‘I couldn’t afford to offer her a home. Bourne Electronics is closing down. I’m going to be out of a job in less than a month.’

Matthew’s eyes widened. ‘So what will you do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Abby hadn’t had time to think of her own troubles yet. What with being summoned to Matthew’s school, and Piers’ letter, not to mention Aunt Hannah’s heart attack, she had been diverted from what was arguably the most serious problem of all.

What was she going to do? This flat was small, but the rent was exorbitant, and any reduction in their weekly income was bound to create difficulties. They lived a hand-to-mouth existence as it was, each week’s pay spoken for, almost as soon as it was handed over. What with gas and fuel bills, Matthew’s clothes, which were a continual drain on her resources, and the need to keep herself as smart as the secretary to the managing director should be, food came way down on their list; and in spite of the cost, she was glad to pay for Matthew’s school dinners, which at least ensured that one of them had a decent meal every day. Abby herself ate little. She was lucky enough not to need a lot of food, and her tall slim figure had scarcely altered since her schooldays. Indeed, Trevor said she did not look old enough to have a son of Matthew’s age, but Abby took his compliments with a generous measure of salt. Trevor was biased, and no matter what he said, Abby was convinced she had aged considerably over the past two years.

But now she faced her son with real anxiety. What would they do? What could they do? And how would Matthew react if there wasn’t even enough money to allow him his weekly pocket money?

‘Will you get another job?’

Matthew was evidently concerned, and Abby strove to reassure him. ‘I hope so,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘I’ll have to, won’t I, as I’m the breadwinner.’

Matthew scuffed his boot against the rug. ‘I wish I was old enough to get a job,’ he muttered. ‘Another four years! It’s not fair!’

Abby did not answer him, but walked determinedly into the tiny kitchen that opened off the living room. She had yet to face the prospect of Matthew leaving school at sixteen. Once, she had had confidence in his doing well in his exams and earning a place at a university. Now, she held out no such hopes, even if she had been able to save the money to afford it. Matthew was simply not interested in learning anything. The gang he ran around with only just avoided contact with the law, and she dreaded to think what would happen when he left school. She didn’t want a tearaway for a son. She wanted a simple, ordinary boy; one who respected her as she respected him, and did not spend his days blaming her for ruining his chance in life.

She was filing some letters a few days later, when the phone started to ring in her office. Leaving the filing room, she hurried back to her desk to pick up the phone, and knew a moment’s foreboding when the telephonist said the call was for her. Not Matthew’s form-master again, she prayed silently, closing her eyes, and then opened them again when a strange masculine voice said: ‘Mrs Roth? Sean Willis here, Mrs Roth—Miss Caldwell’s doctor.’

Abby’s mouth went dry. ‘She’s not——’

‘No, no, nothing to worry about, Mrs Roth. At least, not immediately, that is.’

‘Not immediately?’ Abby was confused.

‘I’m explaining myself badly, Mrs Roth. Actually, why I’m ringing is because Miss Caldwell tells me you’re her only relative. Is that right?’

‘Her only relative.’ Abby was endeavouring to regain her composure. For one awful moment she thought Dr Willis had been about to tell her that Aunt Hannah was dead, and that would have been the last straw. ‘I—yes. Yes, I believe I am,’ she agreed now. ‘Why? Is something wrong? What can I do?’

‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to persuade her to leave Ivy Cottage,’ replied Dr Willis heavily. ‘She lives alone, as you know, and just recently she suffered a mild heart attack.’

‘I know. She wrote and told me.’

‘Good. Then you’ll realise how foolish it is of her to insist on staying at the cottage. Good heavens, she’s over eighty! Anything could happen.’

‘What are you saying, Dr Willis? That Aunt Hannah is ill? That she should be in hospital?’

‘In hospital, no. Rosemount, yes. I don’t know whether you know this, but Rosemount is a rather pleasant residential home——’

‘—for old people,’ Abby finished dryly. ‘Yes, she told me that, too. But I’m afraid she doesn’t want to leave her home.’

Dr Willis sighed. ‘If you care about your aunt, Mrs Roth, you’ll understand how important it is for her to have constant supervision. If she had another attack—if she fell——’

‘I do appreciate the situation, Doctor,’ said Abby unhappily, ‘but I don’t see what I can do.’

‘Contact her,’ he begged. ‘Try and persuade her that my efforts are for her own good. She might listen to you.’

Abby shook her head. ‘And she might not.’

‘But you will try?’

‘Of course.’ Abby hesitated. ‘She’s not in any danger, is she?’

‘Only from her own stubbornness,’ retorted Dr Willis shortly. ‘I’ll leave it with you, Mrs Roth. Do your best.’

The problem of what to do about Aunt Hannah occupied the rest of the day, but by the evening Abby had come to a tentative conclusion. She would have to go to Rothside. She could not trust this to a letter, and perhaps it was time she stopped running away from the past.

A telephone call to British Rail solicited the information that there were frequent inter-city services between King’s Cross and Newcastle, and from there it should be possible to take a bus to Alnbury. It was a long way to go, just for a weekend, and there was always the chance of hold-ups, but it would have to be done. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to Aunt Hannah, and she had done nothing to help.

She refused to consider what she would do if she met Piers. There was no earthly reason why they should meet. She was only going to be in Rothside for forty-eight hours. And besides, why should she be apprehensive? The divorce was only a formality, as he had said. They had had no communication for almost twelve years. They were strangers. She doubted he would even recognise her.

She arrived back at the flat, mentally planning what she ought to take with her. Matthew was in from school, she saw with relief, watching television in the living room. Her words of greeting were answered by a grunt, and she unloaded her shopping in the kitchen before telling him of her arrangements.

‘You remember what I was telling you about Aunt Hannah?’ she ventured, when the fish fingers she had brought in for their tea were browning under the grill. ‘About her having a heart attack?’

‘Hmm.’ Matthew was engrossed in the antics of the latest group of cartoon detectives, and was only paying her scant attention.

‘Matthew!’ Abby spoke his name a little impatiently, and he glanced round.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Well——’ She paused a moment to marshall her words. ‘I thought we might go up to Rothside this weekend to see her.’

‘Hmm—what?’ At last she had his interest. ‘You mean—go to Northumberland?’

‘To Rothside, yes.’

‘Blimey!’ Matthew gazed up at her with the first trace of genuine enthusiasm she had seen for ages. ‘Do you mean it?’

‘Yes,’ Abby nodded, a little surprised at his reaction. She had half expected him to complain because it meant he would miss the first home game of the new football season.

‘Hey!’ Matthew actually grinned. ‘Terrific!’

Abby shook her head. ‘You don’t mind.’

‘Mind?’ He snorted. ‘Will we get one of those high-speed trains? You know, the ones that do over a hundred miles an hour?’

‘Perhaps.’ Abby was relieved. ‘Then we have to take a bus from Newcastle to Alnbury.’

‘Alnbury? Where’s that?’

‘Oh, it’s about five miles from the village. It’s where I used to go to school.’ She broke off abruptly. ‘Set the table, will you, Matt? The fish fingers smell as if they’re burning.’

Abby booked seats on the five-forty p.m. train to Newcastle on Friday evening. She arranged to pick Matthew up from school at four o’clock, which gave them plenty of time to get from Greenwich, across London to King’s Cross.

