The Smouldering Flame

by Anne Mather

  ‘Joanna! Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’

  Joanna allowed her mother to give her a swift embrace, and then said: ‘We didn’t know, Mummy, honestly. It all happened so suddenly.’ She glanced awkwardly at Shannon. ‘I cabled you that—that Shannon was ill, and as soon as he was better …’

  ‘… we came,’ finished Shannon dryly. ‘Hello, Mother, it’s good to see you.’

  Catherine hesitated only a moment, before embracing her stepson, and like Jessie she was visibly moved when she drew back. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Shannon,’ she echoed his words. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Apart from a couple of hours’ delay in Nairobi, it was reasonable,’ answered Shannon, and Joanna envied him his apparent coolness and detachment. ‘It’s cold here, though, isn’t it? I guess my blood’s thinned over the years.’

  ‘And no wonder, in that heathen place!’ put in Jessie reprovingly. Then she nodded at the tray in her hand, seeking Catherine’s advice. ‘Do I take this in? He’ll be wondering what’s going on.’

  Catherine looked flustered for a moment. ‘Oh—oh, yes, I suppose——’

  ‘Kate! Kate! Jessie! In God’s name, where are you, woman?’

  They all stiffened at the sound of that harsh, commanding voice, even Philip, but Joanna’s eyes were drawn to Shannon yet again. He had stiffened, too, but there was a line of grim determination around his mouth, and without asking permission he took the tray from Jessie’s unresisting hands.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ he said, uncompromisingly, and they all watched as he crossed the square, polished wood blocks of the hall and rapped loudly at the library door before letting himself inside.

  The silence was unnerving. They were all straining their ears to hear the first words of that long-awaited confrontation, and Joanna suddenly couldn’t stand it any more.

  ‘Is there anything to eat, Mummy?’ she asked, in a high, unnatural voice, even though food was the last thing she was needing right now. ‘I haven’t had a thing since lunchtime.’

  Her words seemed to animate all of them at once. Jessie bustled off to the kitchen, her mother visibly gathered herself, and Philip slung a casual arm about her shoulders.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said regretfully. ‘Mother’s got a meal waiting for me. I wish you could join us, but I suppose you’d rather spend the evening with your parents and Shannon.’

  Joanna hesitated. Quite honestly, the idea of getting into Philip’s car and driving away with him appealed tremendously, but her mother’s expression was sufficient to convince her that she could not do that. Instead, she compromised.

  ‘Why don’t you come over later on, Philip?’ she invited, knowing full well he would not refuse.

  ‘I suppose I could.’ Philip looked at Mrs Carne.

  Catherine shook her head bewilderedly. ‘Of course, Philip. Do what you want. You’re almost one of the family. I don’t know how we would have managed without your help these past weeks. You’re always welcome at Mallowsdale.’

  Philip’s face flushed with pleasure, and Joanna wondered why she didn’t feel more enthusiasm in this knowledge.

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Mrs Carne,’ Philip was saying now. ‘I always feel—at home here.’

  Catherine made a deprecating gesture. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen when you want me, Joanna,’ she said, anticipating their desire to be alone, and left them.

  Philip’s eyes were tender as he looked down at his fiancée, his fingers seeking his ring on her left hand, pressing it insinuatively. ‘I’ve missed you, Joanna,’ he murmured huskily, and she tried to respond as she knew he expected. But when he lifted his head she could tell from his expression she had not entirely succeeded. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his brows drawing together. ‘What’s wrong? Did he give you a hard time?’

  They both knew what he was talking about, but Joanna didn’t want to talk about Shannon. ‘I’m tired, Philip,’ she exclaimed defensively, despising herself for feeling this way. ‘How—how’s Daddy? I forgot to ask.’

  Philip shrugged. ‘You heard, didn’t you? He’s just as—irascible as ever. Perhaps he’ll calm down now that his son has returned. If he doesn’t take care, he’ll kill himself as well as the fatted calf!’

