by Penny Jordan
“Tom Smith has already told you. She was mentally disturbed.”
“You don’t seem particularly concerned.” It was a dangerous thing to say, and she almost wished it unsaid when he continued to stare at her.
“What is it you want me to say Chris?” he demanded bitterly at last. “Natalie and I elected to go our separate ways a long, long time ago. My main concern now is Sophie. She’s already suffered enough at the hands of your cousin. I don’t intend to let you increase that suffering. Just remember that while you’re here I’ll be watching every step you take. Do anything that affects Sophie adversely and you’ll be leaving.”
“I’m not leaving Little Martin until I see Sophie running about, laughing and chattering as a six-year-old should,” Chris retaliated fiercely, the commitment she had just made half shocked her, almost as though she had been impelled to take the first step down a road she hadn’t intended to traverse. Slater was still watching her and fantastically, despite his cold eyes and grim mouth she had the impression that he was pleased by her reaction, although she could not have said why. Imagination, she told herself sardonically. Slater could have no reason at all for wanting her to stay.
“That’s quite a commitment you just made,” he told her softly. “Are you capable of seeing it through I wonder?”
She bent to pick up her case pushing the honey blonde cloud of hair obscuring her vision out of the way, impatiently, as she stood up to face him.
“Just watch me,” she told him grimly.
She was outside and in the car before she realised that she had not made any arrangements for the following day. A quick mental check informed her that it would be Friday—how travelling distorted one’s sense of time—that meant that Slater would be working. She would call on him early in the morning and tackle him about what access she could have to Sophie. Feeling as though she had cleared at least one obstacle, she put the car in gear and set out for the cottage.
CHAPTER THREE
THE lane which led to the cottage and which she remembered as scenic and rural, was dark, almost oppressively so, the lane itself badly rutted in places, and Chris heaved a small sigh of relief when at last she picked out the familiar low crouching outline of the cottage in the car’s headlights.
Parking outside she hurried up the uneven paved path. The lock was faintly rusty and she broke a nail as she applied leverage to the key. Grimacing ruefully she stepped inside, flicking on the light automatically. Her eyes widened in shock as she stared round the sitting room. Damp stains mildewed one of the walls; the cottage felt cold, and even worse, smelled faintly musty. She remembered now that her aunt had always insisted on a small fire even in the summer, and that she had often expressed concern about the building’s damp course too. As a teenager she had paid scant attention to these comments, but now she was forced to acknowledge their veracity.
Why had no one written to her; told her how much the cottage was deteriorating? Or perhaps they had and their letters were still following her round the world. Sighing Chris made her way through the living room and into the kitchen. Here too signs of decay and neglect were obvious. The cottage was clean enough but desolate somehow, and so cold and damp that the atmosphere struck right through to her bones. The dining room was no better, more patches of damp marring the plaster. With a heavy heart Chris made her way upstairs. The roof needed rethatching John had told her, and during the winter it had leaked. He had added that they had made what temporary repairs they could, but all her worse fears were confirmed when she opened the first bedroom door and walked inside. She and Natalie had once shared this room; its contours, every crack in its walls were unbearably familiar to her, as was the faint, but unmistakable perfume, heavy and oriental, at seventeen she was far too young to wear such a sophisticated fragrance, but she had insisted on doing so nonetheless, and its scent still hung on the air. Surely after six years it ought to have died, Chris thought frowningly. Unless of course Natalie had been here more recently. But why? She had flatly refused to take on any responsibility for the cottage when Natalie had been forced to have her aunt moved away from it. It could moulder away to dust was what Tom Smith told her she had said when she asked him to get in touch with her. She touched the cover of one of the single beds absently, withdrawing her fingers as they met the damp fabric. She shivered suddenly, noticing the mildew clinging to the cover. This had been her bed… She smiled wryly to herself. She had chosen the quilt herself. Natalie had chosen exactly the same thing, and then had burned a hole in her own with a cigarette while smoking secretly in bed. Absently her fingers smoothed the fabric, tensing as they found the small betraying burn mark. This was Natalie’s quilt. What was it doing on her bed?