‘Try and keep yourself clean,’ she requested urgently, when he went off to school on Friday morning in his best trousers and school blazer, and Matthew grimaced goodnaturedly, content for once to wear his uniform. He really had been remarkably good since he learned about the trip, Abby reflected, as she rode the bus to work. Perhaps he had decided to turn over a new leaf, she thought, but she wasn’t optimistic.

Her own boss, Trevor Bourne, had agreed to her leaving early without objection. ‘I just wish it was a job interview you were attending, Abby,’ he declared ruefully. ‘I know how much your independence means to you, don’t I?’

Abby smiled. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, then yes, my independence is important to me,’ she averred firmly. ‘It wouldn’t work, Trevor. You’ve been a bachelor too long.’

To her relief, Trevor let it go at that. Periodically, he tried to introduce a more personal note to their relationship, but so far Abby had resisted his attempts. She liked him. She liked working for him. But anything else was totally unacceptable. It wasn’t that she was frigid. On the contrary, there were times when the underlying needs of her own body drove her to consider any alternative. But there was always Matthew to apply the brake, Matthew’s opinion of her to care about, and the reluctant betrayal of her own self-respect if she indulged in a merely physical assuagement.

Matthew was waiting for her when she arrived at his comprehensive school a few minutes after four. His blazer was a little dusty, as if it had suffered from contact with the tarmaced playground, but at least the day was fine, and there was no mud to worry about. His boots she was less impressed with. But the only shoes he possessed were track shoes, and as he had refused to consider regular schoolwear, she had been obliged to humour him.

Now he took the suitcase she was carrying from her as they hurried to catch the bus, and Abby knew an unexpected feeling of being cared for. Matthew could be so sweet when he chose, she thought, giving him a warm smile as he took his seat beside her. If only he chose more often, how much easier her life would be.

The train left on time. It was full of business men, returning to the north after a day’s outing in London. Briefcases were the order of the day, and there was plenty of room for their bags and belongings between the seats.

Dinner was served on the train, but Abby had brought sandwiches, and Matthew munched happily as they plunged through the rolling downs surrounding London, and on to the flatter countryside bordering East Anglia. It was still light as they swept through Peterborough and Grantham, but by the time they reached their first stopping place at York, lights were springing up around the train, and dusk had deepened the shadows.

Matthew was growing restless now. With their meal over, and over an hour still ahead of them, he asked if he could go for a walk along the train, and realising she was as nervous as he was, she let him go.

In his absence, she pulled out her compact and examined her pale features with some trepidation. Had she changed so much? she asked herself anxiously. Twelve years was a long time. She was no longer eighteen, she was almost thirty, and the innocence of youth had given way to a guarded experience. She was different in ways that a mirror could not reveal. Although her eyes were still green between smoky lashes, they seemed to have lost their sparkle, and she was probably lucky her hair was that streaky shade of ash blonde. At least no one could see the grey hairs that must be there among the silver strands. Her skin was still good, and she seldom wore a lot of make-up, but nothing could alter the fact that she was a woman now, not a girl, and certainly not the girl who had married Piers Roth.

Matthew came back, his lean face glowing in the dim light. On occasions like this, she thought he did resemble his father, but mostly he took after her, with his fair hair and pale colouring. ‘I opened the window on the door and looked out for a bit,’ he explained, appalling her anew by his casual announcement. They could have passed a signal box, a bridge, anything, and the terrifying pictures these images created caused her to shake her head in horror. ‘It’s okay,’ he added, noticing her reaction. ‘I didn’t do anything dangerous. I just wanted to see the engine, but the door into the driver’s section was locked.’

‘Oh, Matt!’ Abby gazed at him in helpless fascination, and he shrugged his wide shoulders.

‘Well …’ he grimaced, ‘I’ve never been on a diesel train before, and I wanted to get to know all about it, so I could tell the guys.’

‘The guys!’ Abby shook her head. ‘Don’t you mean—the boys?’

Matthew grinned. ‘Okay, the boys,’ he mimicked her humorously, and she thought again how likeable he was when he wasn’t continually trying to score points.

‘You look pale,’ he continued, surveying her with steady consideration. ‘You’re not still worrying about Aunt Hannah, are you?’

‘Well, I am worried, of course, but I didn’t realise it showed so badly,’ she responded dryly. ‘What’s the matter? Do I look a hag? I must admit, I’ve been wondering if she’ll recognise me.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Abby shook her head. ‘It is ten years since she’s seen me, Matt.’

‘So what? You don’t look old.’

‘Thank you.’

‘As a matter of fact, one of the fifth-formers asked if you were my sister the other day,’ he told her, with some reluctance. ‘I said you were my mother, and he said you must have been a schoolgirl when you had me. I socked him!’

‘Oh, Matt!’ Abby was disturbed, but touched that he should care what people said of her.

‘Well…’ Matt hunched his shoulders, ‘he was implying I didn’t have a father. Rotten bastard!’

‘Matt!’ Abby’s lips parted. ‘Don’t ever let me hear you use that word again!’

‘Well, it’s true. Nobody believes me when I say my parents are separated. They think you were never married.’

‘But you and I know, Matt.’

‘Do we?’ Momentarily, his expression darkened, but then, as if determined not to let what other people thought cloud his enjoyment of the trip, he forced a smile and glanced out the window. ‘Where are we? Is this Newcastle?’

Taking her cue from him, Abby forced her own sense of apprehension aside, and looked about her. ‘No, this is Darlington,’ she said, as they slowed to approach the station. ‘Then there’s Durham, and after that, Newcastle.’

‘Good.’ Matthew rested his elbows on the table in front of him and watched the activity on the platform. ‘What time will we get to Alnbury? Does Aunt Hannah know we’re coming?’

‘I hope so.’ Abby answered his second question first. ‘I wrote to her yesterday, so she should have received the letter this morning. I would have sent a telegram, but I was afraid she might be alarmed at its arrival. Old people are funny. They associate telegrams with bad news.’ She sighed. ‘We received a telegram when my father was drowned.’

‘Grandfather Charlton?’

‘That’s right,’ Abby nodded reminiscently. ‘Aunt Hannah was so kind to me. I’ll never be able to repay her.’

Matthew was silent for a while, but then, as the train gathered speed again, he said: ‘How will we get to Rothside? You said we could catch a bus to Alnbury.’

‘Yes, we can.’ Abby frowned. ‘I’m not sure now where the bus station is, in relation to the railway station, I mean. But we can always ask someone. If we get into Newcastle on time, we should be able to catch the nine o’clock bus to Alnbury. That will get us there about ten.’

‘Isn’t that late for an old lady?’ asked Matthew, with his usual pragmatism, and Abby had to concede that it was.

‘Let’s hope she appreciates the effort,’ she said, with enforced lightness, but as the train neared Newcastle, her nerves were sharpening.

The train ran into the station at Newcastle at a little after ten minutes to nine, and by the time Abby had extracted them and their luggage, it was five to. The chances of them catching the nine o’clock bus were growing slimmer by the moment, and the idea of hanging about for another hour was daunting.

‘Don’t panic,’ said Matthew, striding along the platform beside her, as she rummaged in her handbag for their tickets. ‘There may be a bus at half past nine.’

‘I’m sure there isn’t——’ Abby was beginning, only to break off abruptly at the sight of the man standing ahead of them at the barrier. Tall and lean, his thin dark face was unmistakable beneath hair that was more black than brown. He had changed. He was older, and perhaps a little broader, but she recognised him instantly, as if his image had been engraved in her thoughts.

