Man Of Stone. PENNY JORDAN

around them was flat, with hills to the east and the west. The fields were full of early summer crops, the landscape broken up by the sprawls of half-timbered farmhouses and outbuildings.

      It was easy to see why this part of the country had once been so rich in arable wealth.

      ‘Not far now…’

      They drove into a small, picturesque village, and past large, turn-of-the-century houses with privet hedges and curling driveways. There were more trees here, and they grew denser as the road narrowed. Their directions had come from her father’s solicitor’s office, like all Cressy’s information.

      They approached a pair of wrought-iron gates guarded by a small, obviously empty lodge. Tom’s eyes widened as Cressy turned in between the open gates.

      The drive skirted a large, informal pond, green lawns stretched away into the shade of massive trees, and then Sara saw the house.

      Tudor, without a doubt, it was larger than she had expected, and older. Its small, mullioned windows reflected the sunshine, and as she wound down the car window the harsh cry of a peacock made her jump.

      ‘What’s that?’ Tom demanded nervously.

      She told him, watching his eyes, round with excitement, as he tried to catch a glimpse of the shrieking bird.

      Cressy stopped the car.

      With legs that felt as though they had turned to cotton wool, Sara got out, taking Tom by the hand.

      The front entrance looked formidable, a heavy oak door, closed and studded against intruders. Before she could reach for the bellpull, the door opened, and a man strode out, almost knocking her over. She had an impression of angry, dark blue eyes and a very tanned face. A firm male hand grasped her, steadying her, and just for a moment she clung to the supportive weight of his arm, aware of its strength beneath the immaculate darkness of his expensive suit.

      ‘What the devil…’ His voice was crisp, authoritative and faintly irritated. ‘The house isn’t open to tourists,’ he told her, brusquely releasing her. ‘You’re probably looking for Gawsworth.’

      He had already released her, and she stepped back from him, sensing his impatience. He had dark hair, very dark, and there was something about him that made her shiver slightly, some frisson of awareness that passed through her body as she watched him.

      ‘We aren’t looking for Gawsworth.’

      Ah, now there was no impatience, Sara acknowledged, observing his entirely male reaction to Cressy’s blonde prettiness. She walked towards him, all smiling confidence, sure in her ability to draw and hold his attention.

      ‘Luke, you forgot your briefcase.’

      Sara looked eagerly at the woman who had opened the door. Although well into her sixties, she was tall and upright, her silver hair immaculately groomed, her clothes elegant and understated.

      This, then, must be her grandmother!

      She smiled at them politely and then checked, the blood draining from her face.

      ‘Sara… Sara, it is you, isn’t it?’

      Sara could only nod, dry-mouthed. Her grandmother had recognised her. But how?

      And then all hell seemed to break loose around her as the man turned to study her, his eyes frozen chips of winter sky, his whole body emanating dislike and contempt as he asked savagely, ‘Is this true? Are you Sara Rodney?’

      Too confused to speak, Sara nodded again.

      Somewhere in the background she could hear Cressy speaking, her voice unfamiliar with its husky, faintly uncertain tone. Cressy had never sounded uncertain in her life. But she had forgotten that Cressy was an actress, and little chills of disbelief mingled with her shock as she heard Cressy saying uncomfortably, ‘Oh, Sara, I told you you should have written first… I’m so sorry about this—er—Luke. But Sara insisted… I think she felt that she could hardly be turned away if she just turned up on your—her grandmother’s doorstep. Of course, things have been hard for her lately.’

      ‘You must come inside.’

      A gentle hand touched her wrist, and Sara looked painfully into her grandmother’s face.

      At her side, Tom clung desperately to her hand.

      ‘And who is this?’

      ‘It’s Tom, my half-brother…’

      Somehow she was inside a comfortable, half-panelled hall. Rich jewel-coloured rugs glowed on the well-polished parquet floor. The room was full of the scent of beeswax, and of fresh flowers from the vases on the table.

      Outside, she could still hear Cressy talking. Why was she saying those things? It had been her idea, hers… and yet now she was saying…

      ‘Are you all right?’

      Again that anxious, faded-blue-eyed look. Sara summoned a reassuring smile.

      ‘A little tired. I’m sorry to arrive like this, without any warning…’

      ‘My dear, I’m your grandmother. You’re so like your mother—I recognized you immediately!’ Tears shimmered in the pale blue depths for a moment. ‘You can’t know how much I’ve longed for this moment, how often I’ve imagined opening the door and finding you there. Luke…’

      ‘I must go, otherwise I’ll miss my flight.’

      As the tall, dark-haired man embraced her grandmother and then looked coldly at her, Sara wondered what his relationship to her grandmother was. Too close to be merely a friend, to judge from the way he had embraced her. He had not struck her as a man who was free with his affections.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cressy walk towards the car with him, talking earnestly to him. What was Cressy telling him? she wondered worriedly.

      She knew her stepsister well enough to realise that the younger girl was hardly likely to want to paint herself in a bad light in the eyes of a personable male, and a tiny thread of fear spiralled inside her.

      She dismissed it quickly. Luke, whoever he was, was not important. It was her grandmother whom she had to convince that she had come here only under duress and out of concern for Tom.

      ‘I shouldn’t have turned up like this,’ she whispered as she was led into an elegantly comfortable sitting-room. How could her mother have endured to turn her back on this house of sunshine? she wondered, blinking in the golden dazzle of it as it poured in through the mullioned windows.

      A portrait above the fireplace caught her eye, and she stared at it, transfixed.

      ‘Your mother,’ her grandmother told her quietly. ‘Painted just before her eighteenth birthday. It wasn’t long afterwards that she… she left us. Come and sit down. I want to hear all about you.’ She saw the concern and apprehension cloud the hazel eyes which were so like her own late husband’s, and said gently, ‘Sara, something’s wrong. What is it?’

      How quickly and easily it all tumbled out! Her father, Cressy… and Tom. Most of all, Tom… Her love for him, and also her fear.

      She badly wanted to cry, but she was so used to controlling her feelings for the benefit of others that she wouldn’t allow tears to fall.

      ‘Cressy is right,’ her grandmother said when she had finished. ‘You had to come here. And I’m so pleased that you have.’

      Later, she would try to find out why this grandchild of hers had never responded to her constant pleas that she at least agree to see her… Her late son-in-law had a good deal to answer for, she suspected. She had never liked him, never considered him good enough for her daughter. But selfishness was not something that was restricted to other people’s families, as she had good cause to know. For now, it was enough that Sara had come home. And home was where she was going to stay.