Season Of Mists

‘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.’