She halted abruptly, and Matthew halted too, gazing at her impatiently. ‘Mum——’

‘Just a minute.’ She made the excuse of searching through her bag to give herself more time, but nothing could alter the fact that he was there, and waiting for them.

Aunt Hannah shouldn’t have done it, she thought frustratedly. She wasn’t prepared, she wasn’t ready. The last thing she had expected was to meet him tonight, and she looked at Matthew anxiously, wondering how he would react to this.

‘What’s wrong?’ Matthew was looking at her strangely now, his fair brows drawing together as he identified her consternation. ‘What is it? Don’t you feel well? Mum, it’s nearly nine o’clock. Don’t you want to catch that bus?’

Abby’s mouth opened and closed as she tried to find words to explain what was about to happen. ‘I—we—we may not need to catch the bus,’ she began, glancing towards the barrier, and Matthew swung round curiously, perplexed as to her reasoning.

But even as Abby was trying to summon a stumbling explanation, something else happened, something that caused the hammering palpitation of her heart to pause sickeningly for a second, before racing unsteadily on. Piers was smiling at someone, speaking to someone who had emerged from the first class compartments of the train. And that someone was small and feminine, and, despite the mild September evening had a silky fur coat draped about her slim shoulders. Valerie Langton? Abby wondered, trying to control the giddy feeling of faintness that was sweeping over her, and Matthew looked from her to the barrier and then back at her again.

‘What is it?’ he demanded, as Abby endeavoured to keep her balance. ‘Mum, what’s going on? Is it that man? What’s he doing here? Do you know him?’

Abby’s tongue circled her parched lips. ‘I—I thought I did,’ she murmured, realising she had to pull herself together. ‘My, it’s warm tonight, isn’t it?’ She fanned herself nervously. ‘I feel quite hot.’

‘You don’t look hot,’ declared Matthew, transferring the suitcase and her holdall to one hand and putting the other through her arm. ‘You don’t have any colour at all,’ he added, beginning to hustle her towards the ticket collector.

‘Oh—wait!’ The girl in the fur coat was still at the barrier, handing over her ticket, talking to Piers as she did so. ‘I—there’s no point in hurrying now, Matt. We won’t catch that bus.’

‘But you said something about us not needing to catch the bus,’ he exclaimed, his suspicions fully aroused now. ‘Mum, you do know that man, don’t you? Who is it? My father?’

Abby wished she could have fainted then. It would have been so much easier just to collapse in a graceful heap and allow other people to take responsibility for what might happen. Even Matthew couldn’t ignore her if she lost consciousness at his feet, and anything was better than having to run the risk of Piers turning and seeing her.

‘Mum!’ Matthew was speaking to her again, and helplessly she shook her head.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘it is your father. But he hasn’t come to meet us, as you can see.’

Matthew’s expression revealed a conflicting number of emotions in quick succession, and then he turned to gaze at the man by the barrier with wide incredulous eyes.

Piers was moving away at last, Abby saw with relief. His companion had slipped her arm through his, and a porter had been engaged to carry her two suitcases. No doubt he had his car outside, she thought, trying not to feel bitter. No buses for Miss Langton. A comfortable ride home in the front of Piers’ limousine. Of all the bad luck, she fretted—that Piers should be at the station, tonight of all nights. Poor Matthew! How must he be feeling? Seeing his own father for the first time, and not being able to identify himself!

She was handing over their tickets to be clipped when Matthew darted away from her. One moment he was there, standing beside her, holding their cases; the next, he had dropped the cases to the ground and was sprinting after Piers and the girl.

Abby’s initial sense of horror froze any protest she might have made. It was like some awful nightmare. She was powerless to stop him, and with a dry mouth and quivering limbs she could only watch her son catch up with the other two. She saw him touch Piers’s sleeve, she saw him speak to him; and she saw the look of dismay that crossed the girl’s face as she looked incredulously up at the man beside her.

CHAPTER TWO

ABBY woke the next morning with a distinct feeling of disorientation. It was the silence that was the most disturbing aspect, the cessation of the sounds she had heard every morning for the past dozen years, and which generally awakened her before her alarm. Now there was no sound but the occasional cooing of the doves from the rooftop, and the argumentative chatter of starlings, quarrelling over the crumbs on the lawn.

She was at Rothside, she remembered with sudden apprehension. She was lying in her own bed at Ivy Cottage, the bed she had slept in for more than fifteen years, before Piers, and their marriage, had destroyed that life for ever.

Pushing back the bedcovers, she padded across the floor, her toes curling when they missed the rug and encountered the polished wood. Her window was set under the eaves, and she had to bend her head to look out of it, but the view that met her anxious gaze was as familiar as it had ever been.

Ivy Cottage was set on the outskirts of the village, but if she turned her head, she could see the green some yards away, and the duckpond, where she used to sail her paper boats. It was not a large village. Apart from the post office and general stores, there were no other shops, and in winter it was not unusual for them to be cut off for days, when the snow was heavy. But it was home to her, much more her home, she realised, than the flat in Greenwich could ever be, and she looked rather wistfully at the grey stone buildings. If only she had never married Piers Roth, she thought, she might still be living here. If, instead of marrying a man not only older, but whose way of life had been so much different from hers, she had married Tristan Oliver, none of this would have happened. She wondered, with a pang, how she might have adapted to being a farmer’s wife. Certainly, Piers’ mother would have said it was more appropriate. She had never wanted Abby to marry her son. She had opposed their relationship in every way she could, and only Piers’ persistence had prevailed. But, as things had turned out, her fears had been vindicated, at least so far as the Roths were concerned.

Turning from the window, Abby wrapped her arms tightly about her thinly-clad body. She had not wanted to think about the Roths, but after what had happened the night before, she could think of little else. That scene at the station was imprinted on her mind in stark and humiliating detail, and the remembrance of Matthew’s behaviour filled her with both anger and pity.

It had all been so awful—so embarrassing—so absurdly comical. Not that she had found any of it funny. On the contrary, she had wanted to die a thousand deaths when Piers turned and looked at her with that cold calculating stare. Yet in retrospect, it had had its moments of humour, if any of them had been objective enough to see them.

But none of them had, of course. Matthew’s impulsive self-introduction had robbed the scene of any amusement, and Abby had the distinct impression that Piers thought she had put him up to it.

Oh, it had been terrible! Putting up her palms to her hot cheeks, Abby shuddered with revulsion, and unable to stand her own company any longer, she put on her dressing gown and made her way downstairs.

Although it was only half past seven, Hannah Caldwell was already up and dressed. For all her great age, she seemed hardly to have changed since Abby saw her last, though perhaps she moved a little slower as she took the kettle off the stove. She turned as her niece entered the kitchen and surveyed Abby with warm affection, indicating the cups on the tray and the teapot steaming beside it.

‘I was just going to bring us both a pot of tea upstairs,’ she declared, her rosy cheeks dimpling with pleasure. ‘But now you’re up, we can have it down here.’

Abby squeezed the hand the old lady offered, and went to sit at the kitchen table. She might never have been away, she reflected, blinking back a feeling of emotionalism. Thank heavens for Aunt Hannah, she thought, drawing a steadying breath. Right now, she needed someone to talk to.

‘So …’ The old lady set the tray between them, and seated herself opposite. ‘You’re here!’ She reached for Abby’s hand again. ‘Are you going to stay?’

