by Margaret Way
Knowledge of that was hitting him increasingly hard. He remained silent.
“Sorry, Ashe,” said Cate. “Your mother had no conscience when it came to you and what she thought you should have. A different value system came into play.”
* * *
Georgina Warbuton couldn’t have been kinder, or nicer. A handsome woman in her late fifties, she welcomed them into her elegant terraced home. A tall, distinguished-looking man she introduced as her husband. After a few pleasantries, her husband left them.
They were offered tea, coffee, politely refused. Both of them were intent on getting answers. Georgina Warbuton shepherded them into her book-lined study, more like a library with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases on either side of a marble fireplace. A lovely flower painting of the Dutch school—it appeared to have been done with a palette knife—hung over it. The polished floor was covered with a beautiful vibrant Persian rug in deep reds and blues. There was room for a comfortable sofa and two matching armchairs covered in a beautiful blue silk-velvet picking up the colour in the rug and the blue of Ashe’s shirt.
Dr Warbuton waited until they were seated before she took the sensitive documents into her long, expressive hands. Her keen gaze was very serious now. She was fully occupied with what was before her. “This shouldn’t take long,” she announced after a few moments, retreating behind her antique desk. There she switched on a table light with a strong beam, angling it towards her. Next she began to delve in a desk drawer.
To Cate, desperately hopeful, that sounded as though Dr Warbuton thought the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
Vindication.
For a moment her spirits soared, then crashed back to earth again.
Too late.
Cate looked over at the man she still loved. His hands were locked. He was looking down, his lean, athletic body perfectly still. For a split second she wanted to move across to him on the sofa, hold his hand. He had viewed Alicia with the eyes of a loving son. Blood was thicker than water.
Georgina Warbuton was examining the documents very closely now. Whatever she thought she was keeping quiet about it until she was absolutely sure.
There couldn’t be a problem. There couldn’t, Cate thought with a sinking feeling of dismay. Even the greatest art experts in the world had been tricked. Had Alicia been so clever she had even fooled an expert?
Finally Dr Warbuton looked up, her gaze intense. “It is my professional opinion, this letter—” she held up the contentious note “—is not the handwriting of Catrina here. It is in fact a clever forgery.” Her voice was dispassionate, but her eyes were kind.
“You’re absolutely sure?” Ashe asked gravely.
“I am.” Dr Warbuton’s answer was quiet. “If the matter is so very important to you, you could consult another handwriting expert, but they will tell you the same thing. If you care to come here, I can show you various markers.”
Cate shook her head. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to augment Ashe’s pain. She looked to him as he sat mute.
Georgina Warbuton gave them both a moment. She could see how tremendously important verification of the document was. She had no doubt at all it had been carefully written by a hand other than the beautiful young woman in front of her. A clever hand. An artist’s hand? The purpose? It was none of her business. She had to be entirely objective in her judgments.
Finally Ashe rose to his feet, his striking features taut. It was obvious he was feeling deep emotion. “That won’t be necessary, Dr Warbuton,” he said, respect in his voice. “You’re a recognised expert in these matters. We won’t proceed further.”
* * *
Out in the street again she had to near run to keep pace with him, her face thrown up against the breeze, a strand of her hair coming loose, whipping across her cheek. Her body was humming with high-pitched nervous energy. Ashe’s broad back, the set of his square shoulders, indicated he was battling a heavy load of tension.
He reached the car before she did.
“Are you getting in?” she asked, staring up into his taut face.
He touched an elegant hand to his temple. “I don’t think so. I feel like walking.”
“You don’t know this part of the city,” she said. “You could get lost. It’s a long haul back to your hotel.”
“I can always catch a cab,” he said curtly.
“Please, Ashe.” She tried to force balance, reason, into her voice. “I know you’re upset.”
He suddenly reached for her bare slender arms, clutching them hard. “Upset?” The expression on his handsome face was ravaged. “You were right!”
“Let me go, Ashe,” she said quietly.
He released her with a sharp jerk. “God,” he groaned. “Not one of us doubted her. Olivia, Leonie, me. We accepted her word, totally.”
Cate, a mother herself, was now closer to understanding. “She was your mother, the strongest force in your life. The woman who had taken care of you from your very first breath. Your father wasn’t there to make a judgment. I’m sure he would have handled things better.”
“I can’t answer that,” he said, when he knew that would definitely have been the case. His father had been a highly intelligent man with wide-ranging briefs in very important work.
“You told me once your mother and father didn’t agree on lots of things?” she suggested.
“My father saw things a whole lot clearer than my mother.” His answer was brusque. “She tended to get very emotional.”
“Not the best state to be in when you’re trying to make an objective judgment. We all know that. Why don’t you get in the car?” she urged. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel.”
* * *
They were well under way. But she hadn’t composed herself sufficiently to take the next obstacle on board.
“Okay, my mother did a very wrong thing,” he acknowledged tersely. “She had allowed herself to believe my life was hers. But you! I told you over and over I loved you deeply, Catrina. You were precious to me. You were part of my life; the whole twin souls bit. I told you I wanted to share my life with you. Yet you forgot all that the moment I turned my back.”
