Season Of Mists. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ persuade you. But you’re letting him have it all his own way, can’t you see that? Where’s your fighting spirit, girl? What have you got to lose?’

      ‘I couldn’t do it.’ Abby got up from the table and moved to the window, looking out on the patch of garden at the back of the house. It was sadly neglected now. Where once she remembered a vegetable and flower garden, now there was only grass and weeds, choking the struggling rose bushes, that had survived in spite of everything. Obviously, Aunt Hannah was too old to bend her back to the soil, and Abby, who had badly missed having a garden when she first moved into the flat, wished she had more time.

      Hannah, too, got up from the table now, and evidently abandoning her efforts to persuade her, said: ‘What will that young man upstairs want for breakfast? I’ve got eggs, and some home-cured bacon, and there’s plenty of bread and butter.’

      ‘Oh,’ Abby turned, ‘I’m sure some toast and marmalade would be fine.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’d better go and get dressed.’

      Hannah nodded. ‘Very well. And what about you? Don’t tell me you don’t eat breakfast.’

      ‘Well, I don’t, usually,’ Abby admitted, and then, seeing Aunt Hannah’s impatient expression, she added: ‘But I will have some toast, too. If that’s all right.’

      ‘Toast!’ snorted the old lady, fetching a loaf of crusty bread from the larder. ‘A plate of ham and eggs would put a bit of flesh on you. You’re nothing but skin and bone, do you know that?’

      Abby shook her head goodnaturedly and started up the stairs. The winding cottage stairs opened off the kitchen, with a door set squarely at the bottom to keep out draughts. The cottage had once boasted three bedrooms, but when Abby first came to live with Aunt Hannah, she had had one of the larger bedrooms converted into a tiny bathroom and a boxroom, and it was the boxroom that Matthew was occupying now.

      Matthew was still asleep when she peeped into his room, his head buried half under the covers. Obviously the trauma of meeting his father the night before did not weigh as heavily on his mind as it did on his mother’s, and Abby closed the door again and left him.

      The water was still cold in the tank, and she had to be satisfied with a chilly wash, before dressing in a cream shirt, made of a synthetic fibre that felt like silk, and a pair of jeans. She brushed her shoulder-length straight hair until it shone, and curved into her nape, and then went downstairs again, without troubling to put on any make-up.

      Aunt Hannah had lit the fire in the kitchen grate now. ‘To heat the water,’ she explained, as Abby flicked a glance at the promising blue sky beyond the windows. ‘Now are you sure I can’t persuade you to have a nice boiled egg?’

      Abby smiled. ‘You’ve twisted my arm,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ll have a boiled egg. Providing you’ll join me.’

      ‘Good.’

      But as Hannah turned to take a pan from its hook beside the stove, a sudden knocking arrested her. Someone was at the back door, and Abby raised her brows enquiringly as Hannah wiped her hands on her apron.

      ‘Probably the boy from the farm, wanting to know if I need any more eggs,’ Hannah declared, crossing the room, and then fell back in surprise at the sight of her visitor. ‘Piers!’ she exclaimed, causing every inch of Abby’s skin to prickle alarmingly. ‘Why, come in, come in! You’re an early riser.’

      ‘When I have to be,’ Piers remarked, stepping into the small kitchen and immediately dwarfing its size. ‘Good morning, Abby. I see you’re an early riser, too.’

      Abby remained where she was, sitting by the table. She didn’t altogether trust her legs if she was to try and rise, but that didn’t prevent her from looking at Piers, and renewing the memories awakened the night before.

      He seemed to have changed little, except, as she had thought, his shoulders were a little broader. Yet, for all that, his lean athletic frame seemed to show no trace of superfluous flesh, his clothes fitting him as well as they had ever done, and with a closeness that accentuated the powerful muscles beneath the cloth. His hair was shorter than it used to be, though it still brushed his collar at the back, flat and smooth, and as dark as a raven’s wing. His face was harder, his eyes deeper set but just as unusual, their tawny brilliance guarding his expression. His nose was strong and prominent, his cheekbones high and narrow, his mouth at present straight and uncompromising, revealing nothing of the sensuality, he had once shown her. At thirty-seven, Piers Roth was, if anything, more attractive than he had been at twenty-three when Abby had first gone to work for him, and it crossed her mind how unfair it was that he should have evaded his responsibilities for so long.

      When Abby did not answer him, Piers turned to Hannah, who was closing the door, and gave her one of his polite smiles.

      ‘As you’ve probably guessed, Miss Caldwell, I’ve come to see Abby. Would you mind if I had a few words with her—alone?’

      ‘Not at all.’ Hannah looked to Abby for confirmation. ‘You can use the parlour. You’ll be private enough in there.’

      Abby was tempted to refuse to speak to him, after his silence the night before, but meeting Aunt Hannah’s eyes, she knew she could not cause a scene without upsetting the old lady.

      Getting up from her chair, she glanced at Piers, indicating that he should follow her, and opening the door into the tiny hall, led the way into the front parlour.

      It was a chilly room, despite the strengthening warmth outside. The parlour faced north, and seldom got any sun, and in consequence it had an air of dampness and neglect. Like the garden, thought Abby inconsequently, trying not to let the prospect of the coming interview unnerve her.

      She hung back to allow Piers to enter the room, but he stood politely aside until she had preceded him. Crossing the patterned carpet to the hearth, Abby shivered, not entirely because of the cold, and faced him rather defensively, her arms wrapped protectively across her body.

      Piers closed the door behind him, and leaning back against the panels, surveyed the old-fashioned little room. An upright sofa and chairs, lots of little tables, and knickknacks everywhere, it was typical of any Victorian parlour, and Abby wondered what he was thinking as he looked about him. Was he remembering the first time he had entered this room, the night Aunt Hannah had spent in Carlisle, visiting a sick cousin? Or was he recalling how they had once made love on the hearth, long after Aunt Hannah had gone to bed? The room had memories, memories she would rather forget, and she shifted a little uncomfortably as his eyes returned to her.

      ‘You know why I’m here, of course,’ he said, all trace of affability wiped from his voice. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what that little scene last night was meant to achieve. How did you know I’d be meeting that train? Did Hannah tell you? If so, I’d be interested to know where she got her information.’

      Abby drew a deep breath, realising she would gain nothing by losing her temper. ‘Believe it or not, you were the last person I expected to see. Or wanted to see, for that matter. As you know, Aunt Hannah’s been ill. Her doctor asked me to try and persuade her how dangerous it is for her to live alone. That’s the only reason I’m here.’ Piers’ eyes were narrowed, the thick lashes she had once teased him were like a girl’s, shadowing their expression. ‘Wouldn’t a letter have been just as effective—and less expensive?’

      ‘Perhaps. But I happen to care about Aunt Hannah. She’s the only person who’s ever cared about me.’

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