by Liz Fielding
‘Don’t bother. I’ll call a taxi. After all, I should be able to afford it now.’ For a moment time held its breath before, with a visible effort of will, Joshua Kent stepped back.
‘Indeed you should. In fact, you could call a whole rank of taxis if the mood were to take you. But you won’t, Holly. We’ll play out this charade to the bitter end. I’ll be back.’ He turned and left, very quietly, his self-control screwed tightly back in place.
Holly let out a long sigh of relief. She had not misjudged the battened-down passion she had read in his face.
Released, in love or hate, its force would be devastating. She rubbed again at the place where his fingers had gripped her and allowed herself a rueful smile. There was no doubt which of those particular passions he reserved for her.
But why he should hate her was as much a mystery as ever and as bewildering. Her easy going nature had never roused anyone to such strong passion before. Of either variety. Standing alone in the sitting-room of Mary’s house, Holly shivered slightly and wondered if perhaps love at first sight had a contrary and equally violent emotion.
She looked around her. While they had been closeted with the solicitor, the caterers had cleared everything away. No sign remained that anything unusual had taken place. She wandered over to the window and stared out.
It was nearly dark now, too late to look at the garden. She had caught just a glimpse as they had driven through the gate, seen the brave sweep of daffodils that curved down the driveway.
And yet she was reluctant to look around the house. She had only said that that was her intention to annoy Joshua Kent. Now she found herself almost wishing that she had not asked him to leave. With him as her guide it would not have felt quite so much like snooping on someone else’s life. But she supposed if she was going home the next day it must be done. Although exactly why, what she was doing it for, she couldn’t have said.
She wandered from room to room, touching the delicate china pieces that were lodged almost carelessly on window ledges and small tables. Not like her mother’s precious pieces, locked out of harm’s way in a china cabinet. But there had been no careless children or tail-wagging dogs here to send them flying. Mary Graham had apparently led a very self-contained life.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were all quite beautiful, freshly decorated and, in stunning contrast to her shabby room at home, everything was in perfect order. The housekeeper knew her business. They had met briefly after the funeral when Joshua had introduced her to Mrs Austin. The woman had looked at her closely, in a manner Holly had found slightly disconcerting. Now she knew why. The poor lady was clearly wondering what sort of person had inherited the house and whether she would still have a job.
Mary’s bedroom was at the front and in the daytime would have the sea views. Holly could see the lights of the harbour and the town and, a long way off, in the shipping lanes, the tiny moving lights of tankers and cargo boats.
This room, too, had an almost unnatural perfection, except that on the bed there was a battered manila folder. It was so out of place among the broderie frills that she picked it up, flipped it open and all at once the breath caught in her throat.
There was a photograph. An old photograph of herself, grinning, gap-toothed, pleased as punch to be big enough to go to school, white-blonde hair pulled back in tight pigtails, beret firmly in place at the regulation angle, and posed to show the badge on the tiny blazer pocket. She picked it up. A copy of the picture had had pride of place on the mantelpiece at home until it had been knocked over in some mad game and the glass had broken. She sank to the bed and began slowly to turn the rest of the papers over.
‘Holly?’ She hadn’t been aware of time passing, but now the sound of her name jerked her back to the present.
‘Oh, Joshua.’ She was slightly dazed. ‘Is it so late? I hadn’t realised.’ He came into the room and stood beside her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you to find that cold. Mary asked me to give it to you.’ He picked up the yellowing cutting from the local newspaper when she’d won her first painting competition. ‘You were a fragile little thing,’ he said. ‘Is this the card?’ She nodded.
She had been six but still remembered the thrill when they had used her picture for a Christmas card to raise money for a local charity. He opened it and read out her very careful “With love from Holly”.
A choked cry escaped her lips. ‘I didn’t know about this,’ she said. ‘Why did Mary have all these things?’ He frowned and sat beside her on the bed and began sifting through the papers. Copies of school reports, more newspaper cuttings of her successes.
‘Good grief!’
She looked up at his exclamation and he held out a newspaper cutting.
‘Oh, no!’ She saw the question in his face and managed a laugh. ‘My moment of teenage rebellion,’ she offered. A punk hairdo had unhappily coincided with one of her paintings being chosen for a national exhibition. ‘My mother was so angry.’
‘She has my sympathy.’ He reached out and touched her hair with the tips of his fingers. ‘You have beautiful hair.’ The gesture was so unexpected that she shivered and stood up, oddly disturbed by the intimacy of the moment. He rose to his feet. ‘Mary painted, too. Did you know?’ he said abruptly.
She shook her head. ‘I only met her once. Years ago. I’m surprised she remembered me.’
A lie. Her own memory was vivid. Too vivid.
‘Would you like to see her work?’ She realised that he was trying to be pleasant.
‘Yes, thank you, I would. If you have time.’ He led the way back downstairs to the study. In the bureau was a large folder. He placed it on the desk and opened it. It was a collection of drawings and water-colours, pictures of Ashbrooke and its surroundings. Holly turned them over. Mary Graham had been an artist of considerable talent.
