was speaking to her again, and helplessly she shook her head.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘it is your father. But he hasn’t come to meet us, as you can see.’
Matthew’s expression revealed a conflicting number of emotions in quick succession, and then he turned to gaze at the man by the barrier with wide incredulous eyes.
Piers was moving away at last, Abby saw with relief. His companion had slipped her arm through his, and a porter had been engaged to carry her two suitcases. No doubt he had his car outside, she thought, trying not to feel bitter. No buses for Miss Langton. A comfortable ride home in the front of Piers’ limousine. Of all the bad luck, she fretted—that Piers should be at the station, tonight of all nights. Poor Matthew! How must he be feeling? Seeing his own father for the first time, and not being able to identify himself!
She was handing over their tickets to be clipped when Matthew darted away from her. One moment he was there, standing beside her, holding their cases; the next, he had dropped the cases to the ground and was sprinting after Piers and the girl.
Abby’s initial sense of horror froze any protest she might have made. It was like some awful nightmare. She was powerless to stop him, and with a dry mouth and quivering limbs she could only watch her son catch up with the other two. She saw him touch Piers’s sleeve, she saw him speak to him; and she saw the look of dismay that crossed the girl’s face as she looked incredulously up at the man beside her.
ABBY woke the next morning with a distinct feeling of disorientation. It was the silence that was the most disturbing aspect, the cessation of the sounds she had heard every morning for the past dozen years, and which generally awakened her before her alarm. Now there was no sound but the occasional cooing of the doves from the rooftop, and the argumentative chatter of starlings, quarrelling over the crumbs on the lawn.
She was at Rothside, she remembered with sudden apprehension. She was lying in her own bed at Ivy Cottage, the bed she had slept in for more than fifteen years, before Piers, and their marriage, had destroyed that life for ever.
Pushing back the bedcovers, she padded across the floor, her toes curling when they missed the rug and encountered the polished wood. Her window was set under the eaves, and she had to bend her head to look out of it, but the view that met her anxious gaze was as familiar as it had ever been.
Ivy Cottage was set on the outskirts of the village, but if she turned her head, she could see the green some yards away, and the duckpond, where she used to sail her paper boats. It was not a large village. Apart from the post office and general stores, there were no other shops, and in winter it was not unusual for them to be cut off for days, when the snow was heavy. But it was home to her, much more her home, she realised, than the flat in Greenwich could ever be, and she looked rather wistfully at the grey stone buildings. If only she had never married Piers Roth, she thought, she might still be living here. If, instead of marrying a man not only older, but whose way of life had been so much different from hers, she had married Tristan Oliver, none of this would have happened. She wondered, with a pang, how she might have adapted to being a farmer’s wife. Certainly, Piers’ mother would have said it was more appropriate. She had never wanted Abby to marry her son. She had opposed their relationship in every way she could, and only Piers’ persistence had prevailed. But, as things had turned out, her fears had been vindicated, at least so far as the Roths were concerned.
Turning from the window, Abby wrapped her arms tightly about her thinly-clad body. She had not wanted to think about the Roths, but after what had happened the night before, she could think of little else. That scene at the station was imprinted on her mind in stark and humiliating detail, and the remembrance of Matthew’s behaviour filled her with both anger and pity.
It had all been so awful—so embarrassing—so absurdly comical. Not that she had found any of it funny. On the contrary, she had wanted to die a thousand deaths when Piers turned and looked at her with that cold calculating stare. Yet in retrospect, it had had its moments of humour, if any of them had been objective enough to see them.
But none of them had, of course. Matthew’s impulsive self-introduction had robbed the scene of any amusement, and Abby had the distinct impression that Piers thought she had put him up to it.
Oh, it had been terrible! Putting up her palms to her hot cheeks, Abby shuddered with revulsion, and unable to stand her own company any longer, she put on her dressing gown and made her way downstairs.
Although it was only half past seven, Hannah Caldwell was already up and dressed. For all her great age, she seemed hardly to have changed since Abby saw her last, though perhaps she moved a little slower as she took the kettle off the stove. She turned as her niece entered the kitchen and surveyed Abby with warm affection, indicating the cups on the tray and the teapot steaming beside it.
‘I was just going to bring us both a pot of tea upstairs,’ she declared, her rosy cheeks dimpling with pleasure. ‘But now you’re up, we can have it down here.’
Abby squeezed the hand the old lady offered, and went to sit at the kitchen table. She might never have been away, she reflected, blinking back a feeling of emotionalism. Thank heavens for Aunt Hannah, she thought, drawing a steadying breath. Right now, she needed someone to talk to.
‘So …’ The old lady set the tray between them, and seated herself opposite. ‘You’re here!’ She reached for Abby’s hand again. ‘Are you going to stay?’
‘Just for the weekend,’ said Abby brightly, trying to behave naturally. ‘You know that. I told you in my letter——’
‘Yes, I know. But you also told me you were worried about Matthew, and now that I’ve met him, I can understand why.’
Abby sighed, and rested her chin on her knuckles. ‘You mean what happened last night?’
‘I mean the reasons behind what happened last night,’ replied Hannah, pouring the tea. ‘Abby, why haven’t you told Matthew the truth?’
‘How could I?’ Abby cradled her cup in her cold hands. ‘He’d never believe me. Not now.’
‘What do you mean? Not now?’
Abby shook her head. ‘It was easier to pretend his father was dead. I mean—so far as we were concerned, he was.’
‘Oh, Abby!’
‘Well …’ Abby tried to justify herself. ‘Aunt Hannah, Piers had disowned us; he’d disowned Matthew. Could you have told him that?’
‘When did he find out?’
‘About two years ago.’
‘How?’
Abby hesitated. ‘He—must have seen his birth certificate.’
‘And?’
Abby put her cup down. ‘He read one of your letters, while I was out.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘It was my fault. I should have realised he was getting older, more inquisitive.’
‘You mean he put two and two together.’ Hannah sighed. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I should have been more careful.’
‘Why
