Treacherous Waters

by Treacherous Waters (retail) (epub)

  ‘Annie!’ There was a trace of sharp impatience in Fergus’s voice now. ‘Will you answer me?’ He still held the open box towards her; the ring, catching the light as his hand moved, sparkled with a blue and crystal fire.

  With a quick, nervy movement she fairly snatched the box from him, snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and all but dropped it on the table, as if it burned her fingers. Then she lifted her chin to look at him, hands clasped in front of her. ‘Fergus—I can’t marry you,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. It—wouldn’t be right.’

  It took a moment or so to sink in. Then, ‘What the hell do you mean?’ She had never heard him speak so harshly. His usually pleasant face was thunderous. ‘What the hell do you mean?’ he repeated. ‘What – wouldn’t be right – about it?’ He emphasised the words with sudden suspicion.

  ‘I…’ Miserably she turned away from him to stare out into the rain. ‘I just can’t, Fergus. I can’t marry you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Annie spun on him. ‘Because I don’t love you! That’s why not. I am extremely fond of you. Truly I am. But I don’t love you. I’m sorry. I’ve tried. Really I have—’

  To her surprise and alarm he stepped to her and caught her wrist bruisingly hard, pulling her towards him, forcing her to look at him. ‘There’s something more to this,’ he said, suddenly quiet.

  She shook her head stubbornly. ‘There’s nothing. I just know I can’t – shouldn’t – marry you.’

  He was watching her steadily. ‘Davie?’ he asked. ‘Is it Davie?’

  She wrenched her wrist from his grasp, precariously close to tears. ‘No! It isn’t Davie! It’s me! I’m sorry! – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! – I should never have agreed to it in the first place—’

  ‘But you did,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Yes. I did.’ All at once she felt her own temper rising. ‘How many times do I have to apologise? I made a mistake. And I’ve hurt you. For that I truly am sorry. But I can’t compound the mistake and the hurt by going ahead. It won’t work, Fergus. Believe me!’ Her voice had risen and was shaking. She took a deep, fierce breath, knowing with certainty that Fergus would misinterpret any sign of tears as weakness. ‘You can’t make me marry you,’ she said. ‘Under the circumstances you’d be stupid to try.’

  He was watching her narrowly. ‘I still don’t believe I know the circumstances,’ he said slowly.

  She made a sharp, impatient movement with her hand. ‘You do! I’ve told you—’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Believe me or not, I don’t care. Please, Fergus!’

  ‘Mother? What’s wrong?’ Davie had appeared in the doorway, was looking from one to the other in bewilderment.

  Annie swallowed, steadied her voice. ‘Nothing, darling. It’s all right.’ She held out an arm, and her son came to her side. ‘Uncle Fergus and I are having’ – she glanced at Fergus and away – ‘a discussion.’

  ‘It sounds more like a quarrel,’ the boy said doubtfully. In Davie’s world grown-ups didn’t quarrel. He found it distinctly unsettling.

  ‘Yes, Davie.’ Fergus picked up the ring box and slipped it in his pocket; he stalked into the hall, face thunderous, to retrieve his raincoat and the unbecoming hat. ‘That’s how it sounds to me too.’ Clumsily he struggled into the wet coat, shrugged it onto his shoulders. His face was black with confusion and fury. He came back to the sitting-room door, glaring in understandable but somehow self-righteous anger at Annie. ‘When you come to your senses,’ he said stiffly, ‘you know where I am.’ He turned with no further word. The slamming of the front door behind him shook the house.

  ‘What was the quarrel about?’ Davie asked hesitantly, after a moment.

  ‘It was about getting married.’ Annie drew a deep breath, half-smiled, shaking her head ruefully. ‘Or rather, about not getting married,’ she corrected herself. She turned him fully to look at her, studied his small, solemn face. ‘Davie – would you mind if I didn’t marry Uncle Fergus?’

  He stared at her. ‘Mind? Of course I wouldn’t mind. I’d rather you didn’t. I thought you knew that? I mean,’ he added hastily, ‘he’s very nice, and I like him quite a lot, but…’ He let the words trail off.

