Dangerous Sanctuary. Anne Mather

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      ‘I do know what being pregnant means, Mum,’ said Tom impatiently. ‘So what? Why did she want to tell you and not Felix?’

      ‘Mr Haines to you,’ Jaime corrected automatically. And then she shrugged. ‘They’re giving a party. To celebrate. I’m invited.’

      ‘Why?’

      Jaime laughed. ‘That’s not very flattering.’

      ‘Oh—–’ Tom grimaced ‘—you know what I mean.’

      ‘I know.’ Jaime relented. ‘But I’m no wiser than you are. She says she wants us to get to know one another.’

      ‘Do you believe her?’

      ‘I don’t have much choice, do I? Felix is my employer. I can hardly refuse to have anything to do with his wife.’

      ‘But what about Mrs Haines? The first Mrs Haines, I mean. Won’t she think you’re abandoning her?’

      Jaime sighed. ‘You do have the knack of stating the obvious, don’t you?’ she muttered. But all the same, he had a point. Margaret was going to wonder where Jaime’s loyalties lay.

      ‘Anyway, I think you should go,’ declared Tom staunchly, perching on the edge of a chair. ‘It might be quite good fun. And you never go to parties.’

      ‘Oh, thanks.’ Jaime regarded him indignantly. ‘Might I remind you that for the past almost fifteen years I’ve had you to look after?’

      ‘Nana used to offer to sit with me—heaps of times,’ protested Tom at once. ‘And now I’m old enough to baby-sit myself. But you still never go anywhere.’

      ‘Never?’

      ‘Well—only occasionally. I’m sure you could have had a steady boyfriend, Mum, if you’d wanted one. You’re still quite good-looking, and you’re not that old!’

      ‘Gee, you’ll turn my head!’

      Jaime was sardonic, but Tom was not deterred. ‘I mean it. Angie says she’d love to be as tall as you. She thinks you’re really elegant, you know.’

      Jaime gave her son an old-fashioned look. ‘Really!’

      ‘Yes, really.’ Tom was defensive now. ‘What about Mr Price from school? He was really keen, but you just froze him off.’

      ‘I didn’t freeze him off—–’

      ‘Well, what would you call it? He asked you out four times, and you went once!’

      ‘Mr Price isn’t my type.’

      ‘What is your type, then? Someone like Dad? Someone like Uncle Ben?’

      ‘No!’

      Jaime got up from the couch abruptly, and reached for the vacuum cleaner. She should have realised the way the discussion was heading. It might be almost six months since Felix had exploded his bombshell about Ben’s buying the Priory, but she was aware that Tom hadn’t forgotten, any more than she had.

      Her father hadn’t helped. Once he knew that she knew about Ben’s plans, he had apparently assumed that there was no point in avoiding the subject. Even though Jaime’s mother had evidently not agreed with him, Mr Fenner’s attitude was one of dogged resolution.

      ‘It’s no use our Jaime thinking that, if she doesn’t mention it, it’ll go away,’ he declared, when his wife first tackled him on the matter. ‘In a small place like Kingsmere, it’s news.’

      ‘Well, it’s not news I want to hear,’ retorted Mrs Fenner shortly. ‘And I’d have thought you’d have had more sense than to bring that man’s name up when young Tom is around.’

      ‘Why?’ Jaime’s father was belligerent. ‘Do you want the lad to begin to think there’s something funny going on? Because he will if our Jaime acts like Ben Russell doesn’t exist.’

      Of course, Jaime knew her father was right. A man with Ben’s reputation—his fame—was bound to cause a stir in a place like Kingsmere. The fact that he hadn’t actually come to live here yet was a small consolation. The renovations he was having done to the derelict Priory were what was causing the delay. But if what public opinion said was true, the old house was going to be quite a show-place, when the builders and interior decorators were finished with it.

      The trouble was, Tom was intensely interested in the man he regarded as his uncle. Just last Sunday, when Jaime and her son had gone to her parents’ home for lunch, he had been asking questions about the prospective tenant of the Priory, and Mr Fenner hadn’t hesitated about elaborating on the extensive renovations that were going on.

      ‘As I understand it, they’re almost finished,’ Jaime’s father said, helping himself to more of the crispy roast potatoes that were his daughter’s contribution to the meal. ‘Bill—Bill Lewis, that is, who’s been landscaping the garden—he says that a London firm of interior designers left several days ago, and as far as he knows the place is virtually ready for occupation. Of course, there’s still some carpets to lay, that sort of thing. But my guess is that Russell will be moving in any day now.’

      ‘I don’t think we want to hear about that, Ray,’ Jaime’s mother exclaimed impatiently, but his grandfather’s words had spiked Tom’s interest.

      ‘I do,’ he declared staunchly, ignoring his mother’s look of disapproval. ‘I mean, we are related, aren’t we?’

      ‘We’re not,’ retorted his grandmother, giving her husband a quelling look. ‘Now, have we all finished?’

      Tom pursed his lips. ‘But they are my relations,’ he insisted. ‘You never know, Uncle Ben might want to see me.’

      ‘I don’t think that’s at all likely,’ averred his mother, gathering the dirty dishes together. Then, aware of her son’s resentment, she sighed. ‘Tom, forget about Ben Russell. I wish to heaven he’d never decided to move to Kingsmere.’

      ‘Well, he has,’ said Tom sulkily, and even Mr Fenner looked a little discomfited now.

      ‘I think you should do as your mother says,’ he remarked, apparently losing his appetite for the extra roast potatoes. ‘If the Russells had wanted to keep in touch, they wouldn’t have left it fifteen years—–’

      ‘Ray!’ His wife glared at him. ‘Just leave it, will you? I think you’ve said enough.’

      Of course, Tom had brought the subject up again on their way home. But Jaime had managed to evade his most personal questions. She tried to tell herself it was natural that he should be curious about his father’s family, but, having lived for so many years believing herself free of the Russells’ influence, it was unnerving to discover how mistaken she had been. As long as Tom believed that Philip Russell was his father, the connection—however tenuous—would continue to rankle.

      Now, however, Tom evidently decided not to pursue his probing. His mother’s withdrawn expression warned of an uncertain temper, and after scuffing his bare toes against the carpet he got up and left the room.

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