by Anne Mather
'There are two bedrooms,' Catherine pointed out patiently. 'Gillian, I know this may not be easy for you to understand, but a man and a woman—they can be just friends.'
Gillian looked sceptical. 'Can they? All the men I've known want just one thing—Owen included.' She flushed. 'And you're not getting any younger.'
'Thank you.' Catherine's tone was dry.
'Well, it's true. You're not. I'm twenty-two, and you were always three years older than me.'
'Well, that's one thing that doesn't change,' remarked Catherine wryly, reaching for the towel to dry her hands. 'It's nice of you to be so concerned, Gillian, but there's really no need. I guess I'm just a career woman at heart.'
'Mmm.'
Gillian didn't sound convinced, but Catherine had had enough of this particular conversation. Nevertheless, as she crossed the stone flags to the door leading into the passage beyond, she wondered if she would have felt differently had she been born to this environment. She had always been happy in the valley. Those summer weeks still possessed a dreamlike quality that she had never been able to duplicate anywhere else. Waking in the mornings in her little room under the eaves, hearing the wood-pigeons crooning on the chimneys, smelling the pervading scents from her aunt's flower garden; all these things had imprinted themselves on her memory. But, more significantly, she associated Penwyn with her awakening from girlhood to womanhood, and the painful realisation that dreams were no substitute for reality…
It was a little after ten when they drove back to Pendower. Catherine would have left earlier, but Robert had shown a genuine interest in her aunt's reminiscences, and with some misgivings she went to find her uncle in the cowsheds. Mervyn Powys was uncommunicative, however, and as the local vet was with him and she was obviously in the way, Catherine soon returned to the house.
'I like your aunt,' remarked Robert, as she drove up the winding road that led out of the valley. 'She's quite a character. Is she your mother's sister? I must say, she's not very like her.'
'No.' Catherine shook her head, concentrating on the narrow road ahead. 'Uncle Mervyn is my mother's brother. But Mummy left the valley nearly thirty years ago, and unlike me, she's never wanted to come back.'
Robert shrugged. 'You can't blame her, I suppose. Life on the farm was probably pretty spartan in those days.'
Catherine nodded, changing into a lower gear as the Renault laboured up the steepest part of the pass, and then stepped automatically on the brake as some small creature flung itself across the road ahead of them.
'What the devil was that?' exclaimed Robert, gazing at her profile in the semi-darkness, and she made a helpless movement of her shoulders. 'It almost looked human to me,' he added, rolling down his window and staring towards the ditch that dipped beside them. 'What did you think it was?'
Catherine was still shaken by the immediacy of her reaction, but she managed to say weakly: 'I thought it was human, too. It had legs.'
Robert grimaced. 'So do animals, in case you hadn't noticed.'
'No. I mean—two legs. I thought it was a child.'
'A child! Up here? At this time of night?'
'I know it seems crazy.' Catherine removed her moist palms from the wheel. 'Should we—should we look?' But even as she said the words, they heard a whimper which sounded suspiciously like a sob, and without waiting for Robert's answer, Catherine thrust open her door and got out, circling the car to reach the ditch. She wished she had a torch, or a match, although it would never have stayed alight in the stiff breeze that was blowing off the mountains. Instead, she concentrated on the shifting shadows beneath the level of the road, endeavouring to distinguish a human form among the ferns and undergrowth.
'I know you're there,' she declared, annoyed to find her voice quavered a little as she spoke, and Robert at the elbow asked in a wry undertone whether she expected some imp of Satan to appear. 'I don't know, do I?' she demanded, half irritated by his complacency, and then started again, as a small figure rose up in front of her.
'Good God! It is a child!' muttered Robert disbelievingly, while Catherine stared in amazement at the small boy who moved into the shadow of the car's headlights.
'I—I'm sorry if I startled you.' The boy spoke clearly and well, she noticed. 'I'm afraid I've hurt my knee. I didn't hear the car, you see, because of the wind, and I fell getting into the ditch.'
Catherine shook her head helplessly. 'Do you realise what time it is?' she exclaimed, unable to think of anything else to say at that moment, and the boy nodded, apparently unconcerned.