Joshua looked over her shoulder and removed one of the pictures. For a moment he examined it. ‘I hadn’t realised how talented she was. She never showed her work.’ He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘It must run in the family.’ He straightened. ‘She has one of your pictures. Did you know?’ Holly shook her head and he extended his hand to her. ‘It’s through here.’
The gesture caught her by surprise and without even thinking she laid her fingers on his and allowed him to lead her into the dining-room.
A long water-colour of the river at Maybridge hung over the sideboard and Holly gasped with pleasure. She had been so pleased with it, so thrilled when the local gallery had agreed to take it. When they had put it in their window she had walked by the shop front at least three times a day in order to see it displayed there and had been almost disappointed when it had sold so quickly.
It was as if she had lost something that belonged to her, a feeling that the cheque from her first important sale hadn’t quite assuaged. It had always been the same when she sold a picture that she really liked.
‘How kind of her to buy it.’
‘I’ve seen it before, of course, but I hadn’t realised it was yours until I came in here for a bottle of sherry this afternoon. It’s very good.’ Holly half turned to him and realised with something of a shock that he still had her fingers caught between his own. She quickly withdrew them.
‘Thank you.’
He let his hand drop to his side. ‘It occurs to me that you might wish to go home tomorrow,’ he said stiffly. ‘Perhaps we should clear up one or two things first. The house, for instance. Do you want me to ask Mrs Austin to look after it for the time being?’
‘Until I decide what to do with it that would probably be best.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
She could see that Joshua Kent was making an enormous effort to be polite. Why it should be such a strain was a mystery. She was beginning to suspect the reason but she had to get to the bottom of it, clear the air between them once and for all.
‘How old was Mary?’ she asked.
He seemed surprised by her question. ‘It’s difficult to say. She had that fine, fragile so
rt of beauty that never seems to age, but I suppose she was in her early forties. Why?’
‘You must have loved her very much.’
‘Loved her?’ For a moment he seemed to consider the question quite seriously and then his face darkened as he realised exactly what she meant. ‘So, that’s what’s going through your head. You think that I was her lover and expected to receive my just deserts in her will?’
Stated baldly it sounded quite horrible and she wished the words had never left her mouth, but they could never be recalled and she pressed on, needing to get to the truth.
‘What else can I think? You’ve made your resentment quite plain enough. Does it sound so implausible?’
For a moment he glared at her, then, to her astonishment, he quite suddenly laughed. He caught her expression and shook his head. ‘Frankly, yes.’ Holly felt the slow flood of colour rising to her cheeks.
‘Oh, lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You’re surely married —’
‘No, Holly, I’m not married. And I suppose if I’m honest it isn’t quite that ridiculous. She was a very beautiful woman and I was certainly very fond of her. But I’m afraid you have the wrong generation of Kents. It was my father who carried something of a torch for Mary.’
‘Oh!’
His amusement at her total misreading of the situation seemed to have eased the tension. ‘Don’t look so tragic. I’m beginning to understand why.’ He offered his hand once more. ‘Come on. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.’ It was late when they settled at a corner table at a small restaurant down on the quay and there were few other diners. While they were waiting for their food Joshua sat back and regarded her thoughtfully.
‘I was unbelievably rude to you today.’
‘Just today?’ Holly repeated in mock astonishment. ‘You’ve been unbelievably rude to me since the moment I first opened my front door to you.’
For a moment she thought he was going to deny it. But he simply shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. And I’ve no right to judge you when Mary didn’t.’
‘Judge?’ Holly lifted her shoulders, uncomfortable with the word. ‘I don’t think either of us has anything to congratulate ourselves for. The truth of the matter is that the very mention of a funeral upsets me.’
‘You’re rather young to have much experience of them,’ he said.
‘Old enough. I was just twelve when Dad died. He had a heart attack somewhere abroad and his body had to be flown home. I didn’t really understand what had happened and it all rather frightened me. Then my mother was hit by a car a couple of years ago.’ She looked up. ‘It wasn’t the driver’s fault. She just stepped out, not looking. Her head must have been full of Christmas. She always loved it, couldn’t wait to put the tree up. We always did that together on Christmas Eve and then had a little party, just the two of us, for my birthday. I haven’t put up decorations since.’
‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised quite what an ordeal it must have been for you today.’
Holly toyed with her fork. ‘I was dreading it,’ she admitted. ‘But it was different, somehow. Not depressing. Who were all those people?’
‘Friends, mostly. Some were people Mary had helped. She founded a charity to provide holidays for children. That’s how I got to know her so well. She dragged me in to help with fund raising and when she set her heart on something you didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Is that why you’re her executor?’
‘More or less. My father was a solicitor here in Ashbrooke and he was originally named as her executor. When he retired she said she ought to have someone who was likely to outlive her.’ His face softened. ‘Very brave. She must have known, even then.’
‘I wish I’d known her.’
‘Do you. Holly?’ He leaned forward. ‘Then why on earth didn’t you come—?’
The arrival of their supper interrupted the question and, in the business of serving food and wine, it was lost. Or maybe he just decided it was not important enough to pursue. But she decided it was. ‘I didn’t come, Joshua, because I didn’t know she was ill. If you’d let me know before it was too late—’
‘It was her decision, Holly. She gave me that folder for you — she wanted you to know that she had always cared about what happened to you, despite everything. She didn’t blame you for not wanting to know her.’ He drew back. ‘But you were the loser.’
