thought of beginning again with strangers.
The doorbell rang behind her, and she turned automatically, going to open it without hesitation. She guessed it might be the launderers or the caterers, or even the firm of contractors who had been redecorating the dormitories, and making minor repairs, and she flung the door wide, glad of the diversion. But the man and the boy who stood outside the door were not tradespeople at all, and Ashley’s jaw sagged in horror as she perceived their identity.
The man, too, looked taken aback at her appearance, but with the assurance that came from his position he recovered more quickly, hiding his real feelings behind a mask of courtesy. As she struggled to evade the encroaching wave of blackness that threatened to engulf her, he gathered his composure and assumed a polite expression, and she was left to gaze at the boy, as if she was afraid he might disappear in a cloud of smoke.
She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, she simply couldn’t believe it, and her knees shook abominably as she hung desperately on to the door handle. The amazing thing was, he even looked like her, although he had his father’s dark hair and skin. But the green eyes were hers, and so too was the straight nose, and the generous mouth was parted slightly, as if aware of some irregularity here.
‘Miss—Miss Gilbert, is it not?’ Just by the momentary hesitation did Alain betray his agitation, and Ashley dragged her gaze from the boy’s tall slim figure to the man’s tautly controlled features.
‘P-Prince Alain,’ she acknowledged, bowing her head. ‘Wh-what can I do for you?’
Alain glanced about him half impatiently, as if seeking deliverance. A tall lean man, with straight dark hair, and just the slightest crook in his nose, where it had once been broken in a boyish fight, he had changed little over the years, she thought. He was, she knew, in his early thirties now, and although the lines in his face were more deeply carved than they had been, he was still the most disturbing man she had ever encountered. In an immaculately-cut European suit, he looked cool and businesslike, but she also knew he looked equally well in a loose flowing burnous or the tunic-like djellaba he had worn about his apartment. The apartment! Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. Why did she have to think of that now?
Alain fixed her with a steely gaze, and then spoke, almost with reluctance. ‘I wish to speak with a Monsieur Henley,’ he declared, his deep voice harsher than she remembered. ‘He is the headmaster here, is he not? Will you please tell him I am here?’
Just like that, thought Ashley bitterly. Within the space of a few moments, he had accepted her presence in the school and dismissed it, and was already issuing his orders. He did not ask how she was; he did not ask what she was doing here; he did not care how she might be feeling, having just seen her son for the first, and possibly only, time in her life. Without sensitivity or emotion, he expected her to do his bidding, and ignore the deeper ravages of time and circumstance.
Her eyes moved to the boy again, searching his face eagerly, hungrily, seeking some recognition from him, even though she knew such a thing was impossible. The boy did not know her. He had probably not been told of her existence. And of a certainty, his uncle would never reveal her identity.
Yet, as if aware of the intentness of her gaze, Andrew responded, his mouth tilting at the corners to form a smile, a smile that entered his eyes and caused them to twinkle with evident humour. He smiled at her, shyly but warmly, and her heart palpitated wildly at this evidence of his amusement. Ashley could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes, she could sense the unspoken communication between them; and she knew an almost uncontrollable impulse to put her arms around him and hold him close …
‘Mr Henley, mademoiselle?’ Alain did not move, but the barrier his words erected was an almost physical thing. ‘He is here, is he not?’
‘What? Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’
Foolishly, Ashley stepped backward, her eyes still on the boy, still shaking with the emotions he had aroused in her. He was so handsome, she thought, so beautiful! And he was hers! Her son! Hers and—–
‘Will you give Mr Henley my message?’
Alain’s voice had hardened, and as she dragged her eyes to him once again she flinched beneath the withering contempt of his gaze. Of course, she thought bitterly, he must know how she was feeling, but what satisfaction was he getting from torturing her in this way?
Shaking her head, she tried to recover some perspective. He was here—they were here—to see Malcolm, and somehow she had to accept that this encounter was an accident, nothing more, a cruel accident, for which none of them was to blame. It was not a deliberate attempt to wound her, to crucify her with images of what might have been. Alain must be as shocked as she was, but she knew well his capacity to hide his true feelings.
‘I—er—I’ll get someone to take you to Mr Henley,’ she said huskily, knowing she could not do it herself. Not now. Not when Malcolm knew! It would be just too much for her to bear.
As they stepped into the hall she looked about her desperately, praying for a friendly face, and was rewarded when Mr Norris, the elderly caretaker, came trudging down the stairs.
‘Oh, Mr Norris,’ she exclaimed in relief. ‘Mr—er—this gentleman wishes to see Mr Henley. Do you think you could show him the way to Miss Langley’s office? She—she’ll see if Mr Henley is free.’
‘Very well, Miss Gilbert.’ Mr Norris smiled. He liked the young English mistress. She was quiet and unassuming, and she wasn’t always complaining when the lights fused or the radiators persistently remained cold. ‘If you’ll follow me, Mr—er—–?
‘Gauthier,’ inserted Alain without expression, shunning his title. ‘Thank you.’
His thanks encompassed both of them, but Ashley was scarcely paying attention. She was looking at Andrew again, imprinting his likeness in her mind, creating an image for all the empty years ahead of her, holding it there with a persistence born of desperation. If only, she thought, as he started obediently after Mr Norris, if only …
‘Do not even think of it,’ Alain’s harsh voice decreed, in a tone low enough for only her to hear. ‘He is not your son. He is Hassan’s. He will never be told that his mother caused his father to take his own life!’
ASHLEY arrived back at her flat in a state of extreme nervous exhaustion. She had a sense of unreality, too, as if what had happened was just some awful nightmare, from which she must soon awaken. But although she might wish otherwise, the feelings fermenting inside her were not imaginary, and nor was the raw vulnerability of her emotions. She felt exposed and defenceless, powerless in the face of such a potent adversary, and no amount of objective thinking or cold self-analysis could spare her the agony of losing her soil for the second time.
As she ground the beans and filled the coffee percolator, all without any conscious thought, she thought how incredible it was that she should have allowed the Gauthiers to take him without a fight. He was her son. She was his mother. She had the most elemental right in the world to look after him, and care for him, so why had she let him go so easily?
Clattering a cup into a saucer, she knew she did not have to think hard to find the answer. It was because of Alain she had let him go, because of Alain she had not put up a fight; and because of Alain she was now in this deplorable position.
Leaving