‘Just for the weekend,’ said Abby brightly, trying to behave naturally. ‘You know that. I told you in my letter——’

‘Yes, I know. But you also told me you were worried about Matthew, and now that I’ve met him, I can understand why.’

Abby sighed, and rested her chin on her knuckles. ‘You mean what happened last night?’

‘I mean the reasons behind what happened last night,’ replied Hannah, pouring the tea. ‘Abby, why haven’t you told Matthew the truth?’

‘How could I?’ Abby cradled her cup in her cold hands. ‘He’d never believe me. Not now.’

‘What do you mean? Not now?’

Abby shook her head. ‘It was easier to pretend his father was dead. I mean—so far as we were concerned, he was.’

‘Oh, Abby!’

‘Well …’ Abby tried to justify herself. ‘Aunt Hannah, Piers had disowned us; he’d disowned Matthew. Could you have told him that?’

‘When did he find out?’

‘About two years ago.’

‘How?’

Abby hesitated. ‘He—must have seen his birth certificate.’

‘And?’

Abby put her cup down. ‘He read one of your letters, while I was out.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘It was my fault. I should have realised he was getting older, more inquisitive.’

‘You mean he put two and two together.’ Hannah sighed. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I should have been more careful.’

‘Why should you?’ Abby was quick to reassure her. ‘I mean, you never used Piers’ surname. But his Christian name is rather—uncommon.’

‘But you told Matthew the truth, then?’

‘I told him that Piers and I were incompatible. That our marriage had been a mistake, and we had agreed to separate.’

‘Is that all!’ Hannah stared at her impatiently. ‘Didn’t you tell him about the rows? About Tristan?’

‘Would that have made it any better?’ Abby expelled her breath wearily. ‘It was too late, don’t you see? Any chance I had had of gaining Matt’s sympathy was gone. He blamed me. He still does, as last night proved.’

‘Oh, my dear!’ Hannah looked concerned. ‘Tell me again what happened. You were upset last night. And I didn’t like to probe too deeply; not then.’

‘Oh——’ Abby flung herself back in her chair. ‘It was awful!’ She shook her head reminiscently. ‘Matt had been so good, so—helpful. I really had begun to believe he’d turned over a new leaf. I had no idea he knew about Piers’ letter and the divorce. If I had, I’d have thought twice about bringing him.’

Hannah nodded. ‘Go on. You said you saw Piers at the barrier.’

‘That’s right. He’d come to meet Miss Langton. Apparently she’d been visiting some friends in London, and she happened to travel back on the same train. In first class, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Well——’ Abby caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, ‘when I saw Piers, I thought at first——’ She broke off. ‘I’m sure you can guess what I thought.’

‘That I’d asked him to meet you?’

‘Hmm,’ Abby nodded. ‘It was stupid, I realise that now. But at the time, it seemed the only explanation.’

‘And you told Matthew?’

‘Not then, no. But I was stunned, shocked; you can guess how I was feeling.’ She lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘And Matt—being Matt—came to the obvious conclusion.’

‘But why did you let him run after Piers? Surely you must have had some idea of what might happen.’

Abby sniffed. ‘I didn’t let him. I couldn’t stop him. He was gone almost before I realised it.’

‘And he introduced himself to Piers as his son.’

‘Yes.’ Abby felt the whole weight of this realisation bearing down on her.

‘Still,’ Hannah poured herself more tea, ‘at least Piers didn’t disown him in front of Miss Langton.’

‘No.’ Abby was grudging. ‘But he didn’t exactly welcome him either.’

‘You couldn’t expect that.’ Hannah studied her niece’s pale face with compassion. ‘My dear, can you imagine what a shock it must have been for Valerie? No one in the valley even knew you had a son. And the Langtons regard Piers as one of them.’

Abby finished her tea and pushed her cup over for more. ‘I suppose you’re right. But at the time, all I was aware of was Piers looking at me as if he could have killed me!’

‘Well, you’ve certainly put the cat among the pigeons, haven’t you, my dear? I mean—an ex-wife is one thing, a stepson is something else.’

Abby shrugged. ‘Piers doesn’t regard Matt as his son. I expect he told Miss Langton that, the minute we got out of the car.’

‘Well, at least you didn’t have to wait for a bus,’ pointed out Hannah dryly. ‘Piers’ Daimler must have been an improvement on that.’

‘I suppose so.’ Abby shuddered again. ‘But it was the longest journey of my life. No one spoke, not even Matt. Perhaps he was regretting what he had done. Anyway, we all just sat there, like dummies, waiting to get to our destination.’

‘Didn’t Piers ask how you were? Why you were here?’

‘Not in the car. I don’t remember anything he said, just his hostility. It was awful!’

‘And how did he introduce you to Valerie?’

‘Oh—as his ex-wife, I think. It was humiliating. I think she thought Matt was some kind of punk!’

Hannah half smiled. ‘Well, you have to admit, it’s not every day a youth rushes up to your fiancé and claims that he’s his father!’

‘No.’ Abby had to giggle at this. ‘I suppose it was quite amusing really. I just wish it hadn’t happened.’

‘Never mind.’ Hannah put the cups aside and regarded her warmly. ‘You’ve no idea how good it is to have you here, Abby. The cottage has been so empty all these years.’

Abby allowed her to take both her hands, and they looked affectionately at one another. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Aunt Hannah,’ she said gently. ‘And what’s all this about you misbehaving yourself?’

‘Oh——’ Hannah drew her hands away. ‘You mean that conversation you had with Dr Willis. I told you in my letter, I have no intention of leaving the cottage. If I die, I intend to die here, and not in some home, with none of my own things around me.’

‘I’m sure you’re allowed to take your own things with you, Aunt Hannah,’ Abby exclaimed. ‘Your personal things, at least.’

‘And my furniture? That dresser, for instance. Do you think I could take that? And my china cabinet, in the front parlour?’

‘Aunt Hannah——’

‘Don’t bother. I know what you’re going to say. I can’t expect a residential establishment such as Rosemount to provide space for all the odds and ends its inmates have collected over the years.’

‘You make it sound like a prison, Aunt Hannah!’

‘It would be, to me. Abby, can’t you see? Can’t you understand? I’ve lived in this cottage almost all my life. I don’t want to leave it now.’

‘Then you’ll have to have a nurse—or a housekeeper. Someone who could take care of you——’

‘I don’t want some strange woman in my kitchen,’ the old lady interrupted her crisply. ‘I don’t want any female telling me what to do in my own home!’

‘But, Aunt Hannah——’

‘It’s no good, Abby. My mind’s made up. And if you’ve come up here to try and change it, you’re wasting your time.’

Abby shook her head. ‘Dr Willis says you shouldn’t be alone.’

‘Then you come home,’ said Hannah flatly. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, not now you and Piers are getting a divorce. Come back to Rothside. I’d employ you. And it would give Matthew the chance to get to know his real background.’

‘I couldn’t!’ Abby was appalled.

‘Why couldn’t you? Oh, I know—because of your job in London. Well, I daresay I’d see you didn’t lose by it.’

‘It’s not that.’ Abby shook her head.

‘No?’ Hannah frowned. ‘You’re tired of working in London?’

‘No.’ Abby hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, Bourne Electronics is going out of business.’

‘It is?’ Hannah looked delighted. ‘There you are, then. Your problems are solved.’