  Annie pulled him towards her and hugged him tightly. ‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ she said into his thick, smooth hair. And then, ‘Poor Fergus,’ she added. And truly meant it. But could not deny in her heart of hearts that her predominant feeling was one of profound and growing relief.

  She wrote to Fergus that night, apologising yet again, telling him how much she had always valued their friendship, pointing out as gently as she could that friendship alone was not sufficient basis for a marriage.

  She did not mention Richard.

  Perhaps understandably, she received no reply from Fergus.

  * * *

  Richard Ross opened the door of the quiet, shadowed room and, with his hand still on the knob, turned to look back towards the bed. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he said softly.

  The reclining figure that he addressed regarded him with serene dark eyes, smiled faintly, but said nothing.

  Richard pulled the door shut behind him, and a moment later was stepping from the cool, sweet-smelling darkness of the silent house into the sunshine of the flower-filled, fountained courtyard. As he let himself out through the little gate into the narrow street, the smell of fresh coffee came to him from the small pavement cafe on the corner. In the distance, between the buildings, the River Seine glittered, a serene and lovely silver ribbon of light that reflected, shimmering, the graceful bridges and elegant buildings that lined it. Hands in pockets, Richard strolled towards it, his face very thoughtful. A street market in a side street was a kaleidoscope of colour; the smell of newly baked bread was mouth-watering. A small donkey cart rolled and rattled up behind him and he stepped out of its way, acknowledging the dour greeting of the driver. Drifts of pink petals from the blossoms of the chestnut trees that lined the river’s banks blew in the faintest of breezes. Paris was at her best. Richard walked halfway across the Pont des Arts and stood leaning, elbows on the parapet, looking downriver towards the verdant Île de la Cité and the twin towers of Notre Dame. It was his favourite view in his favourite city, but for once it failed to enchant. He drew a silver cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, lit it, blew smoke pensively into the bright air.

  He had been kicking his heels in Paris for nearly a week. Long enough? It should have been, he reckoned. It would have to be. Time was running out. He could wait no longer.

  With a suddenly decisive movement he dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his heel.

  It was time to get back to London. And to Annie.

  * * *

  ‘Mother! Richard’s here—’ Excitedly Davie raced into the garden. ‘He’s outside. He’s come in his motor car!’

  It was the first Saturday in May; the afternoon sun was high and bright. Annie, who had been on her knees weeding a flower bed, sat back on her heels, pushing her hair from her eyes. ‘Richard? Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’ll go and let him in—’ He shot off again without waiting for her to reply.

  Annie dropped her trowel and scrambled to her feet, frantically brushing at her shabby gardening skirt with a dirty hand. ‘Damn it!’ she said aloud. ‘Of all the times!’ She heard the sound of laughter coming from the house. Then Davie danced out through the French windows beside the tall figure of Richard Ross and her heart turned over.

  She had lectured herself sternly in the days since she had broken with Fergus. She had warned herself time and again not to jump from the frying pan into the fire, not to read too much into a single, pleasantly flirtatious evening, not to make a fool of herself. All to no avail. As he came towards her, smiling, she found herself blushing furiously and as tongue-tied as any schoolgirl with a crush.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. He was immaculat
e in flannels and a blazer; his skin had darkened a little in the Paris sunshine.

  ‘Hello. You’re back then?’ Her colour deepened. Sparkling repartee, this.

  ‘Yes. Arrived back yesterday.’

  ‘Did you have a successful trip?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Richard was carrying a brown paper carrier bag that Davie was eyeing with interest. ‘I bought you both a little something. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Davie, straight to the point as usual.

  ‘Take a look.’ Richard reached into the bag and pulled out a brown paper-wrapped parcel that was quite obviously a large book. He laughed. ‘No prizes for guessing what it is, but open it up – I think you might like it—’

  As Davie ripped enthusiastically at the paper Richard turned to Annie and handed her a small, exquisitely wrapped package. ‘For you,’ he said.