'It's late, I know,' he answered. 'I missed the last bus from Pendower, so I had to walk, you see. Then I twisted my knee and—'
'But where are you walking to?' demanded Robert, but as if freezing before the unmistakable exasperation in his voice, the boy made no response, merely shifting his weight from one leg to the other and offering a mutinous expression.
'We can't leave him here, you know,' Robert added, close to Catherine's ear. 'Wherever he's going, he could die of exposure before he gets there. It's so damn cold!'
Realising she had to make the next move, Catherine gestured towards the car. 'Can we give you a lift?' she suggested, wondering how a boy of no more than ten years of age could be wandering these roads at this time of night. Who was he? Where had he come from? 'It's much warmer inside.'
'I'm not allowed to accept lifts from strangers,' the boy replied then, hunching one shoulder, but Robert stretched out a hand and caught his arm.
'Well, we can't leave you here, old man,' he declared, urging him towards the Renault. 'Come on. We can talk just as well inside.'
'No, no! Let go of me!' The boy fought like a little fury then. 'I shall tell my father about this. He'll be furious, I can tell you. He owns this valley—'
'What!' Catherine detained Robert's enforced abduction, grasping the boy's shoulder and turning him so that she could see his face. Her heart lurched as Rafe Glyndower's dark features were exposed to her stare; smaller, younger, perhaps a little fairer, but definitely related. 'You mean—you're Thomas?'
'That's right.' He fought back a sob. 'And you have no right to keep me here!'
Catherine gathered herself with difficulty. 'Does your father know where you are?' she demanded, knowing the answer before she voiced the question. If Glyndower's son had been discovered missing, the whole valley would have heard about it by now. 'You know he doesn't. You're supposed to be away at school, aren't you? What's happened? Have you run- away?'
'Yes—no. That is—it's nothing to do with you!'
Shades of Lucy Glyndower, thought Catherine dryly. Then: 'And do you think you'll be welcome, at this time of night? I'd hazard a guess that your father will be less than pleased to see you.'
'Catherine, we can't stand here arguing the toss,'
Robert exclaimed shortly, showing uncharacteristic signs of irritation, and although she deplored his impatience, she appreciated his point.
'I wasn't going home,' Thomas was saying now, shocking her still further. 'There's a shepherd's hut not far from here. I was going to spend the night there and go home in the morning, only… only…'
'Only what?'
'Only—it's jolly dark, isn't it? I'm not afraid of ghosts, of course,' he added, holding up his head, 'but I might not find it in the dark, might I?'
Catherine felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for him. 'You have run away, then? From school?'
The boy nodded, looking down at his toes, and over his bent head Catherine exchanged an appealing look with Robert. Thomas was only wearing a blazer over his uniform grey shirt and trousers, and Robert hadn't been far wrong when he considered the possible effects of exposure. The boy was shivering already, and a night spent in a shepherd's hut…
Without hesitating, Catherine came to a decision. 'Look,' she said, squatting down beside him, 'you know you can't sleep in an old hut at this time of year. That might have been all right in the summer, when the nights were warm, but now it's cold, very cold, an
d you could freeze to death.'
Thomas sniffed. 'You're going to take me home?'
'Is that what you want?'
'Oh, honestly, Catherine—'
Overriding Robert's exasperated ejaculation, she repeated the question, and this time Thomas shook his head. 'Not—not tonight,' he admitted unhappily, and she straightened with determination, taking his small cold hand in hers.
'Now you listen to me,' she said firmly. 'How would you like to spend the night at my cottage in Pendower, then I'll run you home in the morning myself?'
Her legs quivered at this prospect, but short of bundling the boy into the car and dumping him on his father's doorstep at eleven o'clock at night, there was nothing else she could do.
'You're crazy!' declared Robert, jerking open the car door. 'Why can't you take him home?'
'What do you say, Thomas?'
The boy hesitated. 'Do you have buttermilk?'
'Oh, my God! Not only does he hesitate, but he makes conditions!' exclaimed Robert frustratedly, but Catherine ignored him.