‘No, Aunt Hannah.’

‘Why not?’

Abby bent her head. ‘The Roths wouldn’t like it, you know they wouldn’t.’

Hannah snorted. ‘So what? Since when do I care what the Roths think?’

‘Oh, Aunt Hannah!’ Abby gazed at the old lady helplessly. ‘I couldn’t do that to Piers.’

‘Do what?’ Hannah looked impatient. ‘Living in the south has made you soft, girl! Have you forgotten what Piers did to you? Is Matthew Piers’ son or isn’t he?’

‘You know he is.’

‘There you are, then.’ Hannah’s gnarled fingers clenched. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time he faced the truth? He’s got away with it long enough.’

‘I want nothing from him, Aunt Hannah,’ said Abby quickly.

‘All right.’ Hannah shrugged. ‘I’d be the last person to try and persuade you. But you’re letting him have it all his own way, can’t you see that? Where’s your fighting spirit, girl? What have you got to lose?’

‘I couldn’t do it.’ Abby got up from the table and moved to the window, looking out on the patch of garden at the back of the house. It was sadly neglected now. Where once she remembered a vegetable and flower garden, now there was only grass and weeds, choking the struggling rose bushes, that had survived in spite of everything. Obviously, Aunt Hannah was too old to bend her back to the soil, and Abby, who had badly missed having a garden when she first moved into the flat, wished she had more time.

Hannah, too, got up from the table now, and evidently abandoning her efforts to persuade her, said: ‘What will that young man upstairs want for breakfast? I’ve got eggs, and some home-cured bacon, and there’s plenty of bread and butter.’

‘Oh,’ Abby turned, ‘I’m sure some toast and marmalade would be fine.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’d better go and get dressed.’

Hannah nodded. ‘Very well. And what about you? Don’t tell me you don’t eat breakfast.’

‘Well, I don’t, usually,’ Abby admitted, and then, seeing Aunt Hannah’s impatient expression, she added: ‘But I will have some toast, too. If that’s all right.’

‘Toast!’ snorted the old lady, fetching a loaf of crusty bread from the larder. ‘A plate of ham and eggs would put a bit of flesh on you. You’re nothing but skin and bone, do you know that?’

Abby shook her head goodnaturedly and started up the stairs. The winding cottage stairs opened off the kitchen, with a door set squarely at the bottom to keep out draughts. The cottage had once boasted three bedrooms, but when Abby first came to live with Aunt Hannah, she had had one of the larger bedrooms converted into a tiny bathroom and a boxroom, and it was the boxroom that Matthew was occupying now.

Matthew was still asleep when she peeped into his room, his head buried half under the covers. Obviously the trauma of meeting his father the night before did not weigh as heavily on his mind as it did on his mother’s, and Abby closed the door again and left him.

The water was still cold in the tank, and she had to be satisfied with a chilly wash, before dressing in a cream shirt, made of a synthetic fibre that felt like silk, and a pair of jeans. She brushed her shoulder-length straight hair until it shone, and curved into her nape, and then went downstairs again, without troubling to put on any make-up.

Aunt Hannah had lit the fire in the kitchen grate now. ‘To heat the water,’ she explained, as Abby flicked a glance at the promising blue sky beyond the windows. ‘Now are you sure I can’t persuade you to have a nice boiled egg?’

Abby smiled. ‘You’ve twisted my arm,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ll have a boiled egg. Providing you’ll join me.’

‘Good.’

But as Hannah turned to take a pan from its hook beside the stove, a sudden knocking arrested her. Someone was at the back door, and Abby raised her brows enquiringly as Hannah wiped her hands on her apron.

‘Probably the boy from the farm, wanting to know if I need any more eggs,’ Hannah declared, crossing the room, and then fell back in surprise at the sight of her visitor. ‘Piers!’ she exclaimed, causing every inch of Abby’s skin to prickle alarmingly. ‘Why, come in, come in! You’re an early riser.’

‘When I have to be,’ Piers remarked, stepping into the small kitchen and immediately dwarfing its size. ‘Good morning, Abby. I see you’re an early riser, too.’

Abby remained where she was, sitting by the table. She didn’t altogether trust her legs if she was to try and rise, but that didn’t prevent her from looking at Piers, and renewing the memories awakened the night before.

He seemed to have changed little, except, as she had thought, his shoulders were a little broader. Yet, for all that, his lean athletic frame seemed to show no trace of superfluous flesh, his clothes fitting him as well as they had ever done, and with a closeness that accentuated the powerful muscles beneath the cloth. His hair was shorter than it used to be, though it still brushed his collar at the back, flat and smooth, and as dark as a raven’s wing. His face was harder, his eyes deeper set but just as unusual, their tawny brilliance guarding his expression. His nose was strong and prominent, his cheekbones high and narrow, his mouth at present straight and uncompromising, revealing nothing of the sensuality, he had once shown her. At thirty-seven, Piers Roth was, if anything, more attractive than he had been at twenty-three when Abby had first gone to work for him, and it crossed her mind how unfair it was that he should have evaded his responsibilities for so long.

When Abby did not answer him, Piers turned to Hannah, who was closing the door, and gave her one of his polite smiles.

‘As you’ve probably guessed, Miss Caldwell, I’ve come to see Abby. Would you mind if I had a few words with her—alone?’

‘Not at all.’ Hannah looked to Abby for confirmation. ‘You can use the parlour. You’ll be private enough in there.’

Abby was tempted to refuse to speak to him, after his silence the night before, but meeting Aunt Hannah’s eyes, she knew she could not cause a scene without upsetting the old lady.

Getting up from her chair, she glanced at Piers, indicating that he should follow her, and opening the door into the tiny hall, led the way into the front parlour.

It was a chilly room, despite the strengthening warmth outside. The parlour faced north, and seldom got any sun, and in consequence it had an air of dampness and neglect. Like the garden, thought Abby inconsequently, trying not to let the prospect of the coming interview unnerve her.

She hung back to allow Piers to enter the room, but he stood politely aside until she had preceded him. Crossing the patterned carpet to the hearth, Abby shivered, not entirely because of the cold, and faced him rather defensively, her arms wrapped protectively across her body.

Piers closed the door behind him, and leaning back against the panels, surveyed the old-fashioned little room. An upright sofa and chairs, lots of little tables, and knickknacks everywhere, it was typical of any Victorian parlour, and Abby wondered what he was thinking as he looked about him. Was he remembering the first time he had entered this room, the night Aunt Hannah had spent in Carlisle, visiting a sick cousin? Or was he recalling how they had once made love on the hearth, long after Aunt Hannah had gone to bed? The room had memories, memories she would rather forget, and she shifted a little uncomfortably as his eyes returned to her.

‘You know why I’m here, of course,’ he said, all trace of affability wiped from his voice. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what that little scene last night was meant to achieve. How did you know I’d be meeting that train? Did Hannah tell you? If so, I’d be interested to know where she got her information.’

Abby drew a deep breath, realising she would gain nothing by losing her temper. ‘Believe it or not, you were the last person I expected to see. Or wanted to see, for that matter. As you know, Aunt Hannah’s been ill. Her doctor asked me to try and persuade her how dangerous it is for her to live alone. That’s the only reason I’m here.’ Piers’ eyes were narrowed, the thick lashes she had once teased him were like a girl’s, shadowing their expression. ‘Wouldn’t a letter have been just as effective—and less expensive?’