“I was young, Ashe. Too young. Just a kid. You were five years older. Had I been five years older I may have handled it better. But your mother tied me up in knots. We both did the wrong thing. If your mother convinced you, think what an effect she had on me.”
He shoved a hand through his wind-tousled hair. “You could have given yourself time to think it all through. I was home two days later. You could have stayed.”
The sharp edges in his voice cut into her. “Ashe, I was told to back off in no uncertain terms. I really don’t want this conversation. It’s all too late.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m right here, Catrina, physically beside you. How many times did we make love?” he asked, in what seemed to her a totally disillusioned voice.
“One time too many,” she said, then immediately shook her head. “I can’t say that. I have my Jules.”
“Our Jules,” he said right on cue. “I just wish you’d told me. God knows you’ve had years.”
The extraordinary thing was, in retrospect she had to ask herself why hadn’t she? “The reason—or one of the reasons—was I believed you were married; probably had a couple of kids. I only had Jules. Please, Ashe. Just let it lie.”
“I know my obligations,” he said firmly.
* * *
They were nearing the hotel, one of the finest five-star hotels in the city. It was stunningly situated, overlooking the Harbour and the Opera House. “There’s a parking spot. Grab it.”
“I’m not coming in,” she said briefly. Even with the air conditioning on, the interior of the car was steaming up.
“Grab it,” he repeated in a crisp, authoritative tone. Ashe had come a long way over the past years. He was no longer the young man she had known.
She felt far too agitated to argue. She had caught the flash in his eyes.
“We have no custody agreement,” she muttered, playing her part. “I want my son full time. I won’t share him.”
He only gave one of his elegant shrugs. “Neither of us wants to cause him grief. He’s my son, too, Catrina. I would think your solicitor pointed this out to you. You’ve had Julian for the past seven years. It’s your turn to make it up to me.”
“So what do you want?” She was aware her emotions were getting out of hand. Always the see-saw. Up and down.
“Maybe we should talk about this in my suite,” he said, lowering his voice as several hotel guests approached the lifts.
* * *
They were inside his spacious suite on the thirty-fourth floor. It was decorated in a sophisticated style with rich silks and exotic Honduran mahogany, but the emphasis was on comfort. There was a splendid view of the city’s icons all aglitter
through the series of triple-glazed soundproofed plate-glass windows.
“Sit down,” he said, extending a hand towards one of the three-seater sofas, luxuriously upholstered.
“All I can give you is a half hour,” she said, smoothing the skirt of her sleeveless silk cotton dress, printed in a medley of green and gold.
A black eyebrow shot up. “A half hour? That’s it?”
“I have a lot of work lined up for tomorrow, Ashe. A good thing Hugh is handling your affairs himself.”
“I suppose he would as he’s the boss,” he said dryly. “Want a drink?” He walked to the mini-bar.
“No,” she answered. “Maybe a Perrier water.”
He gave her a taut half smile. “Coming up. I’m not going to waive my right to see Julian at the weekend.”
Cate felt herself stiffen. “You’re not going to say anything to him?”
“As a matter of fact—” He made her wait until he had poured her a mineral water.
“As a matter of fact, what?” She was on tenterhooks.
“Of course I’m not going to say anything,” he said, coming back towards her. “We both know the time isn’t right.”
“Is it ever going to be right, Ashe? I doubt it.” She looked and felt unspeakably sad. Most of the previous night she had lain awake wondering what his plans would be. At such times her mind inevitably going back over the halcyon days they had spent together. The long walks, the conversations they’d had. They had talked about their hopes and their dreams, about art, literature, movies, religion, philosophy, politics, floated theories. They could talk about anything and find it immensely enjoyable. Both of them were born scholars always out to learn. Ashe had read Law and Economics at Oxford, graduating with a double first. If he had been thinking of following his father into British Intelligence, his father’s death had made him rethink his plans.
He bent to put his glass down on the coffee table between the two sofas, then he shouldered out of his jacket, placing it over one of six chairs set around a glass-topped table in the dining area. Another lovely arrangement of flowers sat on the coffee table; a low celadon-coloured bowl of perfect velvety white gardenias that spread their ravishing perfume. No doubt they would be replaced the following day as they wilted but for now the blooms were astonishingly beautiful. Cate resisted the impulse to stroke a velvety petal. She didn’t want to discolour it, though her own luminous skin looked just as stroke-able.
“You always did like white flowers,” he said, taking a seat opposite her. “The rose gardens at the hall are quite famous now. People come from all over to view them on open days. I seem to remember your favourites. Snow Queen was one. It’s one of the great roses, then there was the profusely flowering Iceberg—”
“And that wonderfully fragrant Bride,” she broke in, fancying she could almost smell the perfume of the beautiful large, pure white rose with its exquisite form.
“There’s a walled garden devoted entirely to white roses,” he told her. “My idea. No need to ask what had prompted it,” he said with some irony.