‘That’s not true.’ Or was it? Once, writing Christmas cards, she had been on the point of asking her mother if they should send one to Mary. Something had stopped her. ‘I hadn’t seen her since I was seven years old,’ she said defensively.
‘She thought it best. She didn’t tell me, but clearly something happened then that made her decide it was better to stay away.’ Holly felt a chill along her spine. She didn’t need Joshua Kent to tell her what had happened.
‘But she told you everything else?’
‘She needed to confide in someone.’ He stirred the food around his plate with a fork. ‘I think she thought someone younger wouldn’t be so shocked to hear about her illegitimate daughter.’
‘Daughter?’ Holly sat for a moment while the words sank in. Then quite suddenly everything was clear. All that stuff about her conscience, his grim disapproval. She could hardly blame him, she thought as she raised her hand to her temple, feeling faint. Shock always had that effect on her. She needed air.
Joshua swore softly under his breath, at her side in a heartbeat, his arm around her. ‘You didn’t know.’
It wasn’t a question and she didn’t bother to confirm or deny it. ‘Will you take me back to the hotel?’ she asked, struggling to her feet.
‘Holly?’
‘Now, please. Straight away.’
His brow creased in concern. ‘Yes, of course.’ He signalled to the waiter and signed the bill. He paused before starting the car, as if he would say something, but the deathly pale set of her face stopped him.
He drew up outside the hotel and she fumbled with the door, wanting to get away from him as quickly as she could but her brain didn’t seem to be sending the right messages to her fingers.
He reached across and took her hands and held them in his own, turning her towards him.
‘Holly, I’m sorry. Mary thought you knew.’ She glanced down at his hand. It was as if the strength in those long fingers was pouring into her, helping her.
‘There’s absolutely no need to apologise. I should have realised right at the beginning that all this was some sort of mistake.’
‘Mistake?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. If you came to my house looking for Mary Graham’s illegitimate daughter, you were misled, Mr Kent. You’ve found the wrong woman.’
His face was all shadows, unreadable. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I haven’t found the wrong woman. I was looking for Holly Carpenter. I found her.’ He shook her slightly as if this would make her see sense. ‘I found you.’
‘But I am not Mary’s daughter.’
‘Holly, please. I can see you’re upset. It must have been a shock. But it really doesn’t matter.’
She turned on him. ‘How could you possibly know that? If your opinion of your own infallibility is so great that it hurts to admit you are wrong, then I’m sorry. But on this occasion you will simply have to accept that you are.’ Stronger now in her anger, she moved to go, but his hand tightened, detaining her.
‘There’s no possibility of a mistake.’
‘On the contrary, Joshua. I’m Holly Carpenter. My mother was Margaret Carpenter and my father was Peter Carpenter. That’s the truth and the end of it.’
‘And the folder? Why the hell do you think she garnered every scrap of information she could about you? It was more than simple curiosity, wouldn’t you say?’ His grey eyes glittered angrily, convinced as he was that she was simply refusing to accept a self-evident truth.
‘I don’t know.’ But that wouldn’t do. He would have to be convinced that he was wrong. She shook h
er head from side to side, trying to wipe out the memory of that small bundle of paper that represented her life. ‘Perhaps she took a special interest in her cousin’s child, a child about the same age as her own daughter?’ There was no softening in that cold face. ‘If what you say is true, that would be understandable,’ she offered, aware of a pleading note in her voice.
But he was relentless. ‘You are her daughter, Holly. She told me your name and where to find you. God knows, I wanted to come and fetch you before but she wouldn’t let me. It had been your decision, she said, and she accepted that. She just wanted, hoped that you would finally relent and come to her funeral.’
‘If I had known she was ill I would have been happy to come and see her, but no one told me. And I’m not her daughter.’
His mouth was drawn in a hard line. ‘Damn you, Holly. I know you’re Mary’s daughter and somehow I’ll prove it to you.’
‘That is not possible.’ She finally pulled free of his grasp. ‘Goodnight, Joshua.’ She moved too quickly for him to open the door for her, but he was at her side as she entered the hotel. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to see me to my room.’ He ignored this, turning her towards the stairs. ‘It’s been a trying day, Holly. Sleep on it,’ he urged as he opened her door. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow. We’ll sort something out.’
‘Talking won’t change anything.’
‘Hiding from the truth won’t help, either,’ he said, losing patience in the face of her intransigence. ‘Something you’ve picked up from Margaret Carpenter. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He turned and walked quickly away.
She closed the door and for a while leaned against it, desperately trying to sort out her confused thoughts.
Nothing made sense. She wasn’t adopted, she knew that. But one thing was certain — she wasn’t planning to stay in Ashbrooke to be hectored by Joshua Kent. It was too late to leave immediately. She would have to spend the night at Ashbrooke Hall, but she made enquiries about the train service and booked a taxi for seven-thirty the following morning and an alarm call. Then she packed her bag, leaving her trousers and sweater ready for the morning.