Season Of Mists

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 [e-mail] 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.