Born Out Of Love. Anne Mather

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      Charlotte sighed, and came round the table which stood in the middle of the floor to get close to him. ‘Do you, Robert?’ she asked softly. ‘Do you really?’

      He looked up at her miserably. ‘I didn’t—not at first. I was looking forward to it. All the boys back home said they wished they could come and live in the West Indies, and yesterday morning, when we sailed from Tortola, it was super! It really was.’

      ‘Then?’

      ‘That man—Kennedy. He spoilt it.’

      Charlotte found herself compelled to ask: ‘Don’t you like him?’

      Robert shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘I did—to begin with. I mean,’ he went on, as if to justify himself, ‘his job is jolly interesting, isn’t it? And he knows such a lot about the islands—everything. I was looking forward to talking to him some more—maybe even learning about underwater biology and diving.’

      Charlotte shook her head, but she found she could not allow Logan’s son to dismiss his father out of hand. ‘Listen, love,’ she said, looking down at him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, ‘nothing has changed. Not so far as you are concerned—–’

      ‘Yes, it has!’

      ‘No!’ She squeezed his shoulders more tightly. ‘Robert, what you saw—what you shouldn’t have seen—yesterday has nothing to do with you. What’s between—Mr Kennedy and me has no bearing on your relationship with him.’

      ‘Of course it does.’

      ‘Why?’

      Robert stared at her. ‘You’re my mother. No one’s going to hit you while I’m around and get away with it.’

      ‘Oh, love …’ Charlotte felt a ridiculous lump come into her throat, and for once he made no protest when she hugged him. Then she drew back and looked at him again. ‘Robert, you must try to be realistic. Ours is an adult world, and some things can’t be explained. But believe me when I say you shouldn’t prejudge a situation.’

      ‘You mean, you deserved his slapping you?’

      ‘Well, I slapped him first,’ admitted Charlotte reluctantly.

      ‘You did?’ Robert uttered a boyish whoop. ‘Hell, I’d like to have seen that!’

      Charlotte shifted impatiently. ‘Maybe you would, but I’d be glad if you’d moderate your language.’

      ‘Oh, Mum, everybody says hell these days!’

      ‘Do they?’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘Americanisms, too, I suppose.’

      Robert grinned, and a surge of relief swept over her at the knowledge that he didn’t appear to blame her, at least. ‘Where shall we have the tea? he asked, and she suggested they went into her bedroom as they had been accustomed to doing at High Clere.

      Sitting cross-legged on her bed, however, Robert returned to the subject she most wanted to avoid. ‘How long is it since you’ve seen Mr Kennedy?’ he asked curiously.

      Charlotte was glad of her teacup to disguise her expression, but she determined to get this over with, once and for all. ‘I—er—met him several years ago, in England,’ she replied slowly. ‘I told you that.’ She paused. ‘He and your father—–’

      ‘Matthew Derby was not my father!’

      ‘No. Well, as I was saying, they—they met through Matthew’s connections with the university.’

      ‘And he came to our—to High Clere?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Did I meet him?’

      Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘No.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Well, I—I expect you were in bed,’ she responded hastily, and despised herself for getting into this position. Finishing her tea, she slid off the bed, and walked across to the windows. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

      There was silence for so long that eventually she had to turn and look at him, finding him watching her with curiously speculative eyes. Then he smiled, and the momentary chill she had experienced disappeared again.

      ‘Shall I start school straight away?’ he asked unexpectedly, and the simply question created another problem.

      ‘I—don’t know,’ she conceded, her dark brows ascending.

      ‘That’s one of the things we’ll have to find out.’

      ‘At home, the schools will soon be closing down for the summer holidays,’ Robert reminded her hopefully. ‘There doesn’t seem much point in starting something I’m not going to finish.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Will we be staying here after your probationary month is up?’ he explained.

      Charlotte could feel the warm colour invading her cheeks. ‘What makes you ask that question?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Robert shrugged. ‘Just last night—well, I heard you moving about in here long after we went to bed.’

      Charlotte sighed. ‘As I haven’t even begun working for Madame Fabergé yet, how can I tell?’ she lied unhappily, and wished for once that Robert was no more than Philippe’s age, and therefore less apt to jump to the right conclusions. ‘Now, I think you’d better go. I want to get dressed.’

      Robert got obediently off the bed and regarded her with narrow-eyed appraisal. ‘Are you going to tie up your hair?’

      Charlotte spread her hands. ‘Does it matter?’

      Robert shrugged, hauling up the pyjamas that hung loosely on his hips. ‘Just, I was thinking—well, you’re about the same age as Philippe’s mother, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes.’ Charlotte wondered what was coming next.

      ‘So I just thought that perhaps now that—that he’s dead, you might wear your hair loose for a change.’

      ‘In this climate? I think not.’

      ‘You look nicer with it loose. Younger.’

      ‘Yes. Well, being nursemaid to Philippe and Isabelle requires me to be efficient, that’s all, not glamorous,’ she declared tersely, and Robert made a conciliatory gesture as he went out of the room.

      All the same, after she had bathed and made her bed, she did look long and critically at her hair before coiling it into the smooth chignon which curved back from her cheeks, concealing her ears, and resting neatly against the nape of her neck.

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