  There was a trace of bitterness in Philip’s voice, but Joanna scarcely registered it. She cast anxious eyes towards the closed library door. From beyond the heavy panels, the low murmur of voices could be heard, but the thickness of the walls disguised the tenor of the words being spoken.

  ‘Is he going to stay?’ Philip was speaking again, and Joanna forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘Shannon? Is he going to take over?’

  She felt ill-equipped to answer him, to put up any arguments for or against right now. But she had to be honest. ‘I—I don’t think so,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I really don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Philip’s expression was suddenly very hard to read. ‘Why not? Is he going back to Africa?’ Her face revealed her fears that this was so, and he turned away from her, clenching his fists. ‘Doesn’t he care about the estate?’ he demanded harshly. ‘That Mallowsdale is his home? His inheritance? My God, your father’s made that abundantly clear, hasn’t he?’

  Just for a moment Joanna heard the note of resentment in Philip’s angry tones, and wondered whether he had, at any time, entertained the idea that she might inherit the estate. After all, when he and his parents had first come to live at High Stoop, it had been natural for them to suppose that she was an only child. Her father had not talked about Shannon in those days, his name had rarely if ever been mentioned. But once Joanna started going out with Philip she had explained the situation, and he had not seemed affected by the news.

  Even so, it was not until her father had had his stroke that he had become so fanatical that Shannon should come home. Then, it had seemed the only thing that kept him alive through those dangerous early days when the doctors had given him a less than evens chance of survival.

  Now, Joanna thrust these traitorous thoughts aside. Philip’s fears, his anxieties, were all for her father. He knew, better than anyone, that Maxwell Carne would never farm his estate again. And if Shannon didn’t take over, who would?

  ‘Perhaps we should wait and see,’ she ventured now, and Philip swung round again, controlling the anger he had so unexpectedly displayed.

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘And I must go. I promised I’d be home for the evening meal half an hour ago. But when Mother hears that you’re home again, she’ll forgive me.’

  Joanna forced a smile. ‘Give her my love.’

  ‘I will. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you. She’s found a sewing pattern which she’s convinced will be ideal for your wedding dress.’

  Joanna caught back the sigh that almost escaped her. ‘I—I’ll look forward to seeing it.’

  ‘And I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Oh, yes—yes, later.’ Joanna wished she sounded more enthusiastic. It wasn’t fair to make Philip the brunt of her pain and confusion. But the uncertainty she was feeling had not been lessened by the renewal of their relationship.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOANNA did not sleep well. Alone in the solitude of her bedroom, she faced the fact that she was the bone of contention here, the stumbling block to Shannon’s reunion with his father. So long as she was in the house, there would be no peace for any of them, least of all herself.

  The futility of her own feelings left her cold with despair, and she could hardly believe it was only a little over two weeks since she left England, secure in her love for Philip, and his for her. In such a brief space of time, her life had changed completely, and she wished desperately that her father had never sent her on that ill-fated trip to find Shannon.

  Shannon! She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. Just thinking about him brought a physical pain to her chest, and there was no relief to be found in contemplating her proposed m
arriage. How could she marry Philip, feeling as she knew she did about Shannon? But again, how could she not? No doubt it was the sanest thing to do.

  Rolling on to her stomach, she relived again those moments in the airport at Nairobi, remembering Shannon’s subsequent denunciation of his parentage. If only it were that simple! If only one could escape one’s heredity. If only there was some way …

  But there was not, and no amount of wishing would make it so. And for her father’s sake, she must dismiss all thoughts of that kind from her mind. If she could convince Shannon that what had happened between them would never happen again, perhaps he might reconsider. If she went through with her marriage to Philip—and after all, she still loved Philip—surely then Shannon might find it in his heart to stop denying his birthright?

  It had been a strange, unnatural evening. Her father had sent for her just after Philip’s departure, and when she entered the handsome booklined room where her father spent most of his time, helpless in his wheelchair, she was immediately aware of the antagonism between the two men. That she was the cause of that antagonism made it all that much harder to bear.