She looked up and their eyes locked. Always the quickening sensations in her body, the thrum of electricity. She knew the same electrical current was switched on in him. It was something neither of them seemed able to control. The very air was sexualised, exciting. “Cate,” he murmured, “tell me this didn’t happen. None of it happened.”
The regret in his voice was echoed in her own. “I wish I could. I told you, we’re star-crossed lovers.”
“No one could take your place.”
That cut to her heart, yet she said crisply, “And I bet there was no shortage of candidates. You’ll find an eligible woman, Ashe, close to your rank.”
His blue eyes burned. “Do stop talking rubbish. Prince William married his Kate. Prince Frederik married his Mary. Two great romances. My mother’s mindset was from another time.”
“God, Ashe, she was only in her mid-fifties then. Maybe she was channelling Queen Victoria?”
“Our present Queen had to marry a prince, or at the very least an earl. Ironic, isn’t it? How times change. Princess Margaret couldn’t marry her divorced airman. Hard to believe now but it happened and she suffered.”
“Your lot are still as stuffy,” she said.
He frowned, although he knew in many cases it was true. “There’s got to be a plausible explanation for Stella Radclyffe—your adopted mother, so you say—taking off for the other side of the world. She didn’t attend her own father’s funeral. Needless to say that was seized upon. Whereas Annabel, the supposed flighty one, was there. Decidedly odd. It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise to me to find out Annabel was your biological mother.” He looked surprised by his own observation.
Cate sprang to her feet. “That is so...so...”
“Possible. Sit down, Cate,” he said with crisp authority. “I will get the answers, although I believe I’ve got one now. How’s this for a hypothesis? Annabel fell pregnant. It would have created a great scandal at the time. She was unmarried, very young, pampered and adored. So what scheme did the sisters hatch?”
“I’m not following you at all.” Of course she was. She resumed her seat, but pointedly glanced at her watch. Her heart was racing.
“No, you’re not following me, you’re way ahead. Always something to hide. That’s you, isn’t it, Catrina? When did you find out?” The blunt question was like a lash.
Of a sudden Cate gave up the deceit, torn by rage and shame. She was sick of it all, half frightened too. “Annabel came to visit Stella to be with someone who loved her and there to die. She had burned herself out.”
“Sadly she did,” he agreed in a sympathetic tone.
“But before she died she made a deathbed confession. She needed to get on the right side of the Big Guy up there. She was my biological mother. She had begged Stella to save her and her reputation. Big sister Stella came to the rescue, sacrificing herself. My mother didn’t want me, you know,” she said and tried to smile. “A baby would have sabotaged her plans.”
Of course. That was it.
Ashe looked into her face, seeing a lifetime of tremendous hurt and pain of rejection. Pain of rejection gave credence to her story. Here was the mother of his child, living a large part of her life thinking herself an adopted child only to discover as a woman she had been deceived by someone who loved her, her own aunt, Stella. There would be long-reaching consequences of this.
“You must have been shocked, more at Stella than Annabel. Why didn’t Stella tell you at some point much earlier?”
Cate rested her blonde head back on the sofa. “To be honest, I don’t think she could get it out. I used to think I would never forgive her for not telling me.”
“And have you? I’d say you still haven’t forgiven her. Maybe you never will.”
A sad smile was etched on Cate’s face. “Bitterness taints, Ashe. I love Stella. She’s my aunt, and Jules’ great-aunt. She spent a lifetime looking out for her little sister
and then looking after me.”
“Did Annabel never reveal who your father is?” He could see tears behind the sparkle in her eyes, veiled by her long lashes.
“Maybe she didn’t know.” Her lovely mouth firmed into a disillusioned smile.
“Oh, she knew,” Ashe retorted. “It’s up to you now to find out.”
It was such an effort to keep her voice steady. “I don’t want to know either.”
“I don’t accept that. Your biological father may well have been in the same position as me.” Ashe’s tone hardened. “Have you ever considered Annabel mightn’t have told him?”
She felt a sudden chill as though Annabel’s shade were right behind her. “I have no idea. Both you and Stella have made the comment Rafe Stewart was madly in love with Annabel at the time. Do you recall anything your mother or father might have said?”
“Not in front of me or my sisters,” he said. “We were kids. Rafe is, as I said, a prominent politician.”
She stared at the area rug. “Is he married? I’m not saying there could be any connection, just asking the question.”
“He’s married, yes. To Helena Stewart, a lovely woman. She runs a very successful interior-decorating business.”
“Children?”
He didn’t answer. He appeared to be battling feelings of his own.
“Is that a no, then?” The room seemed very quiet now, as though the walls were listening.
“They had an only child, a son, Martin,” he said finally. “Martin was a bit of a playboy. He was very handsome, very charming, very droll. But he was always in some kind of trouble with Rafe having to bail him out. He went into rehabilitation a number of times. Everyone hoped he’d beat his addiction, but in the end he died of an overdose. It took both Rafe and Helena years to pull out of it. Somehow they did.”
Cate felt utter dismay. “How very, very tragic. What would have made a young man with everything in life become dependent on drugs?”