‘Perhaps. But I happen to care about Aunt Hannah. She’s the only person who’s ever cared about me.’

A spasm of impatience crossed his face at her words, but he did not refer to them when he said: ‘Why did you bring the boy with you? What useful purpose does he serve?’

Abby caught her breath. ‘He’s my son, Piers. And it may come as something of a shock to you to learn that I care about him, too.’

Piers straightened away from the door. ‘Was there no one you could have left him with? A—friend, perhaps.’

Abby’s resentment stirred. ‘If you mean a man friend, then I’m afraid I must disappoint you. Matt and I live alone.’

Piers shrugged. ‘Surely you have girl friends.’

‘That’s my affair.’ Abby was getting annoyed, in spite of herself. ‘And why shouldn’t I bring Matt here? This is where he belongs.’

Piers’ eyes were harsh with contempt. ‘So that’s what you’ve told him.’

Abby gasped, ‘I haven’t told him anything!’

‘You told him that I was his father.’

‘You are!’

Piers’ lips curled. ‘Oh, please! Let’s not get into that again.’ He breathed heavily. ‘The fact remains, you told him who I was, you pointed me out. Why else did he come chasing after me, and subject both myself and Val to that embarrassing introduction?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Abby was having difficulty now in keeping her temper in check. He was so sure of himself, so arrogant. And she could not deny the little spurt of irritation she had experienced when he spoke of the other girl in that possessive way. ‘I got a shock,’ she continued. ‘It was—so unexpected. I didn’t tell Matt who you were—not in so many words. I didn’t have to. He guessed. And how could I anticipate what he would do?’

Piers thrust his hands into the pockets of the worn black corded jacket he was wearing. ‘You’re telling me he saw a complete stranger and guessed I was his father?’ he demanded caustically. ‘Credit me with a little intelligence, Abby, please.’

‘You—bastard!’ Abby gazed across at him bitterly. ‘Do you think I wanted him to know his own father had disowned him? Do you think I’d have let him take the risk that you might deny all knowledge of him?’ She shook her head. ‘Until two years ago, he thought you were dead! I wish he still believed it.’

Piers regarded her sceptically. ‘What are you saying? That he suddenly discovered we were related?’

‘He read a letter Aunt Hannah sent me,’ declared Abby tersely. ‘He saw your name in it and identified it as being the same as that on his birth certificate. He’s not stupid, you know. The chances of my knowing two men called Piers are rather remote, don’t you think?’

Piers’ mouth compressed. ‘So you told him your story.’

‘No!’ Abby was indignant. ‘I didn’t tell him any story. I simply explained that—that our marriage hadn’t worked. That we were—incompatible.’

‘And I suppose there’s no connection between my writing to you about the divorce and your turning up here.’

‘No!’ Abby was adamant.

Piers made a sound midway between acknowledgement and derision, and then walked broodingly across to the leaded windows. Beyond Aunt Hannah’s small patch of garden, a sleek Mercedes station wagon was parked in the road. Grey, with an elegant red line along the side, it gleamed in the early morning light, the sun glinting off polished metalwork and mirror-like chrome. Another of the estate vehicles, thought Abby, wishing he would go. The Roths spent more on cars every year than she and Matthew had to live on.

‘What does the boy know about me?’ Piers asked suddenly, keeping his back to her. ‘I suppose he believes I’m to blame for the—what was it you said—the incompatibility of our marriage.’

‘As a matter of fact, Matt blames me,’ Abby flung at him angrily. ‘That should please you. The ultimate irony!’

Piers turned. ‘It doesn’t please me at all,’ he replied harshly. ‘The boy’s yours. Why don’t you tell him the truth? That although he bears my name, he’s not my son!’

‘Because it wouldn’t be true,’ retorted Abby bleakly. ‘Oh, why don’t you go away, Piers? You’re not wanted here. Don’t worry, I’ll see that Matt doesn’t bother you again. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.’

‘Will you?’ Piers walked back to his previous position, only nearer now, so that she could smell the warmth of his body, and the distinctive scent of the cheroots he evidently still favoured. Then he sighed before saying quietly: ‘I believe you when you say you didn’t expect to see me at the station.’ He paused to give his words emphasis before continuing: ‘I suggest it was an unfortunate incident, and that we both try and forget what happened.’

If he had expected his mild words would appease Abby, he was mistaken. On the contrary, she preferred it better when he was saying what he really thought, not paying lip service to a dead, or dying, relationship.

‘How considerate of you!’ she exclaimed tautly, too conscious of his nearness and resentful of her own reactions to it. ‘Don’t patronise me, Piers. I don’t need it. Go, make your apologies to Miss Langton. She needs them—I don’t.’

‘I was not apologising!’ Piers’ tawny eyes glittered, hard and predatory, like a cat’s. ‘While I’m prepared to accept that you couldn’t have known I was meeting Val off the train, I still say it was the height of folly to bring the boy up here, particularly at this time, knowing he was bound to be curious about me.’

‘At this time?’ Abby plucked the words out of his mouth. ‘What do you mean, at this time?’

‘I mean with the divorce pending.’

‘Matt knows nothing about the divorce.’

‘Are you sure?’

Piers was staring at her, and belatedly Abby wondered whether he might not be right. Apart from his initial enquiry, Matthew had showed no further interest in that other letter, and only now did she wonder whether, like Aunt Hannah’s letter previously, he had found his father’s communication and read it.

Now she shook her head a little uneasily, unable either to deny or confirm his suspicions. ‘I don’t think he knows,’ she said finally. ‘But even if he does, what difference does it make?’

‘You ask me that!’ Piers drew a deep breath. ‘For God’s sake, Abby, the boy believes that I’m his father!’

‘So?’

‘God!’ With a groan of anguish, Piers thrust the long fingers of one hand through his hair. ‘Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what you or I believe. It’s what he believes that counts. Do you want him to get hurt?’

‘Why should you care?’

‘I’d care about any child in similar circumstances.’ Piers moved his shoulders impatiently. ‘Abby, you’ve got to tell him the truth. The boy’s bright enough. He’ll understand.’

Abby’s control snapped. ‘Is that what you think? Is that what you really think?’ Her green eyes darted fire. ‘You supercilious prig! How dare you come here and preach to me about the son whose existence you’ve ignored for nearly twelve years! What do you care whether he’s hurt or not? What feelings of remorse will you feel when Matthew and I are safely out of your life for good? How convenient it was to pretend Matthew wasn’t yours! What a comfortable let-out, from a marriage gone sour! Why, you didn’t even have to pay me any maintenance. You could forget all about us!’

Piers’ jaw hardened. ‘That’s not true. I sent you money——’

‘And I returned it,’ cut in Abby contemptuously. ‘I didn’t want your charity!’

‘It was not charity.’

‘What was it, then?’ Abby found she was actually enjoying his evident frustration. ‘A bid to salve your conscience?’ she taunted. ‘An attempt to prove that all I really wanted was your money? Or a way to appease those feelings of guilt you couldn’t quite erase?’

‘No!’ With a face contorted by the strength of his emotions, Piers’ hand came out and closed about her upper arm, jerking her towards him. ‘Believe it or not, one of us still possessed some sense of decency,’ he snapped, his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘You selfish little bitch! When did you ever think of anyone else but yourself?’