  As she bent to kiss her father’s cold cheek, she was struck again by the dramatic physical change in his appearance. Maxwell Carne had always been a big man, strong and well built, his thick auburn hair flecked here and there with streaks of grey. Now he had shrunk to a mere shadow of his former self, his sudden loss of weight leaving folds of empty skin about his wasted body. He was paralysed completely down one side of his body, but it was a measure of the man’s courage that he had not given in to his disability, and had persevered until his speech was almost completely restored. But his hair was now quite white, and the greyish pallor of his skin was all the more pathetic to someone who had shared his love of the outdoors. Yet still his eyes were sharp and alert, and she had the distinct feeling that his brain had overcome its physical shortcomings.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she murmured, straightening, flicking an instinctive glance in Shannon’s direction. ‘How are you?’

  ‘How do you think I am?’ muttered Maxwell Carne ungraciously. ‘Do vegetables have feelings?’

  ‘You’re not a vegetable, Daddy!’ Joanna cast another revealing look at Shannon, lounging carelessly against the square oak table which occupied a central position in the room. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘Why should I?’ Maxwell’s voice was bitter. ‘No one else cares about me.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Joanna spread her hands. ‘Why—why, Shannon’s made the trip to England, just to see you.’

  ‘Has he?’ Maxwell’s eyes shifted to his son. ‘And why? Did you know he doesn’t intend to stay?’

  Although her father’s voice was low, Joanna could feel the suppressed emotion behind it, could see the light of defeat in her father’s eyes. But defeat would not come easily to him, and she guessed he would fight it all the way. Why couldn’t Shannon have waited? she asked herself fiercely. Why couldn’t he have allowed her father just a few days …?

  Squaring her shoulders, she said: ‘It’s early days yet, Daddy. Shannon hasn’t really had time——’

  ‘Joanna!’ Now Shannon spoke, his face drawn with anger. ‘Don’t dare to lie about it! There was no point in pretending. He knew. I didn’t have to lie to him.’

  ‘Why?’ Joanna could feel her eyes growing hot with unshed tears. ‘Why? I won’t believe you have to go back to that place. This is your home!’

  ‘My home!’ Shannon’s voice was taut with contempt. ‘I have no home, Joanna. I haven’t had for more than ten years!’

  ‘You’re a fool!’ muttered Maxwell harshly. ‘I’m giving you everything—every damn thing!’

  ‘You don’t have to buy my silence!’ retorted Shannon, with cold emphasis, and Joanna turned to stare at him in dismay. His silence? What silence? What hold did Shannon have over their father?

  ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t you owe me anything?’ Maxwell demanded angrily.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Daddy!’ Joanna could see the threatening colour sweeping up her father’s face, and was concerned by it. ‘You know what the doctor said——’

  ‘Damn doctors! I’m talking to Shannon. Well? What have you to say for yourself?’

  Shannon straightened away from the table, tall and remote. ‘I think you should listen to what Joanna says,’ he replied steadily.

  ‘Damn you!’ Maxwell’s unparalysed hand gripped convulsively on the arm of his chair, and Joanna turned desperate eyes in Shannon’s direction. As though responding to her unspoken appeal, he said frustratedly:

  ‘You must have known you were wasting your time! Why for God’s sake couldn’t you have employed a manager to run the estate once you knew you’d never run it again?’

  ‘And when I was dead? What then?’ Maxwell asked, his voice rising.

  Shannon glanced at Joanna. ‘You have a daughter. She will have a husband by that time.’

  ‘Do you think I want Philip Lawson to run Mallowsdale?’ Maxwell spoke furiously. ‘There have always been Carnes at Mallowsdale. You’re a Carne, Shannon, whether you like it or not. I want you here!’

  Shannon’s hands were balled into fists. ‘No.’

  The fire died out of Maxwell’s eyes, and the hectic colour drained away, leaving his face as grey and pallid as ever. Joanna couldn’t decide which was worse for him—the excitement, or its aftermath.

  ‘Daddy, we can talk later,’ she said, bending to tuck the rug about his legs, but he slapped her hand away.

  ‘Leave it!’ he muttered violently. ‘Leave it!’