Memories of Natalie’s possessiveness during their shared childhood flooded her. Natalie had hated her ever touching anything of hers. She would never have allowed her quilt to be placed on Chris’s bed. That was all in the past, Chris reminded herself. No doubt whoever cleaned the cottage had mixed up the quilts. She turned round and walked out of the room, shutting away the memories and lingering traces of Natalie’s perfume. She couldn’t possibly sleep in that room, it was far too damp.
Her aunt’s bedroom showed the same distressing signs of neglect. Now she knew why Slater had offered her a bedroom she thought wryly. She would have to stay here tonight. She could hardly go back now and wake up the whole household. So where did that leave her? If she wanted to get close to Sophie she would either have to take a room at the pub or…or swallow her pride and ask Slater if his offer of a room was still open. Much as she wanted to help Sophie she didn’t know if she could cope with sharing the same house as Slater.
She wasn’t nineteen any more she reminded herself wryly. What was she afraid of? That Slater would try to take up where they had left off? Hardly likely. No, tomorrow she would just have to go cap in hand to him and ask for his help, much as she resented the idea. But that was tomorrow. She still had to cope with tonight. Sleeping in either of the bedrooms was out which left only the living room. Shivering slightly at the thought she remembered that her aunt used to keep spare bedding in the airing cupboard. If it was still there, perhaps it might at least be dry. While she was here she would have to get a builder in to check over the cottage and put it to rights; put in a new damp course and renew the roof. Until that was done no one could possibly live here.
As she walked towards the bathroom, she glanced automatically at the small chest in the landing alcove and then frowned. Two cigarette butts lay in the ashtray. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled warningly and she suppressed the desire to turn round and look behind her. Obviously they had been left there by the cleaner. And yet as she entered the bathroom Chris had the distinct impression that something was not quite right… Pushing aside the notion as fanciful she opened the airing cupboard, relieved to discover a pile of bedding there that felt dry to the touch. The house had an immersion heater so at least she would be able to have a warm bath before curling up downstairs on one of the chairs, although she didn’t anticipate getting a good deal of sleep. Coming back had resurrected far more memories than she had anticipated, or was it Slater’s briefly tender kiss that had stirred up all the tension she could feel inside herself? Why had Natalie committed suicide? Would they ever know? Mentally disturbed was how Slater had described her and whilst it was true that she had always had a tendency towards hysteria, especially when she couldn’t get her own way, she had always thirsted for life with a tenacity that Chris simply could not envisage disappearing overnight.
She woke up as she had expected to, cold and stiff, shivering in the early morning light. It was seven o’clock. In the past Slater had always left for the factory at eight thirty, which didn’t leave her much time to see him.
Bathing and dressing in fresh clothes, she brushed her hair, leaving her skin free of make-up. Her stomach growled protestingly, reminding her how long it was since she had had something to eat, as she hurried out to the car.
She drove
up towards Slater’s house slowly, dreading the moment when she must face him. Mrs Lancaster opened the door to her, her kind face creased in concern as she saw Chris’s pale set face.
“Is Slater in?” Chris asked tensely.
“He’s just having his breakfast,” she told her. “You can go straight through. I’ll go and get another cup, you look as though you could do with something to drink.”
Chris knocked hesitantly on the door and then opened it. Dressed in a formal business suit, Slater looked far more formidable than he had done the previous day. He was drinking a cup of coffee, the cup raised to his lips, his eyebrows drawing together as he saw her. He replaced the cup and folded the newspaper he had been studying.
“Good morning. I trust you slept well.” His voice was coolly derisive and Chris had to stop herself from flushing, knowing that he must know exactly how uncomfortable a night she had had.