  She took it, held it for a moment, touching the ribbons and tiny paper flowers that adorned it. ‘I haven’t had a chance to thank you for the flowers yet,’ she said softly.

  ‘Did you like them?’

  She looked up quickly. ‘Oh, yes! They were lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘Golly, look at this!’ Davie had discarded the wrapping on the grass and dropped to his knees, laying the book in front of him, leafing through the heavy pages with their tissue dividers with – for him – great care.

  ‘Richard! You really shouldn’t!’ Annie peered over her son’s shoulder. ‘What perfectly lovely illustrations!’

  ‘I found it in a second-hand bookshop. Couldn’t resist it. Apparently the artist travelled all over Africa, cataloguing and drawing the flora and fauna for the French Botanical Society. Splendid, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s wizard!’ Davie said.

  Annie smiled at Richard. ‘And they don’t come any better than that, I can tell you. Davie – what do you say to Richard?’

  ‘I was going to.’ Davie was injured. ‘You haven’t given me the chance. Thank you, Richard.’ He dropped his head to the book again, instantly absorbed.

  Richard smiled his acceptance of the thanks as Annie tousled her son’s hair. ‘Sorry. Who’d have a mother, eh?’ She straightened, pushing back her hair.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open yours?’

  She laughed a little. ‘It’s too pretty to open.’

  ‘I cheated,’ he admitted cheerfully. ‘The shop girl wrapped it for me.’

  Very carefully she unwrapped the little present. Her eyes widened. ‘Chanel Number Five!’ She was utterly delighted. ‘Richard! How extravagant! How very kind! Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’ He was looking at her quizzically, as if waiting for something.

  She unstoppered the small, stylish bottle and breathed in the perfume. ‘It’s lovely!’

  He put his head on one side, his eyes holding hers. With a quick movement she stepped to him, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek, swiftly and lightly. His skin was taut and warm beneath her lips. ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The emphasis was different, and dry.

  Davie looked up suddenly. ‘Can I have a look at your motor car? It’s a Wolseley, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. The new thirty-five-horsepower saloon.’

  ‘They’re smashing cars, aren’t they? My friend Robert’s father’s got one. Can I have a look?’

  ‘You can have a ride if you’d like.’ Richard laughed at the delight that lit the boy’s face. He looked at his watch. ‘Tell you what – get your glad rags on, the pair of you, and we’ll take a spin in the country. Who knows – we might even find someone who’ll oblige us with a cream tea! Would you like that?’

  Davie needed no more persuading than that. He jumped to his feet and gathered up his book, cradling it like a baby in his arms. ‘I can wash and change in less than five minutes,’ he said.

  Annie laughed. ‘Well, I can’t! So you’re just going to have to wait for me, aren’t you?’

  ‘For as long as you like,’ Richard said. And if the words were innocent enough, Annie saw with suddenly quickened breath that the look in his narrow eyes was not.

  * * *

  ‘This is really very kind of you,’ Annie said, stirring her tea. ‘I haven’t seen Davie so excited in a very long time.’

  ‘Show me a boy who doesn’t get excited about motor cars.’ Richard looked out into the pretty garden of the tea room where Davie, unable as usual to sit still for long, was leaning over the railings of a little wooden bridge, watching the goings on in the stream below. ‘When they grow up his generation will probably know more about the internal combustion engine than we do about how a steam engine runs.’

  She glanced up at him, smiling. ‘That wouldn’t take much in my case. I haven’t the foggiest notion how either works.’ Her eyes followed his: Davie had crouched down and stuck his head through the rails, peering intently down into the water.

  Annie frowned suddenly, nibbling her lip.

  Richard, seeing her expression, touched her hand lightly. ‘Don’t worry. He’s all right. He can’t fall.’

  ‘No.’ She did not take her eyes from her son.

  ‘And if he did he probably wouldn’t hurt himself. It’s only a couple of feet and the stream’s very shallow—’

  ‘You can drown in two inches of water,’ she said quickly.