'I'm sorry,' she said to the child now, 'I don't have anything like that. Why? Is it your favourite?'
'No!' Thomas was adamant. 'I hate it. My mother makes me drink it.'
'I see.' Catherine raised her eyebrows helplessly, as he suddenly smiled up at her.
'I'll come with you now,' he said. 'Can I sit in front?'
With much grumbling from Robert, Thomas was wedged between them, and the remainder of the journey was accomplished mostly in a stony silence. Thomas seemed to enjoy watching the road ahead, examining the instruments on the dashboard from time to time, and making comparisons between the Renault and his father's Volvo, but otherwise there was no conversation. Catherine was glad when they reached their destination, although she was taken aback when Robert said he was going to move into the hotel.
'You only have two beds,' he pointed out shortly, as they stood in the small hallway of Catherine's cottage in Pembroke Square. 'And as you've given one away…' He paused, significantly. 'Unless you'd like me to share yours?'
'Oh, Robert…'
'I thought not.' He marched angrily up the stairs. 'Then I'll just get my case and leave you two alone.'
'Robert!' Catherine felt terrible now., 'Robert, there is the couch.'
'No, thanks.' He came down again, carrying the overnight bag he had taken up earlier. 'I prefer a proper bed, thank you.' He halted in the hall, and looked half longingly at her. 'I'll see you in the morning, shall I?'
'Of course.' Giving the boy a helpless glance, Catherine moved forward and bestowed a kiss on his cheek. 'I'm sorry.'
'So am I,' he declared shortly, and then, as if not trusting himself to say more, he swung open the front door again and slammed it behind him.
Catherine moved automatically to lock it, sliding the bolt and looping the chain into place. Then she looked down at Thomas and pulled a wry face.
'Well,' she said, 'that's that. Now, are you hungry?'
'Ravenous!' he admitted, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and with a determined shake of her shoulders she led the way into her small kitchen.
With his mouth full of cornflakes, Thomas found time to comment on his surroundings. 'Do you live here all alone?' he asked, gulping from a glass of lemonade she had set beside him. 'I mean—aren't you married?'
'No.' Catherine smiled, perching on a high stool beside the breakfast bar. This seemed to be her night for being asked that question, but somehow she didn't mind his interest. 'Are you?'
Thomas giggled. 'Of course not.' He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, thought better of it, and hastily smudged it down his trousers before she could stop him. Then he frowned, tipping his head on one side. 'I say—I know you, don't I?'
'Do you?' Catherine made a negative gesture. 'I don't think you do.'
'Yes.' Thomas was definite now. 'You came to my house, didn't you? The last time I was at home.' He paused. 'Did my mother upset you?'
Belatedly, Catherine remembered the sensation she had had of someone observing her from the stairs when she had rushed out of the house on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion.
'You were there?'
'Yes.' Thomas bent his head. 'I'm always running away from school. Mummy was furious. So was my father, but he—sort of understands.'
'I see.' Catherine shivered, half appalled at the responsibility she had taken upon herself. 'Well, as soon as you've finished .that, you'd better get upstairs to bed. You've got quite a big day yourself tomorrow.'
'Yes.' Thomas put down his spoon suddenly. 'You will—come with me, won't you? You won't just—leave me?'
'What do you mean?' Catherine frowned.
'Well—when we get there. You won't just drop me off, will you?'
'I don't suppose I could do that, really,' remarked Catherine, with a sigh. 'Someone is bound to see us, and wonder what you're doing with me.'
'Oh, yes.' Thomas sounded relieved. 'I'm glad. I—I'm sure my father will want to thank you.'
'Are you?' Catherine was less convinced. 'Well, let's not think about that now. Come along, I'll show you where the bathroom is. I expect you want to have a wash.'
'I've got a bloody knee,' he remarked, looking down, and she sensed the pleasure it had given him to use that forbidden word. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, as he lifted his head again to meet her gaze mischievously, and she felt a sudden surge of emotion. He was such a charming little boy, and she wondered how anyone could bear to send him away to boarding school so young. Didn't his mother care about him? His conversation was smattered with comments about his father, but she'd noticed how little his mother's name was mentioned. Except when he'd asked her whether she had upset her…
Later, lying in her own bed, she wondered what Rafe Glyndower would say when she returned his son in the morning. He wouldn't be pleased, that much was obvious. If the boy made a habit of running away, he was probably heartily sick of the whole business. But if Thomas wasn't happy at school, why didn't they let him stay at home?