  Joanna stood uncertainly, and Shannon moved forward. ‘So much concern,’ he said scornfully, and she hated him in that moment for his lack of it. ‘How curious! Ten years ago my passing scarcely caused a ripple. I wonder why I’ve become so important.’

  Maxwell looked up at him bitterly. ‘Ten years ago, I hadn’t given up all hope of having a son!’

  He almost spat the words, and Joanna was horrified. ‘Daddy!’

  Shannon had not moved a muscle. ‘Let him go on,’ he told her grimly. ‘Now we’re getting nearer the truth.’

  Maxwell’s hand suddenly hung limp, and Joanna guessed he had almost exhausted his strength. ‘You’re a hard man, Shannon,’ he said, and she guessed what it cost him to say that.

  But strangely, his defeat moved Shannon more surely than his victory would have done. His lips twisting a little at his own vulnerability, Shannon took a deep breath, and then said: ‘You told me Lawson’s been running things. Exactly what has he done?’

  ‘Why?’ Maxwell’s heavy brows ascended.

  Shannon shook his head. ‘Because I find it harder to be like you than I imagined. Make no mistake’—this as his father’s lips parted in anticipation,—’I have no intention of staying here. But I am prepared to put the estate in order for some manager to take over, to advise someone else from a purely objective standpoint.’

  There was another light in Maxwell’s eyes now, and seeing it, Joanna knew that he thought he had won. And he had. This particular battle at least. But the war was by no means over.

  The rest of the evening had passed without incident. Philip came back before Shannon came down from his room where he had been unpacking his belongings, and because the two men obviously cared little for one another’s company, Joanna suggested that they used the morning room while Shannon talked to her mother in the sitting room. Because of his disability, her father had his bedroom on the ground floor, using what used to be a small dining room. He had a nurse, too, a man in his fifties called Henry Barnes, who was always around when he needed him. On Henry’s days off, she and her mother had had to manage, and she knew her father hated that. All the same, he had never allowed Philip to help him, and she wondered whether Shannon would be permitted, or would even want, to do so.

  Because of her disturbed night, Joanna slept later than usual, and it was after nine when she opened her eyes and focussed on th
e clock set on the unit beside her bed. The room was filled with an unnaturally bright light, and she slid out of bed and padded to the window, drawing back the curtains on a world made white and dazzling by snow. The radiator beneath the window was already pumping heat into the room, and she rested her knees against it for a moment, feeling the warmth spreading up her legs to her hips through the thin material of her nightgown.

  Her windows overlooked the back of the house where the clutch of outbuildings spread in organised disorder. There were stables and barns, sheds and outhouses for storing tools and machinery, and the building which housed the stainless-steel cooling tank. That was a new innovation, something which Shannon could not have seen. She sighed. Right now it was not in use. Philip had taken the Mallowsdale herd over to High Stoop. It had made things easier for him, and until Shannon—or someone else—took over the running of the estate, they would remain there.

  Looking beyond the immediate surroundings of the house, she could see the river, just visible through the trees. Snow had thickened its banks, narrowing the water-course, and she guessed there would be ice clinging to the banks, covered with snow, making it dangerous for anyone to walk there. It was not snowing at the moment, but the sky was grey and overhung, and she thought there would be more later. How strange Shannon must find this landscape after the heat and colour of Africa. She found it different herself, and she had not been long away.

  She had showered and was dressing in jeans and a sweater when there was a light tap at her door heralding her mother’s entry into the room, carrying a tray of morning tea. In a tweed skirt and knitted jumper, a gingham apron protecting her clothes, Catherine Carne still managed to look vague and rather helpless, and Joanna felt a deepening sympathy for her. She had relied on her father so much, and now he was helpless, too. It had been a terrible shock, much worse for her than for someone more capable of coping for themselves.

  ‘Oh, you’re up, Joanna,’ she said, with some relief, setting down the tray on the dressing table. ‘I hoped you would be. Shannon said to let you lie, but I have to talk to someone or I’ll go mad!’