her head. ‘I can never understand why. She’s never been fond of children—not even her own if memory serves,’ she added drily.
She gave Alanna another smile. ‘I’ve shocked you, haven’t I? But Gerard won’t mind you knowing how things are.’
More information, Alanna thought, that I could well do without.
She said carefully, ‘I think I should make it clear that I haven’t actually known Gerard for very long.’
Mrs Dennison shrugged. ‘He can’t be too concerned about that, or he wouldn’t have invited you,’ she returned calmly. ‘And I’m delighted he did. I intend to tell my nephew that he’s a fool if he lets you slip away.’
Alanna was agonised. ‘Mrs Dennison—please...’
The older woman sighed again. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m fond of Gerard and I want to see him happy again. However, if it means so much to you, I won’t say a word.’ Her smile was suddenly mischievous. ‘Let nature take its course.’
Not, thought Alanna, a course of action with any appeal for me.
Mrs Dennison paused. ‘And here comes my sister, looking rattled. I suppose that means that Mother is now waiting for us all in the dining room, tapping her foot impatiently. Let’s not keep her waiting any longer.’
It was a long and leisurely meal which turned out to be less of a nightmare than Alanna expected. For one thing, the food was excellent and, for another, she found herself sitting at the far end of the table, a long way from Gerard and, thankfully, even further from Zandor.
Her immediate neighbours were Desmond Healey, a quiet, humorous replica of his father, and his pretty wife, both of them drama buffs. And, for a while, she managed to lose herself in a light-hearted argument about TV noir and if the Scandinavians still led the field or had been overtaken by the French and Italians.
When the meal was over, it was late enough for her to be able to excuse herself politely from the return to the drawing room, a swift glance having assured her that Zandor was nowhere to be seen, claiming mendaciously that coffee kept her awake but adding truthfully it had been a very long day.
She’d noticed that Niamh Harrington was also missing and that Gerard had disappeared again too, presumably to continue their earlier conference, so she was able to escape up to her room without any further unwonted and public demonstrations of affection from him.
No wonder people were thinking their relationship was a done deal, she thought, closing her door and, for reasons she was unable to explain, turning its heavy key in the old-fashioned lock.
She found Mrs Dennison’s comment about wishing to see Gerard ‘happy again’ buzzing in her brain as she got ready for bed.
I’ve never seen any sign that he’s been miserable, she mused, with an inward shrug. Although perhaps having to work for his cousin might be getting him down, which raised the question why he’d accepted a job in the first place from someone who was clearly persona non grata with the rest of the family.
It’s beyond me, she decided as she switched off the lamp. And also not my problem. Not that it ever was or ever would be.
She drew back the curtains to admit the moonlight, and tried to get comfortable on a mattress that she discovered was lumpy as well as hard.
She was almost asleep when she heard the soft knock at the door. She propped herself on an elbow staring across the room and saw in the half-light the handle slowly turn.
She stayed silent, motionless, until it returned to its original position followed by quiet footsteps receding down the passage.
He’d gone—and she didn’t even have to question the identity of her late-night visitor.
As she lay down, she realised she’d also been holding her breath.
That key, she told herself, will go everywhere with me until I finally walk out of here on Sunday morning. And say goodbye to the Harrington family for ever.
ALANNA WOKE VERY early the next morning, aware that she’d spent a restless night in the grip of dreams she was glad not to remember too clearly.
She slid out of bed and crossed to the window, only to find any view of the gardens was obscured by a thick cloud of mist hanging like a pall at tree level.
Towards the east, however, the sky was vermilion shot with flame, promising another hot day. And perhaps more, she thought, remembering an old saying from childhood, ‘Red sky in the morning, sailors’ warning’ which suggested storms in the offing.
As if there hadn’t been enough already, she thought, shivering a little as she pulled on the lawn wrap which matched her white nightdress, before curling up on the thinly cushioned seat under the window.
She should never have agreed to come here, she told herself. Quite apart from the nightmare of finding herself face to face with Zandor again, her visit had obviously raised expectations in Gerard’s family about their relationship which were as premature as they were embarrassing. And which were now, in any case, due to be totally disappointed.
And was that her own reaction too?
In all honesty, she didn’t know. Couldn’t even begin to consider all the might-have-beens that were now denied her.
Not when she had to deal with the reality of Zandor and his ongoing disruption of her life and her peace of mind.
Which had all begun, she recalled wretchedly, with a ‘Meet the Reader’ event, starring the loathsome Jeffrey Winton. And her feet hurting...
Alanna discreetly eased off one high-heeled pump and flexed her toes. These were not standing-about-in shoes, she reflected ruefully, but having her stand beside him instead of sit at the table was Jeffrey’s idea, and certainly not hers.
Nor had it been her plan to spend this Friday evening in a bookshop, listening to him talk about his life, his writing career, primarily his incarnation as Maisie McIntyre, and his future plans to a crowd of adoring women fans.
Clearly no one had ever told him that self-praise was no recommendation.
Izzy, the Hawkseye Publishing publicist scheduled to accompany him, had gone home during the afternoon with a migraine, and Alanna had been the only one around when Hetty came looking for a replacement.
Her protests had been ignored. ‘Sometimes, it’s all hands to the pump,’ Hetty had decreed. ‘It’s simple enough. He just needs someone to pass him the books to be signed and keep the queue moving. Oh, and he prefers smart dress for his back-up,’ she added flicking a glance at Alanna’s jeans, T-shirt and trainers. ‘Including shoes.
‘Also he tends to sign all the books we send so that the shop can’t return them, so fend him off because the owner of SolBooks doesn’t like it.’
Now, nearly an hour into Mr Winton’s description of how he’d learned to get in touch with his feminine side in order to write about the whimsical and endearing events in his rural sagas, Alanna had murder in her heart.