  He put his head on one side, watching her, curiosity in his eyes, but said nothing. After a moment, sensing his gaze, she looked back at him. Her whole body had tensed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Water frightens me. That’s all. I…’ She took a breath. ‘I found a drowned woman and child once. In the Seine. It was the most dreadful thing you can imagine. It haunts me still. I dream of it sometimes – usually when something reminds me, or if I’m upset or unhappy—’ She stopped, looked down sightless into her teacup. Drifting hair. A child’s bloated hand. Fish, darting and nibbling— She shuddered, suddenly chill.

  Again he touched her hand, and this time held it lightly. ‘I see. That does explain it. How old were you?’

  She looked up again, her face very pale. She shook her head. ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I only mentioned it to explain…’ She glanced out of the window again. Davie had left the bridge and had found a wooden swing. Annie relaxed. ‘It’s stupid, I know,’ she said, quietly. ‘I just hate water.’

  ‘Understandable under the circumstances.’ Richard’s hand still lay upon hers. Beyond the garden the rolling Surrey countryside lay tranquil beneath an evening sky that was beginning very faintly to show the rosy glow of sunset in the west. Richard’s hand tightened slightly for a moment, then he let hers go.

  She smiled, faintly apologetic.

  ‘Are you in any great hurry to get home?’ Richard asked after a moment. ‘We could explore a little further if you’d like? Does it matter if our young man there is a little late in bed tonight?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. As a matter of fact he’s on holiday. It’s Founder’s Week – they always have a few days off. I’m taking him up to Southwold on Tuesday, to stay with his Nan until the weekend.’ She laughed a little, fondly. ‘And since, as you can probably guess, Mother isn’t exactly a martinet when it comes to bedtime, he might as well start now. He’ll be thrilled. He’d probably stay up all night if it meant driving around in your car.’ Davie had slowed down the swing and was looking in their direction. When Annie waved and beckoned to him, he slipped from the swing and ran to the window. ‘Richard wants to know if you’d rather go home to bed, or drive around the countryside for a little while longer,’ his mother said, straight-faced.

  Davie laughed.

  Richard reached for the road map that was folded up on the table. ‘Let’s see where we’d like to go.’

  They cruised around the country lanes for an hour or so, with the energetic Davie bouncing on the back seat and conducting an excited running commentary for them that brought to their attention everything from sheep, cows and horses to duck ponds and thatched cottag
es. Finally they rolled to a stop just below the crest of a hill. The sky was ablaze as the sun touched the horizon and began to slip beneath it. ‘Fancy stretching your legs for a minute or two?’ Richard asked.

  Davie put his head over the back of the seat. ‘Can I sit in the driver’s seat?’

  ‘As long as you don’t touch the brake.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’ He scrambled from the car and climbed into the seat Richard had vacated. Annie walked around the car to stand by Richard, smiling as her son pretended to steer the car, making loud engine noises as he did so. ‘Looks as if Wolseleys have trounced all rivals in the motor-car popularity stakes.’ She turned to look at the sunset. ‘What a wonderful view! England is so very lovely at this time of the year, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said, ‘it is.’

  Without looking at him, she was acutely aware that he was looking not at the view but at her.

  Together they strolled the little way to the hill’s crest, stood looking out over the rolling fields and woods that were bathed in the glow of the sunset. Behind them Davie’s engine noises were getting ever more enthusiastic. ‘It occurred to me—’ Richard began, and then stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You said Davie was on holiday – that you were taking him down to Southwold on Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes. He always goes to stay with my mother for a few days when he’s on holiday. They enjoy being together. And I feel it’s good for him to be in someone else’s company rather than mine all the time.’

  ‘It’s just… well, it so happens that I could be free on Tuesday. I wondered – would you like me to drive you there? Davie seems rather taken with the car.’

  They both turned to look back at the big green and black car and its small occupant. ‘Oh – we really couldn’t impose on you…’ Annie began, doubtfully.

  ‘It isn’t an imposition.’ His voice was quiet. ‘It’s an offer. But I quite understand if it makes things difficult for you—’

  ‘Difficult?’ Genuinely puzzled, she turned to look at him.