Season Of Mists. Anne Mather

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.’

      A spasm of impatience crossed his face at her words, but he did not refer to them when he said: ‘Why did you bring the boy with you? What useful purpose does he serve?’

      Abby caught her breath. ‘He’s my son, Piers. And it may come as something of a shock to you to learn that I care about him, too.’

      Piers straightened away from the door. ‘Was there no one you could have left him with? A—friend, perhaps.’

      Abby’s resentment stirred. ‘If you mean a man friend, then I’m afraid I must disappoint you. Matt and I live alone.’

      Piers shrugged. ‘Surely you have girl friends.’

      ‘That’s my affair.’ Abby was getting annoyed, in spite of herself. ‘And why shouldn’t I bring Matt here? This is where he belongs.’

      Piers’ eyes were harsh with contempt. ‘So that’s what you’ve told him.’

      Abby gasped, ‘I haven’t told him anything!’

      ‘You told him that I was his father.’

      ‘You are!’

      Piers’ lips curled. ‘Oh, please! Let’s not get into that again.’ He breathed heavily. ‘The fact remains, you told him who I was, you pointed me out. Why else did he come chasing after me, and subject both myself and Val to that embarrassing introduction?’

      ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Abby was having difficulty now in keeping her temper in check. He was so sure of himself, so arrogant. And she could not deny the little spurt of irritation she had experienced when he spoke of the other girl in that possessive way. ‘I got a shock,’ she continued. ‘It was—so unexpected. I didn’t tell Matt who you were—not in so many words. I didn’t have to. He guessed. And how could I anticipate what he would do?’

      Piers thrust his hands into the pockets of the worn black corded jacket he was wearing. ‘You’re telling me he saw a complete stranger and guessed I was his father?’ he demanded caustically. ‘Credit me with a little intelligence, Abby, please.’

      ‘You—bastard!’ Abby gazed across at him bitterly. ‘Do you think I wanted him to know his own father had disowned him? Do you think I’d have let him take the risk that you might deny all knowledge of him?’ She shook her head. ‘Until two years ago, he thought you were dead! I wish he still believed it.’

      Piers regarded her sceptically. ‘What are you saying? That he suddenly discovered we were related?’

      ‘He read a letter Aunt Hannah sent me,’ declared Abby tersely. ‘He saw your name in it and identified it as being the same as that on his birth certificate. He’s not stupid, you know. The chances of my knowing two men called Piers are rather remote, don’t you think?’

      Piers’ mouth compressed. ‘So you told him your story.’

      ‘No!’ Abby was indignant. ‘I didn’t tell him any story. I simply explained that—that our marriage hadn’t worked. That we were—incompatible.’

      ‘And I suppose there’s no connection between my writing to you about the divorce and your turning up here.’

      ‘No!’ Abby was adamant.

      Piers made a sound midway between acknowledgement and derision, and then walked broodingly across to the leaded windows. Beyond Aunt Hannah’s small patch of garden, a sleek Mercedes station wagon was parked in the road. Grey, with an elegant red line along the side, it gleamed in the early morning light, the sun glinting off polished metalwork and mirror-like chrome. Another of the estate vehicles, thought Abby, wishing he would go. The Roths spent more on cars every year than she and Matthew had to live on.

      ‘What does the boy know about me?’ Piers asked suddenly, keeping his back to her. ‘I suppose he believes I’m to blame for the—what was it you said—the incompatibility of our marriage.’

      ‘As a matter of fact, Matt blames me,’ Abby flung at him angrily. ‘That should please you. The ultimate irony!’

      Piers turned. ‘It doesn’t please me at all,’ he replied harshly. ‘The boy’s yours. Why don’t you tell him the truth? That although he bears my name, he’s not my son!’

      ‘Because it wouldn’t be true,’ retorted Abby bleakly. ‘Oh, why don’t you go away, Piers? You’re not wanted here. Don’t worry, I’ll see that Matt doesn’t bother you again. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.’

      ‘Will you?’ Piers walked back to his previous position, only nearer now, so that she could smell the warmth of his body, and the distinctive scent of the cheroots he evidently still favoured. Then he sighed before saying