Relative Sins. Anne Mather

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       CHAPTER THREE

      WHEN Sara opened her eyes again it was daylight—and not the grey, rain-washed twilight of a winter’s afternoon but, if she wasn’t mistaken, the brightness of a crisp November morning. Although she could hardly believe it, it seemed that she—and possibly Ben too—had slept for almost sixteen hours, and a glance at her watch confirmed as fact what an unfamiliar sense of optimism was telling her.

      And she did feel rested, wonderfully so. Despite the fact that she had slept in her clothes, with just the fluffy feather duvet pulled over her, she felt thoroughly revitalised. More than ready to face whatever was in front of her, she thought. And infinitely more equipped to take control of her life.

      And her son’s, she appended vigorously, thrusting back the duvet and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Last night she hadn’t even felt the hard springs of the mattress, which she’d blamed for the poor rest she’d had thus far.

      But when she thrust open the door to her son’s bedroom his bed was empty. There was the imprint of his head upon the pillow, and when she hurried to touch the mattress it still felt warm, but of Ben there was no sign, and her heart accelerated uneasily. Dear heaven, it was barely half past seven. Where on earth could he be?

      Telling herself not to panic, she went back into the larger room and struggled to find the shoes she had discarded the previous afternoon. She could hardly go looking for her son in her stockinged feet, even if her racing pulse was telling her to do exactly that.

      She was running a hasty comb through her hair when someone tapped at the door. ‘Come in,’ she called at once, hardly daring to believe that it might be Ben playing a game. And it wasn’t; it was Mrs Fraser, carrying a tray of morning tea and looking decidedly surprised to find Sara out of bed.

      ‘Och, the little one said you were still asleep!’ she exclaimed, and Sara saw the faintly puzzled glance she cast over her attire. She was probably wondering whether Sara intended to wear the black dress until it dropped off her, the younger woman thought ruefully. But her mention of Ben was reassuring, and Sara hurriedly put down the comb.

      ‘You’ve seen Ben?’

      ‘Well, yes.’ Mrs Fraser put the tray down on the bedside table and turned to nod consideringly. ‘He was up and about half an hour ago. He came down to the kitchen to tell me he’d had enough sleeping time and he was hungry.’

      Sara relaxed. ‘Thank heavens.’ She glanced down at the creased black dress and grimaced. ‘I was coming to look for him, actually. I was afraid he might have ventured outside on his own.’

      ‘Ah.’ Mrs Fraser’s response was understanding. ‘Well, you’ve no need to worry. The little one’s in safe hands. His uncle Alex was up at the crack of dawn himself, and he’s taken the youngster down to the stables.’

      ‘Alex?’

      Sara’s reaction was only belatedly controlled, but she thought Mrs Fraser hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

      ‘Yes. The two of them settled for a bowl of my porridge and a mug of coffee, and then hied themselves off to see Dragonfly’s filly.’

      Sara swallowed. ‘Dragonfly’s a horse, right?’

      ‘A mare,’ agreed Mrs Fraser comfortably. ‘The filly’s sire is Dream Maker—young Alex’s stallion. He was telling the lad about it and Ben fairly begged to see it.’ She chuckled. ‘He reminds me of his uncle, he does. Wants things yesterday, if not sooner.’

      Sara endeavoured to speak calmly. ‘Wasn’t…wasn’t Harry like that too? When he was younger?’

      Mrs Fraser sensed that she had been a little insensitive, and offered Sara a rueful look. ‘Bless you, no,’ she said. ‘Harry was always the patient one. The nicestnatured boy I ever met. That was your young man.’

      Another thought struck Sara. ‘Last night—that is…Ben didn’t get up again either, did he?’

      ‘No.’ Mrs Fraser rested her hands on her hips. ‘Both of you were sleeping as sound as tops when Alison looked in on you. That would have been about a quarter to eight last evening. When Mrs Reed was anxious to get supper over.’

      ‘Oh, dear.’ Sara could imagine that that was another black mark against her, but it was too late to worry about it now. She had more immediate worries to deal with—not least her son’s apparent attachment to his uncle. Why couldn’t he have attached himself to his grandfather—or even his grandmother, if he had to?

      ‘Not to worry,’ declared the Scots housekeeper staunchly. ‘There’s worse things than missing a meal, particularly when…Well, least said, soonest mended—that’s what I always say. But you must be hungry yourself now. How’d you like a couple of nice poached eggs on toast, with some of Alison’s jam to follow?’

      ‘Well…’