‘Oh, the child is no bother. Darling, she’s so quiet, she’s practically non-existent.’
That’s me, Rowan told herself ironically, Miss Nonentity, and she made herself a small mocking bow.
She cooked herself the promised poached egg and ate it without appetite while she watched an old film on television. Then she switched off the single bar of the electric fire that she had been using, emptied the ashtrays, switched off the lights and went to bed with a glass of hot milk.
Their flat occupied the top floor of a large Edwardian house, and had been attics and servants’ rooms. As well as the living room, and the kitchenette which had been divided off from it, there was a large bedroom, occupied by Antonia, and a smaller room which had been divided into a minute bathroom and a boxroom. It was this latter that Rowan slept in. She had barely room to move round, but at least she had privacy. She would have hated having to share a room with Antonia.
She undressed and got into bed, then felt under the pillow, extracting a notebook and a ballpoint pen. This was her own time, and Antonia was not the only one to have a secret. Rowan wrote short stories. She had begun at school, encouraged by her English teacher, and she tried to write a little bit each evening before she went to sleep. She had always kept it from Antonia because she knew she would laugh at her. Of course, she was used to Antonia laughing at her really, but she didn’t think she could bear to have scorn poured on this. She had no idea whether what she wrote was any good. In fact, she rather doubted it. One day she would acquire a secondhand typewriter and send some of her work out to magazines, but not yet. If there was going to be a sad awakening for her, she did not want it to be quite so soon.
She was quite satisfied with her evening’s endeavours when she closed the book and slipped it under her pillow again. She switched off her bedside lamp and was soon dreamlessly asleep.
She did not know what woke her. She only knew that she was sitting up in the darkness, her heart thumping, listening intently. Then she realised what she was hearing. Someone was moving round in the living room. She sighed and her whole tense body relaxed in relief. It was only Antonia.
Yet Antonia did not have so heavy a tread, she thought with sudden unease. Nor did she normally bump into the furniture. Then she heard an unmistakably masculine expletive, and without considering the wisdom of her action, she pushed back the covers and jumped out of bed.
She flung open her door and took a step forward into the living room. She saw him at once. He was tall and lean, with tawny hair springing back from his forehead and curling slightly on to his neck. As Rowan entered, he turned to look at her and she saw that he was very tanned, as if he spent a lot of time abroad, and that in contrast his grey eyes were almost silver. He wore a dark green velvet dinner jacket and a frilled and ruffled shirt with a casual elegance that was in no way effete.
She had the craziest feeling that she knew him, that she’d seen him somewhere – perhaps in a newspaper or a magazine, but his name eluded her and the reason he had been photographed.
Then she looked beyond him and with a little cry of alarm she saw Antonia lying on the sofa, very white. The man had been bending over her, and there was a glass in his hand.
Rowan started forward. ‘What have you done to her?’
He stood very still and looked at her, a long hard stare encompassing her from the soles of her bare feet to the top of her head, and she blushed to the roots of her hair, realising what a spectacle she must make in her schoolgirlish gingham nightdress. It was a good job it was opaque, she thought, as she hadn’t bothered to throw her dressing gown on over it.
‘Who the devil are you?’ His voice was low and resonant with the faintest drawl.
‘I’m Rowan Winslow.’ Her voice faltered as she stared anxiously at Antonia.
‘Rowan?’ He frowned. ‘Oh, yes, the child. I’d forgotten …’
Antonia stirred slightly and muttered something and he turned back to her.
‘What’s happened to her?’ Rowan took a further step into the room, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. ‘Is she ill? Did she faint?’
His mouth twisted. For the first time she noticed a slight scar on his face near the corner of his mouth.
‘That’s a delicate way of describing her condition,’ he said sardonically. “‘Passed out” is the more usual phrase.’
‘What?’ Rowan’s eyes went disbelievingly from his face to Antonia’s unconscious form. ‘You can’t mean that – you’re saying that she’s …’
He nodded. ‘As a newt,’ he said pleasantly. ‘If you’ll indicate which is her room, I’ll put her to bed. And you’d better get back to your own before you catch your death of cold.’
Rowan was not listening. ‘You took Antonia out and got her drunk,’ she accused hotly. ‘That’s a swinish thing to do!’
He gave her another more searching look. ‘I took her out, yes.’ His voice was cool. ‘But I can assure you that her over-indulgence in alcohol was all her own idea.’
He bent and lifted Antonia into his arms. She was no lightweight, but he held her as easily as if she were a doll. There was something vaguely obscene about her helplessly dangling legs and the way her head lolled back against his arm, and Rowan swallowed uncomfortably.
‘Her room’s through there.’ She pointed. ‘If – if you’ll just put her down on the bed, I’ll do what’s necessary.’
His brows rose. ‘Aren’t you a little young to be coping with this sort of thing?’ he demanded. ‘Or is it quite a normal occurrence?’
She was just about to give an indignant negative to both his questions, when it occurred to her that perhaps it was no bad thing in the circumstances that he thought she was much younger than she actually was. If Antonia had been drinking to that extent, he could hardly be stone cold sober himself, and it was very late, and they were practically alone together.
‘It isn’t at all a normal occurrence,’ she assured him rather bleakly. ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch my dressing gown.’
It was a warm, unglamorous garment in royal blue wool which had seen service during her boarding school days, and she felt oddly secure once its voluminous folds had enwrapped her.
When she got to Antonia’s room her stepmother was already lying on the bed. The man was standing beside the bed, looking down at her, his face sombre and rather brooding.
‘Do you want me to help you with her dress?’ he enquired as Rowan came in. ‘Your wrists are like sparrows’ legs and you might have difficulty turning her over.’
‘I shall leave her as she is, thank you,’ she replied with dignity, resisting an urge to tuck the offending wrists out of sight in the sleeves of her dressing gown.
‘As you wish,’ he sounded totally indifferent. ‘But if she’s – er – ill in the night and ruins an expensive model gown, she’s unlikely to thank you.’
‘It’s really quite all right.’ She sounded like a prim old maid, Rowan thought despairingly. ‘You don’t need to stay. I’m quite capable of looking after her.’
He smiled suddenly, and she felt her mind reel
