Her Sister's Baby. Alison Fraser

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      ‘It’s only a couple of group photographs,’ he assured her as they skirted round the corner of the church to find bride and groom posing against a backdrop of a blossoming cherry tree.

      Pen was obviously loving every moment, flirting with the camera in a rather unbridal manner.

      ‘Well, your reticence is clearly not a genetic condition,’ Dray Carlisle added in an undertone.

      Cass took it as criticism and replied a little sharply, ‘Pen’s enjoying her day. What’s wrong with that?’

      ‘Nothing, I suppose,’ he agreed, choosing to be conciliatory. ‘I was merely remarking on how different you are.’

      ‘Well, I’m sure if I was drop-dead gorgeous,’ Cass stated dryly, ‘I’d be tempted to show off a little, too.’

      Dray Carlisle might have taken the comment for envy, but he was too astute for that.

      ‘Would you?’ He studied her openly for a moment: dark hair, green eyes, classic bone structure and a mouth that was wide and generous even as she tried to turn it into a disapproving line. ‘No, I don’t think so. Your looks may not be as obvious as your sister’s but many men would find you the more attractive. I suspect you know that. You just don’t care.’

      He was right, in part. Cass had no interest in being rated on her looks. All the same, his analysis put her more on the defensive.

      ‘And you’ve gathered all this from two minutes’ conversation?’ she returned in disparaging tones.

      ‘Not quite,’ he admitted. ‘Pen has talked about you.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ Cass could imagine the impression Pen had given of her.

      Strait-laced. Inhibited. Repressed, even. Somewhere on that continuum, anyway.

      She didn’t get a chance to enquire further, as the photographer called out, ‘Immediate family, please.’

      ‘Our cue, I believe,’ he prompted, when she made no move to step forward.

      ‘Doesn’t that mean parents?’ She nodded towards the couple already taking up stance beside Tom.

      She’d seen them earlier in church, a tall straight-backed gentleman with grey hair and beard and a rather worldlier looking woman dressed in a lemon silk two-piece and an enormous hat.

      ‘That’s our Uncle Charles,’ he identified the man with a slight smile, before adding with a grimace, ‘along with our stepmother, Monica, who is insisting on being in this photograph regardless of the fact she and Tom can barely tolerate each other. So, as you see, neither side can field the conventional line-up, and I’m sure Penelope will want you in it as closest family.’

      Cass didn’t totally share his confidence but he was already making the decision for her, his hand suddenly clasping hers, pulling her behind him.

      The contact was fleeting but her reaction was not. Long after he positioned her by Pen’s side and reminded her with gentle irony to smile—it wasn’t a funeral—she could feel the warmth and strength of his fingers.

      It was then she should have run, of course. Had her photograph taken. Wished her sister well. Called a taxi and caught the first train back to town.

      But fool that she was, she had to stay. Had to ignore every dictate of good sense just to find out if it was real, that rush of feeling she’d had when he’d touched her hand.

      Real enough, she supposed, only now, three years on, she didn’t feel the need to give it a nice name. Maybe it still began with L and had four letters but that was all it had in common with love, that tortured, destructive feeling she’d had for Dray Carlisle.

      She thanked God it had ended when it had, in a matter of a few short weeks. Thanked Pen for once having been the wiser sister when her own head had been in a state of mush and her body hurting more than her pride.

      It had been like a fever, burning hot and fierce and sending her a little crazy. Then it had suddenly been over. But it had left her weak and fragile for a long time.

      She was better now, of course, and immune. Only anger lingered and that was no bad thing. For angry, she was usually cold and detached, and, in that mood, she might just be able to get through another funeral without breaking down.

      After it, she would grieve alone for her pretty little sister.

      CHAPTER THREE

      CASS didn’t call North Dean Hall to be picked up at the station. Instead she took a taxi and barely made the crematorium in time.

      The Carlisles were en masse at the front. Drayton Carlisle saw her enter and indicated she should join them but she slipped into a chair at the back of the chapel. She wasn’t family, not really.

      The service was a curiously sterile affair. The clergyman spoke of Pen as a devoted wife and homemaker and young mother-to-be, his eulogy full of platitudes and quite erroneous virtues, followed by a dirge of a hymn that Pen would have giggled through if she’d been there beside Cass.

      It was thinking of the real Pen that made tears gather at the back of Cass’s eyes and she swallowed hard. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

      There were others sniffing into handkerchiefs, perhaps friends of Pen from the exclusive country club she and Tom had frequented. Cass noticed two heavily pregnant women and wondered if Pen’s death had left them anxious.

      Cass could have reassured them: few women died in childbirth these days. Just ones with conditions like Pen’s which took the medical profession by surprise. And Pen’s shouldn’t have.

      Pen had known the facts. Cass had explained them again last autumn. Pen had lost her first baby due to a womb abnormality and stood a fair chance of losing any others—and her life. Pen had known and chosen to play Russian roulette.

      Cass focused on that thought, and kept focusing on it as the priest gave the final blessing and the curtains opened and the coffin slid behind. But it didn’t help. She still wanted to shout out at the unfairness of it, cry for the loss of her pretty young sister, scarcely into adulthood.

      She wasn’t sure if the service was over, but she needed air. She scraped back her chair and made for the door.

      She didn’t plan it, but, once outside, she had a need to escape altogether. She almost made it—was in sight of the crematorium gates when pursuing footsteps caught up with her.

      Drayton Carlisle dispensed with any greeting and went straight to demanding, ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

      Cass would have said it was obvious. ‘Back to London.’

      ‘No, you’re not!’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Not yet, anyway. You promised to speak to Tom, remember?’

      ‘I’m not sure what you expect,’ she countered. ‘I don’t know your brother well, and I’m not great at words of comfort.’

      He laughed, a brief, harsh sound. ‘I can believe that…I don’t think it’s comfort Tom wants from СКАЧАТЬ