“Not very,” she managed to respond. “I hadn’t realised the cottage had become so dilapidated. My own fault I suppose…” She saw Slater flick back a cuff to glance at his watch, the gold band glistening among the dark hairs, and she had to fight down a sense of hostility that he should make it so plain that he was anxious to be free of her company.
“Let’s cut the small talk shall we?” he said curtly. “I’m sure you haven’t come here at this time of the morning to discuss the work that needs to be done on the cottage. What do you want?”
God how she hated him, Chris seethed, loathing the way he was reducing her to the role of begging.
He must know why she was here; he had to, and yet he was doing everything he could to make it hard for her.
The arrival of his housekeeper with a cup and a fresh pot of coffee provided a welcome break, but as soon as she had gone, his eyes hardened to icy coldness, and he made no move to offer her a drink, Chris noticed, her resentment increasing by the second. If it wasn’t for Sophie she would turn on her heel and walk out of here right now.
“Well Chris?” The curt impatience of his voice lacerated her tender nerves.
Her voice husky with anger she said tensely, “I came to ask if your offer of a room was still open. Obviously I can’t stay at the cottage…”
The smile he gave her wasn’t encouraging. It made her heart miss a beat and then start to thud unevenly. “Well now, I seem to remember yesterday that you were most vehement in refusing to stay here. Quite a change of heart.”
“Yesterday I thought I would be able to stay at the cottage.” Chris replied as evenly as she could, hating the way he was making her explain what he already knew—and had known yesterday. All the time she had been refusing to stay here he had known the state of the cottage and that she would have to retract. Fury brought a dark flush of colour to her skin as she continued bitterly, “Unlike you I didn’t realise the state it was in…”
“What are you trying to do, Chris,” he interrupted sardonically. “Blame me for your own rash impulsiveness? That was ever your way wasn’t it—to blame others for your own failings?”
The injustice of his comment and the bitter way in which he voiced it took her breath away. Tears stung her eyes, much to her chagrin. That was it. She couldn’t take any more. Turning her back on him she was just about to walk out when he said quietly, “The offer is still open, and now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I was leaving. Sarah will be arriving just after ten. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she spends two hours a morning with Sophie. And now if you’ll excuse me.”
He was standing up and opening the door before Chris could speak. She wanted to fling his offer in his face, to tell him that she didn’t need his room, but she forced herself to hold her tongue. Surely she had learned in the last six years to control her temper? Puzzled she glanced at the closed door. In fact she couldn’t remember a single instance when she had lost it, and yet here she was dangerously close to boiling point after the exchange of barely a dozen words with Slater.
Before she could dwell too deeply on her thoughts Mrs Lancaster came in, smiling again. “I’ll just get you some breakfast,” she offered, “and then I’ll take you up to see your room and Sophie.”
Gratefully Chris sat down. At least Mrs Lancaster appeared not to resent her presence. When the older woman came back with grapefruit and toast, Chris asked her to stay. “It would help me to know something of Sophie’s routine,” she told her. “I know so little about her.”
“Poor little mite, it’s a shame,” Mrs Lancaster murmured. “Bright little thing she was too at one time. Worships her father she does…”
“And her mother?” Chris questioned. “Did Sophie get on well with her mother?”
“I couldn’t say.” The housekeeper avoided her eyes. “Always in and out was Mrs James. Always here, there and everywhere.” In other words Natalie had tended to neglect her child, Chris thought reading between the lines, but how did Sophie’s inability to speak tie in with that? Perhaps Sarah would be able to tell her more; perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to see if she could find something to read on the subject.
While she ate her breakfast Mrs Lancaster outlined Sophie’s routine. “I normally get her up about nine; she has breakfast, and then if Sarah isn’t coming she goes out to play in the garden.
“In the afternoon if it’s fine I take her out for a walk. Mr James normally plays with her for a couple of hours when he comes in—devoted to her he is, and so patient.”
“She’s almost six,” Chris murmured. “What about school?”