Abby brought her hand back then and slapped him, the sound of the impact ringing round the cluttered little room. It was an instinctive reaction to what he had said, an uncontrollable impulse that she regretted almost as soon as it was done. With a sense of horror, she watched the white marks her fingers had made appear on his cheek, and sensed the iron control he was exerting not to respond in kind.

‘I should have expected that from you,’ he grated, and for a few agonising seconds, Abby thought he was about to exact revenge. His grip on her arm tightened, and she was forced even nearer, so that she could feel the hard muscles of his thigh against her hip.

With an unsteady gaze she looked up at him, close enough now to see the pulse beating at his jawline, the flaring hollows of his nostrils, and the thick curling lashes with their sun-bleached tips. He was breathing heavily, his narrow lips separated to reveal the even whiteness of his teeth, his breath mingling with hers, warm and sweet. But it was the savage brilliance of his eyes that held her gaze, those strange tawny irises, flecked with gold, and undoubtedly smouldering with the heat of his anger. They impaled her like a sword, hard and unyielding, and filled with—contempt?

She wasn’t sure any more. As he continued to hold her, as the warmth of her body against his thigh penetrated the fine cloth of his trousers, his expression changed, became fiercer and yet more malleable, his unwilling awareness of her as a woman superseding the violent revulsion she provoked.

‘I should kill you!’ he muttered, bending his head towards her, and Abby’s quivering lips parted almost involuntarily.

He was going to kiss her, she thought incredulously. In spite of his contempt, his anger, his hatred, he still had some feeling for her, and her limbs turned to water as his passionate gaze swept down to her mouth.

And then she was free. In the space of a moment, her blind anticipation of his touch became an unforgivable weakness, and she despised herself utterly as he strode towards the door.

He turned as he reached the door, and with his fingers on the handle, regarded her contemptuously. ‘I hope I never have to see you again,’ he said, any emotion she imagined she had seen in his face erased completely. ‘You’re right—I was glad of the child’s birth to escape from an impossible relationship. Our marriage was a farce from the beginning. Perhaps I should have told you the truth before I married you. Perhaps I was to blame for that. But how was I to know then what an over-sexed little bitch you were, and how little time it would take before you betrayed yourself!’

CHAPTER THRE

‘MUM?’

Matthew’s anxious voice from the open doorway alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone. It took quite an effort to turn and face him, aware as she was that her eyelids were probably puffy, and the evidence of her recent bout of weeping was impossible to hide. But he had to be answered, and she held her handkerchief to her nose as she turned about.

‘You’re up,’ she said, unnecessarily, mentally noting the fact that his jeans were getting too short for him again. ‘I—did you sleep well? I expect Aunt Hannah will give you some breakfast if you ask her.’

‘She’s boiling me two eggs,’ said Matthew, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘What’s the matter, Mum? Why have you been crying?’

Abby sighed, and put her handkerchief away. ‘Oh—you know how it is,’ she murmured, hoping to divert him. ‘Old places, old memories——’

‘My father’s been here, hasn’t he?’ Matthew stated flatly, shocking her out of her lethargy. ‘I heard his voice. It woke me up. Why did he come here so early?’

Abby struggled to find an answer for him. ‘Your—your father’s a busy man,’ she got out at last. ‘I expect he has things to do later.’

‘It was about last night, wasn’t it?’ mumbled Matthew, scuffing his toe. ‘He was annoyed because I broke in on his meeting with that Langton woman.’

‘Well, you did embarrass him,’ agreed Abby wearily. ‘Matt, let’s not go over that again now. You—you behaved impulsively, you didn’t think what you were doing. I’m sure your father appreciates that. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

‘Forget it!’ Matthew’s jaw jutted. ‘I don’t want to forget it. At least I’ve met him now. And I think he liked me. ‘Course, with that silly female being there, we couldn’t have a proper conversation, but when I see him again——’

‘Again!’ Abby stared at him. ‘Matt, you won’t be seeing him again.’

‘Why not?’ Matthew’s mouth took on a downward slant. ‘You can’t stop me from seeing him. He’s my father. Why do you think I was so keen to come here? After reading his letter, I knew it might be the last chance I’d get.’

‘You read your father’s letter?’

Matthew had the grace to look a little shamefaced now, but he bluffed it out. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he demanded. ‘You weren’t going to tell me, were you? He wants a divorce—I read that. Why? Does he want to marry that Langton woman?’

‘Oh, Matt!’ Abby shook her head helplessly. ‘I wish you’d try to understand. Your—your father isn’t interested in us, in either of us. He just wants his freedom.’

Matthew looked sulky. ‘You don’t know that. You think because he doesn’t want you, it follows that he doesn’t want me. Well, that needn’t be true. Lots of couples separate, but the kids get to see both parents—regularly.’

‘It’s not like that.’ Abby was close to telling him exactly how it really was, but compassion forbade her from destroying what little dignity he had left. ‘Matt, don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault, honestly. But—but this morning your father told me that he doesn’t want to see—either of us again.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘It is true.’ Abby would have gone to him then and put her hands on his shoulders, but Matt backed away.

‘What did you say to him?’ he demanded, and she was dismayed to hear the choke of a sob in his voice. ‘I bet you told him to get lost. My father wouldn’t refuse to see me—he wouldn’t! You’ve done this. It’s all your fault.’

‘Matt——’

But Matthew had gone, charging back through the kitchen as if the devil himself was at his heels. Abby followed him more slowly, hearing, like the death knell of all her hopes for their relationship, his booted feet hammering up the wooden staircase.

Hannah looked up from the bread she was cutting when Abby appeared, turning her head towards the stairs before giving the girl her attention. ‘Whatever has happened?’ she exclaimed. ‘First Piers goes striding out of the house, without even a word of farewell, and now Matthew dashes up the stairs, as if you’d taken a whip to him!’

‘Don’t ask,’ said Abby tiredly, sinking down into a chair beside the table. ‘Honestly, sometimes I wish I’d died in childbirth, like my mother. I just don’t think I’ve got the will to go on.’

‘Of course you have.’ Hannah spoke half angrily. ‘And don’t let me hear you suggest such a dreadful thing again! Be thankful for what you do have—your youth and your health. There’s many a one would envy you, just remember that.’

Abby sighed. ‘I know, I know. But I don’t know what I’m going to do, Aunt Hannah. Matt blames me for everything. He even blames me for sending Piers away this morning, and goodness knows, that wasn’t how it was.’

‘Hah!’ Hannah snorted impatiently. ‘I suppose Piers came to tell you to keep the boy out of his way.’

‘Something like that.’

Hannah shook her head. ‘The man’s a fool! Can’t he see the resemblance between them? Both so stubborn! Both blaming you for something that wasn’t your fault. I could knock their heads together!’

‘If only it was that simple,’ sighed Abby wryly. ‘You know, I really believed that sooner or later Piers would begin to have doubts.’

‘I doubt his mother would have let him,’ retorted Hannah crisply, taking Matthew’s eggs out of the pan. ‘You really reinforced her position when you became pregnant so soon after your marriage. And she’s had years to brainwash Piers into believing that story about you and Tristan.’

‘I suppose Tristan going away didn’t help.’

‘No.’ Hannah conceded the point. ‘And for a while, the Olivers were very bitter. But Lucy’s grown up now. Do you remember Lucy Oliver? Well, she’s grown up and married, and her husband’s taken over the running of the farm.’

