Dangerous Passions. Lynne Graham

Tom put in now, and it took Jaime a minute to realise he was talking about her day.

      ‘Oh—you know me,’ she demurred, smelling the gammon and using it as an excuse to turn back to the grill. ‘Hurry home, Angie.’

      ‘I’ve said I’ll walk her to the corner,’ said Tom, lifting his parka from the row of hooks behind the front door, and sliding his arms into the sleeves.

      Jaime bit her tongue on the protest she wanted to make, and merely nodded. You were young once, she reminded herself severely, taking a pack of frozen peas out of the freezer. You were only eighteen when you married Philip Russell, and no one could stop you. But all the same, fourteen still seemed awfully young, and she had hoped that Tom wouldn’t make her mistakes.

      By the time Tom got back Jaime had the meal on the table. They usually ate in the kitchen when they were alone, and in winter it was a definite advantage. The central heating boiler was in the kitchen, and although Jaime turned off the radiators while she and Tom were out of the house the kitchen always retained its heat. Tom was generally home first, and he turned the radiators on again when he came in. Consequently, by the time they had eaten, the rest of the house was comfortably warm.

      ‘What did you mean when you said you’d had a hard day?’ Tom asked, smothering his baked potato with melted butter, and Jaime, who had hoped to avoid this particular discussion, considered a moment before answering him.

      ‘Oh—my day was all right,’ she declared at last. ‘It—it was just something Felix said that—well, annoyed me, that’s all.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full!’ Jaime used the reproof to reconsider her options. ‘It wasn’t important. Get on with your meal.’

      ‘Well, if it wasn’t important, why did you get angry?’ asked Tom reasonably, wiping a smear of butter from his chin, and Jaime decided there was no point in prevaricating. Tom would find out soon enough. Someone was bound to tell him that his uncle was moving to Kingsmere.

      ‘Apparently Ben Russell is negotiating to buy the old Priory,’ she said, her offhand tone a warning not to pursue the subject, but Tom was too surprised to be perceptive.

      ‘Uncle Ben?’ he exclaimed, his jaw dropping, and Jaime wished she had just let him find out after all.

      Now, she adopted an indifferent air. ‘How many Ben Russells do you know?’ she asked, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Tom—eat your meal. It’s getting cold.’

      Tom frowned, but he wasn’t diverted. ‘Why is Uncle Ben coming to live in Kingsmere?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you said he lived in Africa, or somewhere like that.’

      ‘Yes—well, he did.’ Jaime endeavoured to speak casually. ‘I don’t know why he’s coming to live at the Priory. Perhaps he’s not. Perhaps he’s just buying it as an investment.’

      ‘The old Priory?’ Tom looked sceptical. ‘Mum, it’s falling to bits. No one would buy that as an investment. It’s been on the market for over two years!’

      ‘Well, that’s not our concern, is it?’ said Jaime evenly, making a valiant effort to look as if she was eating her own meal. ‘So did you get your homework done? I hope Angie’s parents weren’t worried about where she was.’

      ‘Oh, they don’t worry about her,’ declared Tom airily. ‘They know she’s all right if she’s with me. Besides, they’re too busy.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      Jaime thought he was probably right, though she refrained from saying so. The Santinis were unlikely to worry about Angie in the same way she worried about Tom. Angie had half a dozen brothers and sisters, and besides, they had a thriving business to keep their interest. Jaime had been into the shop the Santinis owned on the precinct only once, but she had been left with an impression of orderly chaos. The place had been filled with customers, all wanting to buy the rich hams and aromatic cheeses that the Santinis imported from their home country, and the idea of Caterina Santini fretting because her eldest daughter was late home from school didn’t seem likely.

      ‘Anyway, do you think he’ll come and see us?’ Tom asked now, and Jaime realised her attempt to distract him hadn’t worked.

      ‘I hope not,’ she replied, attacking her steak with renewed vigour. ‘Is your gammon all right? Mine seems a little tough.’

      ‘Oh—yes.’ Tom dismissed that diversion without effort. ‘I suppose it’s not very likely, is it? Not after the way Dad’s treated us all these years.’

      Jaime stifled a groan, and got up from the table to dump most of her meal into the waste-bin. ‘Do you want any dessert?’ she asked, without answering him. ‘There’s apple pie. Or cheese.’

      ‘Can I have both?’ Tom scraped his plate clean, and handed it to her with an angelic smile. Then, just when she thought it was over, he added, ‘Did you know him well?’

      Jaime’s breath escaped with a gulp. ‘I—met him,’ she temporised, taking refuge in removing the apple pie from the fridge. ‘Do you want cream?’

      ‘Just cheese, please,’ he responded irrepressibly. Then, ‘Go on about Uncle Ben. Did he come to the wedding?’

      Jaime made a helpless gesture. ‘What does it matter?’

      ‘Well, you told me my grandparents didn’t come,’ pointed out Tom, picking up his spoon. ‘Dad’s parents, that is. Why didn’t they approve of you?’

      ‘Because they had someone else in mind,’ retorted Jaime tightly, unwilling to allow any thoughts of that kind to add to her frustration. ‘We’ve talked about this before, Tom. You know the story. Now, can we change the subject?’

      But he didn’t know the story, Jaime chided herself, as she filled the washing-up bowl with water, and added a soapy detergent. And for some time she had been pondering the wisdom of letting Tom go on thinking that Philip Russell had been his father. But the alternative had always seemed so untenable, and, because he had been denied so much, did she have the right to deny him his legitimacy as well?

      Now, however, the choice had been made for her. There was no way she was going to unsettle her son now that Ben Russell was moving back to Kingsmere. She wondered if his wife was moving back with him. Thank God there was no reason for them to see one another.

      Tom finished his pie and brought the empty dish to the sink, watching as his mother submerged it in the water. ‘I know you don’t like talking about it, Mum,’ he ventured, dipping his finger into the suds, and drawing an elongated circle. ‘But it was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Don’t you think it’s time you could talk about it without getting upset?’

      ‘I’m not upset.’ Jaime stiffened defensively. ‘I just don’t see why you want to labour the point. I was just the publican’s daughter, and your—your—the Russells—wanted their son to marry someone from their own level of society. Someone with money, and position. It’s a common enough story, goodness knows. Philip soon realised his mistake, and—and so did I.’

      Tom grimaced. ‘Leaving you holding the baby!’

      ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Jaime thrust a tea-cloth into his hands, and indicated the draining dishes. ‘Come on. Make yourself useful.’

      ‘I still don’t understand,’ muttered Tom, taking the tea-cloth and starting to dry the plates. ‘If he was planning on leaving us, why did he wait until you were expecting a baby?’

      ‘Oh, Tom, things happen that way sometimes.’ Jaime’s nerves were beginning to stretch. ‘If I’d known telling you about the Priory was going to provoke this kind of discussion, I wouldn’t have said anything.’

      ‘I bet Grandpa knows,’ said Tom shrewdly, and Jaime caught her breath.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly understanding all the little worried glances her parents had exchanged