The Temptation Trap. Catherine George

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      ‘I started out at a small, private school, replacing someone on maternity leave. After that I was lucky enough to get a junior post at my old school, but it meant an academic year to fill in, so up to Easter I did some supply teaching. Along the way I did a course in computers and word-processing.’ She smiled at him. ‘Technology comes in handy these days.’

      ‘I’m impressed,’ he said, raising his tankard to her. ‘So what are you doing until the autumn term? Holiday?’

      She shook her head. ‘An old college friend started up on his own last year. He works from home and argued it would hone my computer skills if I gave him a hand for a bit, so like a fool I agreed.’

      ‘You obviously regret it.’

      Rosanna’s eyes kindled. ‘Charlie Clayton wants a slave, not a secretary. He’s an insolvency accountant, needs everything documented—not that I mind that part. But his wife goes out to work in the City every day, so Charlie expects me to provide coffee all the time, make him lunch, go shopping sometimes, even iron a shirt in an emergency.’

      Her visitor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘The last straw, obviously. Is that what you’ve been doing today?’

      ‘No. The Claytons went off on holiday last week. Thank goodness. The workload up to that point was so heavy I decided it just wasn’t on for the money he’s paying me. I told Charlie that, but I don’t think he believed me. When he gets back he can find another dogsbody—or get some voice-activated software and make his own lunch.’

      ‘Good for you,’ he approved.

      ‘Help yourself to the other beer, Mr Fraser,’ said Rosanna politely.

      ‘Thank you. But I’d enjoy it more if you called me Ewen.’

      ‘Then I will—you don’t sound very Scottish,’ she added.

      ‘I’m sort of London Scottish,’ he informed her. ‘My father met my mother here when he first came down from Edinburgh to join a Fleet Street daily.’

      ‘Ah! Printer’s ink runs in your veins, then!’ Rosanna drained her glass then got down to business. ‘Right then, Ewen Fraser,’ she said briskly, looking at him squarely. ‘I’ve told you why I was surprised at the sight of you. But why, exactly, were you so thunderstruck at the sight of me?’

      His attractive smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘I thought I was seeing things. I know your grandmother’s photograph very well. You’re so like her you took my breath away.’

      Rosanna stared, astonished. ‘How on earth did you come by a photograph of my grandmother?’

      His eyes, set slantwise beneath ruler-straight brows, held hers. ‘My great-uncle met Miss Rose Norman in France.’

      ‘Ah, I see!’ Rosanna leaned forward eagerly. ‘Was he 2nd Lieutenant Henry Manners of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, by any chance?’

      Ewen nodded. ‘That’s the one. Military Cross and Bar, DSO. By some miracle he managed to survive the war. He was a great old boy, a career soldier. Brigadier by the end. I was very fond of him.’

      ‘Did he ever marry?’

      He shook his head. ‘No prizes for guessing why.’

      ‘Because Miss Rose Norman married someone else,’ she said quietly.

      They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Rosanna got up. ‘Let’s make a start. We’ll have to work at the kitchen table.’

      Ewen leapt to his feet. ‘Right. I haven’t brought much. There’s a huge amount at home, of course, but where your grandmother’s concerned it’s just a diary, plus some letters and the photograph.’

      ‘The same for me, too,’ she said. ‘I’m not counting the letters from relatives. The prize was a rosewood box left to my mother.’ She smiled. ‘I’d never seen it until yesterday. I made myself go through the other stuff first before opening it.’

      When they were ready to start, Ewen discarded his jacket and drew his chair next to Rosanna’s. She turned the small brass key in the lock of the rosewood box, then handed it to Ewen. He stared down at the photograph of Lieutenant Harry Manners, in uniform but hatless, the grenades of the Royal Welch Fusiliers on his collar. His thick dark hair was combed flat, and his slanted eyes shone with bright certainty in his young, intelligent face.

      ‘The letters are all from him,’ said Rosanna quietly, suddenly conscious of Ewen’s bare brown arm close to her own, of the fine hair which showed dark against his gold watch on a slim, sinewy wrist. She pulled herself together hurriedly. ‘I’d rather you took them home and read them at your leisure,’ she told him. Harry’s letters were so passionate they were best read in private.

      ‘Thank you. I’ll leave Rose’s letters for you.’ Ewen pulled a leather box from the briefcase he’d brought, and pushed it towards her. And there, on top, was a photograph of Rose Norman in her bloom, a study her granddaughter had never seen before. Waving dark hair piled high, bare shoulders wreathed in white tulle, Rose Norman smiled with a radiance undimmed by the sepia tint of the photograph.

      Rosanna swallowed a great lump in her throat. ‘That smile,’ she said huskily, ‘was for Harry.’

      Ewen nodded. ‘I know. At first I felt like a voyeur, but once I started reading her letters I was hooked. I just had to know what happened. Damn silly, really. I knew perfectly well there was no happy ending, but I wanted one. Badly.’

      ‘I know just what you mean. It felt like trespass when I opened Grandma’s trunk yesterday.’ Rosanna sighed. ‘Her diary cut me to pieces in places. Harry Manners was obviously the love of her life. And by his letters she was very much his, too.’

      ‘And yet she married your grandfather.’

      Rosanna nodded, her eyes sombre. ‘Yes.’

      Ewen pushed his chair away slightly so he could turn to look at her. ‘You resemble her so closely it’s a pity old Harry never met you. And yet not. It would probably have been too painful for him.’

      ‘You think I really look like that?’ she said doubtfully, eyeing the photograph.

      ‘You’re her image,’ he assured her, looking at her so objectively she suddenly felt jealous, stung by the idea that it was Rose he was seeing. Not Rosanna Carey, her flesh-and-blood grandchild.

      ‘There’s a fleeting similarity, I suppose,’ she said, so furious with herself her tone was distant, and Ewen got up, quick to sense her change of mood.

      ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time. If I could use your phone I’ll call a cab.’

      ‘Of course. There’s a list of numbers on the hall table.’

      After Ewen made the call he came back into the kitchen. ‘May I take your box with me? I promise to take care of it. Or if you prefer I could just take the contents—’

      ‘No. Keep the letters in it, but I’ll keep the diary until tomorrow. You can have it then, when you go through the other things. There are later photographs of Rose, and letters to her from her family, and newspaper cuttings.’ СКАЧАТЬ