Chase A Green Shadow. Anne Mather

from one to the other of them, and Tamsyn smiled.

      ‘Joanna’s been telling me what a terror you were when you were a teenager,’ she replied, and saw her father’s gaze go swiftly to his wife’s.

      ‘That’s right,’ said Joanna calmly. ‘There’s no better way of getting to know someone than by working together, don’t you agree?’

      Lance looked bewildered. ‘If you say so.’ He bit his lip. ‘Well, one of you come and make me some coffee. I’m sorely in need of a stimulant. Mrs. Evans has been at her most trying.’

      ‘The woman with the seizure?’ asked Tamsyn.

      ‘Seizure!’ muttered her father grimly. ‘It was no seizure. Just the result of overeating, that’s all.’

      Joanna chuckled and then she said: ‘You go with your father, Tamsyn. You know where everything is now. You make him some coffee while I finish off here and then I’ll join you.’

      Tamsyn hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to make the coffee?’

      ‘Quite sure,’ answered Joanna, straightening her back with a firm hand.

      Downstairs, Lance faced his daughter rather doubtfully, and Tamsyn considered for a moment, and then said: ‘It’s going to be all right, Daddy.’

      Her father stared at her anxiously. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean my being here—Joanna and me! It’s going to be all right. We—we understand one another now.’ She sighed. ‘And I’m sorry I was so anti-social last night.’

      Lance twisted his lips. ‘It was understandable, I suppose.’

      ‘You mean—because Joanna’s pregnant?’

      ‘Yes.’ Her father turned away. ‘I realise it’s hard for you to—–’

      ‘Oh, please, Daddy!’ Tamsyn didn’t want to talk about it any more. ‘Let it go, for now. How do you like your coffee? Black or white?’

      Lance regarded her for a long moment and then he nodded. ‘Very well, Tamsyn. We’ll leave it. And I like my coffee black, but sweet.’

      Over the aromatic beverage they discussed the details of her flight and when the conversation came round to Hywel Benedict again, she asked: ‘Does—does Mr. Benedict have a farm or something?’

      Lance stared at her in surprise. ‘Hywel? Heavens, no!’

      Tamsyn tipped her head on one side. ‘Then what does he do?’

      ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

      ‘No.’

      Her father shook his head. ‘Ah, well, no. I suppose he wouldn’t, at that. Hywel’s a writer, cariad. Quite well known, he is. But you wouldn’t know that, living in America.’

      ‘A writer!’

      Tamsyn was stunned. She remembered with self-loathing the way she had gone on about the cultural advantages of living in the city and of how she had chided him about art and music and books, almost setting herself up as an authority on the subject. How ridiculous she must have sounded to a man who was a writer himself. Her cheeks burned with the memory of it all, but her father seemed not to notice.

      ‘Yes,’ he was saying now, ‘he’s become more reserved since Maureen left.’

      Tamsyn’s head jerked up. ‘Maureen? Who’s Maureen?’

      ‘Why, Maureen Benedict, of course, bach,’ replied her father. ‘Hywel’s wife!’