“Doing quite well at playschool she was until this happened. She still reads a lot and Mr James gets special books for her; you know, so that he can teach her himself, but they won’t accept her at the village school the way she is just now.”
Poor Sophie, Chris’s heart went out to her. Already she was an outcast—different from her peers; if only she could help her in some way.
Tentatively she asked Mrs Lancaster if it would be possible for her and Sophie to have breakfast with Slater, and to her relief the housekeeper agreed. “More company is what she needs,” she told her, “a proper family atmosphere if you know what I mean. I always thought…” She broke off and looked slightly flustered, and diplomatically Chris didn’t probe. The housekeeper must know more about Slater and Natalie’s life together that anyone else, and perhaps in time she might be able to learn something from her that would give her a clue as to why Natalie should take her own life.
Finishing her breakfast, she asked if she could accompany the housekeeper upstairs when she went to wake Sophie.
The little girl was awake when they walked into her room—a dream of a little girl’s room, decorated in sugar candy pinks and frills.
“Chose all the decorations in here himself Mr James did,” Mrs Lancaster told Chris proudly watching her survey the room. “All new it is…”
“Oh…what was it like before?” Chris questioned wondering if it had been a good idea to take away things that were familiar no matter how well-intentioned the action had been.
Mrs Lancaster’s lips compressed. She frowned slightly as she looked at Sophie, and then said at last. “Mrs James always said there wasn’t much point in doing a room up specially for her, claimed the child wouldn’t appreciate it. Downright cruel she was to her sometimes,” she added, lowering her voice.
Biting her lip Chris glanced across at the bed. Sophie was lying there watching them, and sudden memory of her own childhood came to her. Without pausing to think Chris went across to her and sat down, picking up a framed photograph off the chest by the bed. In it Sophie was smiling up at her father. Natalie was not included in the print. “What a lovely photograph of Sophie this is,” Chris exclaimed, holding the frame out to Mrs Lancaster. “She looks so pretty when she smiles.” It was no less than the truth, but Chris had had a vivid memory of Natalie at six saying furiously that she would not share her bedroom with Chris and that she hated, hated her plain ugly cousin.
Chris had been heartbroken at her rejection, and for years had genuinely
thought that she was ugly; a view that Natalie had been at pains to reinforce. Could she have done the same thing to Sophie? It seemed impossible, but the human brain was a strange thing. Natalie would have bitterly resented having a child who looked so much like her, Chris knew and perhaps there had been occasions when she had taken out her hatred of her cousin on her child.
The pansy brown eyes flickered from Chris to the photograph, but the small face remained solemn and stiff. Where had she seen that combination of fair hair and brown eyes before Chris wondered idly. It was so familiar she felt she ought to be able to remember and yet she could not.
“What a pretty pink dress too,” Chris exclaimed, refusing to give up. “I used to have a dress like that when I was a little girl. Is pink your favourite colour Sophie?” she asked the little girl, addressing her directly for the first time.
Sophie’s only response was to look behind Chris at the housekeeper.
“Mrs James used to dress her in dungarees most of the time,” she told Chris. “Said there wasn’t much point in dressing her up, although she spent enough on her own clothes.” She sniffed disapprovingly and then said to Sophie. “Come on now young lady. Time you were getting up.”
Not wanting to overwhelm Sophie Chris got to her feet. “I’ll meet you both downstairs, shall I?” she suggested, smiling at Sophie, leaving her with the other woman.
Exactly on the dot of ten a small estate car stopped outside the house. The girl who got out was slim, with chestnut hair and a very self-possessed expression. Chris disliked her on sight and wondered at her atavistic response. It wasn’t like her to take an instant dislike to anyone.
Nevertheless she introduced herself pleasantly while Mrs Lancaster went to get Sophie and make them some coffee, trying to make conversation.
“Slater tells me you come here three mornings a week? How is Sophie responding so far?”