‘Tristan went to Canada, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Hannah nodded. ‘And I believe he’s done very well. He’s married, too, of course—a Canadian girl, naturally. They have three children.’

‘Lucky Tristan!’ Abby gave a rueful sigh. ‘How much simpler it would have been if I’d married Tristan when I had the chance.’

‘You didn’t love him,’ declared Hannah practically. ‘You think it would have been simpler, and perhaps it would, in some ways. But Abby,’ do you honestly think you’d have been happy, over a prolonged period? All right, so things with Piers didn’t work out as you expected. At least you took your happiness while you had the chance.’

‘For which I’m paying now,’ remarked Abby dryly, putting up both hands to massage the aching muscles at the back of her neck. She moved her shoulders helplessly. ‘Why couldn’t Piers at least have given me an opportunity to explain? Or if he had agreed to speak to Dr Morrison again, taken some more tests——’

‘Abby, Abby …’ Hannah gazed at her compassionately. ‘You really can’t be that naïve! Not after more than twelve years of marriage. You know how important these things can be; particularly to a man. Piers had taken that medical, on his mother’s advice, to assure himself that there was nothing wrong——’

‘But the tests must have been wrong, you know that!’ Abby exclaimed, blinking back the tears that persistently pricked at the backs of her eyes.

‘Maybe.’ Hannah acknowledged her words. ‘But the fact remains that Piers had no reason to doubt their veracity. Surely now you realise how he must have felt. Good heavens, he didn’t even tell you, even though that had been his mother’s intention all along.’

‘But she couldn’t have believed that it would make any difference to my feelings for Piers!’ Abby was incredulous.

‘Why not? Most young women want children, even today.’

‘But we could have adopted a child.’

‘It’s not the same. Or at least, Piers didn’t think so. Abby, try to put yourself in his position. How would you have felt if some doctor had told you you couldn’t have children?’

Abby shifted in her seat. ‘Nevertheless, he should have given me a chance to explain——’

‘I suppose he should. But the evidence was pretty damning, wasn’t it? And then your discovering you were pregnant only weeks later.’

‘Aunt Hannah!’ Abby gazed indignantly at her aunt. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘I’m only playing devil’s advocate,’ replied Hannah smoothly. ‘I sympathise with you, my dear, you know I do. But I can’t help thinking that running away didn’t help anything.’

‘I couldn’t have stayed here.’ Abby shuddered. ‘I couldn’t have had my baby here.’

‘Why not?’

Abby shook her head. ‘I didn’t want Piers to see me. I didn’t want him watching me, observing me—despising me when I grew fat and ugly——’

‘Pregnant women do not grow fat and ugly,’ exclaimed Hannah, impatiently. ‘Stop exaggerating, Abby. You ran away because you hadn’t the guts to stay and face them!’

‘Aunt Hannah!’

‘Well, it’s true, Abby. I’m sorry, but it is. You’ve let the Roths determine how you live your life. Oh—going off to London may have been fine, and I’m not denying you’ve made a niche for yourself there. But don’t imagine it was solely to prove your independence you left Rothside. You left because you let the Roths drive you away.’

Abby got up from the chair and walked unsteadily across to the windows. ‘Is that what you really think of me?’ she asked, in a small voice, and Hannah clicked her tongue before going after her and slipping her arm about her.

‘My dear, you mean everything to me, you know that. But it’s no use deluding yourself that by running away from a problem you can evade it. Sooner or later it always recoils on you, and I suggest that this is what’s happened now.’

‘With—with Matt, you mean?’

Hannah nodded.

‘But what can I do?’

‘Well, running away again isn’t going to help.’

‘What do you mean?’ Abby turned to look at the old lady.

‘Matthew isn’t going to forgive you until you can prove to him that you were not to blame for what happened.’

‘And how can I do that?’

‘By coming back here to live. By giving him the chance to see his father as he really is.’

‘No.’ Abby moved her head vigorously from side to side. ‘Aunt Hannah, I told you before, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why couldn’t you?’

‘I told you. It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘To Piers?’ Hannah made a sound of exasperation. ‘Abby, Matthew is Piers’ son!’

‘I know.’

‘Then what earthly right has he to be allowed to ignore the fact?’

Abby caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘What would people say? What would they think?’

‘Does it matter? They’ll probably think you had the child while you were in London. Which you did,’ she added dryly, ‘but you know what I mean.’

Abby hesitated. ‘But how could I ever prove Matthew is Piers’ son. He’ll never believe me.’

‘Perhaps you won’t have to.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Matthew,’ said Hannah simply.

‘Matthew?’ Abby was confused.

‘My dear, if you bring Matthew to live here, if you install him in the school at Alnbury, and you let him mix with the other boys from the village, can you imagine how Piers will feel?’

‘I doubt he’ll feel anything.’

‘Won’t he?’ Hannah looked sceptical. ‘Don’t you think, human nature being what it is, he’ll resent it.’

‘Resent it, yes, but——’

‘Listen to me, Abby. I’m a lot older and perhaps a little wiser than you are. All right, I agree that to begin with Piers will resent it, but give him time. Sooner or later, other emotions will take its place, and that’s when his heart-searching will start.’

‘Heart-searching!’ Abby’s lips twisted. ‘Aunt Hannah, I think you’re deluding yourself.’

‘Remember, Abby, he’s not going to be able to ignore you. Valerie Langton knows who you are, and thanks to Matthew, she knows who he is as well.’

‘Do you think Piers will allow that to trouble him?’ Abby expelled her breath heavily. ‘Aunt Hannah, you know what Piers will have told her. The truth—as he sees it.’

‘Nevertheless, the doubts have been planted.’

‘Aunt Hannah, you’re not being realistic.’

‘No? The man loved you once, didn’t he?’

‘ “Once” being the operative word.’

‘Even so, seeing you again, hearing about you from other people in the village, as he’s bound to do, is going to revive memories.’

‘Memories he would rather forget.’

‘Some of them, I agree. But there are others, Abby, that he won’t find so easy to ignore.’

Abby moved away from her. ‘Aunt Hannah, if you think, after all that has happened, I could ever forgive Piers for what he did——’

‘I don’t expect miracles,’ retorted Hannah flatly. ‘I thought we were talking about Matthew. It’s Matthew you should be thinking about, Matthew’s future that should be ensured. He is Piers’ son, Abby, and by rights the Manor estate should eventually come to him.’

‘Well, yes, but——’

‘At least give nature a chance. The boy is like his father. Oh, maybe it’s not immediately obvious from his appearance. His colouring is yours, and just now, with that terrible haircut and those awful boots, he bears little resemblance to Piers at that age. But given time, and a change of environment, who knows what might happen? And I’d really like to see Piers’ face when he begins to suspect he may have been wrong all these years.’

Abby’s lips tightened. She would like to see that, too, she thought bitterly. Even if it wouldn’t make any difference to what happened to her, it would be sweet revenge to know Piers was having to live with his folly for the rest of his life …

Matthew appeared at lunchtime. Hannah had taken his breakfast upstairs to him, and although she grimaced rather ruefully at Abby when she came downstairs again, when the tray was finally returned it had been cleared.

Abby was relieved to see her son and reassured to find he had apparently got over his distress. Apart from the faintly sullen expression in his eyes when he looked at her, he seemed much as usual, answering Aunt Hannah when she spoke to him, and making short work of the steak and kidney pie she had baked for lunch.

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