She thought she must have slept for a short time, despite the turmoil of her thoughts, but she awakened to the sound of her bedroom door being opened. For a moment she thought it was Robert, come to try and change her mind about their relationship, but then she remembered Robert wasn't sleeping in the house. Another visitor occupied her spare room.
Quickly, she stretched a hand and switched on the lamp beside her bed, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Thomas shrinking back against the door. He was wearing the nightshirt she had loaned him for sleeping, and his expression revealed his dismay at being discovered.
'What are you doing?' she demanded, sitting up in bed, her hair a tangled curtain of silk about her shoulders. 'Why aren't you in bed?'
Thomas chewed unhappily on his lower lip. 'I was cold,' he mumbled. 'I couldn't get to sleep.'
'So why were you creeping in here?'
'Sometimes—sometimes Daddy lets me sleep with him,' he muttered uncomfortably. 'I—I thought—if you were asleep…'
'… you'd curl up beside me?' Catherine finished for him.
'Well—yes.'
She shook her head helplessly. He looked so thin and forlorn standing there. How could she send him back to a cold bed?
'All right,' she said, folding back the covers. 'Get in. But I warn you, if you take up too much room I'll send you back to your own bed.'
'Yes, Miss Tempest.'
With a bound he was into the bed beside her, but before she turned out the light, she asked curiously: 'How do you know my name?'
Thomas snuggled down happily beneath the covers. 'Daddy told me. I asked him who you were, and he said your name was Miss Tempest, and that he'd known you since you were as old as I am now.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Catherine awakened before seven the next morning to the awful realisation that never once had she considered what the school might do when they discovered Thomas was missing. She had been so concerned in saving him from his f
ather's wrath that she had completely forgotten there were two parties involved.
Unable to rest any longer, she slid out of bed, taking care not to disturb the boy, and pulled on her candlewick dressing gown. As she fastened the buttons, a rather anxious expression clouded eyes which this morning had the opacity of smoked amber, and lifting her long hair from the neckline of the robe, she wondered what on earth she should do. She hadn't the faintest idea which school Thomas was attending, and even if she awakened him to find out, what authority did she have for ringing there and assuring them that he was safe? They might think she was a kidnapper or something awful like that, and how could she explain to strangers the unlikely events of the night before?
There was only one person she could call, she realised, though her stomach churned at the prospect. Rafe Glyndower was the boy's father, his guardian; and the sooner she contacted him the better, before an alarm was raised. She dreaded the possibility that the police might already have been alerted, and she swung on her heel abruptly and made for the door.
But before leaving the room she looked back at the remaining occupant of her bed, and for a moment her eyes softened. He looked so young lying there, arms flung carelessly above his head. So vulnerable. Surely his father would try and understand his behaviour, and not punish him too severely for what he had done. He was only a child—certainly not old enough to be treated as a recalcitrant adolescent.
It was chilly downstairs, and she turned on the radiators and plugged in the electric kettle, before returning to the hall where the telephone waited. What was she going to say? she asked herself, picking up the directory to find the number. How could she begin? How much easier it would have been just to deliver him to the door and thus avoid unnecessary explanations.
It was ironic that she was having to contact the Glyndowers again. What if Lucy Glyndower should answer, as before? She dreaded having to explain the situation to her.
Realising she was doing no good by just sitting there, anticipating the worst, Catherine picked up the receiver and dialled the number before she could change her mind. As the ringing tone confirmed that she had achieved her objective, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. What time was it? Seven? Seven-fifteen? Would anyone be up at that hour? And if the butler answered, should she ask to speak to his employer, or just explain the situation to him? The receiver was lifted, and her mouth went dry. When Rafe's masculine voice intoned: 'Glyndower!' she almost put her receiver down again, until she had time to steady her nervous response.
