by Anne Mather
'Mr—Mr Glyndower?' she asked huskily, giving herself a moment to recover, and at his impatient confirmation added: 'This—this is Catherine Tempest.'
'Catherine—Tempest!' He sounded astounded. Then, as if summoning belief, he exclaimed: 'Miss Tempest—you're an early caller.'
'I know. I'm sorry if I've disturbed you.' Catherine shifted the receiver from one ear to the other. 'But—but I wanted to reach you as—as soon as possible.'
'Did you?' He was clearly perplexed, but not, she thought, distressed. Obviously the school had not informed him yet of his son's disappearance. Possibly they hadn't discovered the runaway. If Thomas had left after tea, he might not be missed before breakfast.
'Yes.' Catherine pleated the skirt of her dressing gown, but before she could go on, he asked:
'Is something wrong, Miss Tempest? There hasn't been an accident at Penwyn, has there?'
'Oh, no. No,' Catherine hastened to reassure him, 'I— there hasn't been an accident at all.'
'I see.' His voice had deepened. 'Then why are you ringing me, Miss Tempest?'
Catherine hesitated only a moment, then she plunged in at the deep end. 'It's about your son, Mr Glyndower. About Thomas. He—he's with me!'
There was absolute silence for about ten seconds, and then Rafe repeated quietly: 'Thomas is with you?' A pause. 'Perhaps you'd better explain, Miss Tempest.'
Catherine expelled a tremulous breath. 'It's a long story. I—we—that is, a friend and I were driving home last evening, when we encountered him about—about three miles from Pendower.'
'I see.' She sensed he was trying to disguise the shock she had given him. 'And—he asked you for a lift?'
'Oh, no.' Catherine was quick to deny this. 'He—he didn't want to come with us at first. Robert tried to persuade him, but he was adamant about not accepting lifts from strangers.'
'Robert?'
'A friend,' said Catherine, wondering why she should feel so guilty about admitting it. 'But when I discovered who he was, I—I realised you couldn't know he was missing, and as he was planning to spend the night in a shepherd's hut, I offered him a bed here.'
'Here? Where? Penwyn?' There was a clipped edge to Rafe's voice now, but she hardly noticed it.
'No,' she denied. 'Here—at my cottage, in Pendower.'
Another ominous silence ensued, and then he said: 'What did you mean—about a shepherd's hut?'
Catherine sighed. 'He—well, he didn't intend arriving so late, and I think he was afraid you might be furious .'
'Might be!'
'—so he planned to turn up this morning.'
'After spending the night in some hut?'
'Yes.'
'My God!' There was a wealth of feeling behind those words. 'Well, Miss Tempest, I suppose I must thank you for—taking him in, although I have to confess to some impatience with your reasons for doing so. Surely, it would have been much simpler, and much less inconvenient for you, to bring him here.'
'It wasn't an inconvenience,' Catherine protested quickly, and as she did so, she heard the unmistakable sound of the stairs creaking behind her. 'I didn't mind, honestly. I—just didn't want you to worry if the school should get in touch with you.'
'You knew he'd run away, then?'
'Yes.' Catherine sighed, glancing round to see Thomas slowly descending the stairs, a look of worried apprehension marring his thin features. 'He—he's here now.' She ignored Thomas's vigorously shaken head. 'Do you want to have a word with him?'
There was another pause, and then Rafe said evenly: 'If you wouldn't mind.'
'Not at all.'
Catherine got up from the seat beside the telephone and offered the receiver to Thomas, trying not to be influenced by his air of gloomy dejection. The boy came forward reluctantly, his bare toes curling in the pile of the carpet, and she turned quickly away and left him to it.
The kettle was boiling, and the kitchen was filled with steam. Opening a window to clear the air, she shivered in the moist draught from outside, warming her hands around the teapot, trying not to listen to what was going on in the hall. Presently, however, she heard Thomas replace the receiver, and realising she was holding her breath, expelled it in a gulp, turning aside determinedly and lifting beakers down from the shelves.
Thomas appeared in the doorway, incongruous in her pink nightshirt. 'Daddy's coming to fetch me,' he said, offence evident in every line of his thin body. 'Why did you phone him? Why didn't you just take me home, like you promised?'
Catherine sighed, setting down the bottle of milk she had just taken from the fridge. 'You forget,' she said, 'someone's going to notice you're missing at school, aren't they? What would have happened if the school had rung your father before I did? He'd probably have called out the police to find you.'
'Oh!' Clearly, Thomas had not thought of this either. Then he lifted his head. 'But they wouldn't have missed me before Assembly. I've missed breakfast before. They have porridge, and treacle. Ugh!' he grimaced. 'I hate porridge.'
Catherine's tension eased a little. 'Is that why you ran away?' she asked, pouring milk into two beakers.
'No,' Thomas pursed his lips. 'Can I have two spoons of sugar, please?'
Catherine made an indifferent gesture, and added the sugar to his beaker. Then she stirred the tea before pouring it. When she had pushed a cup across the breakfast bar towards him, she said: 'What time is your father coming? I have to go down and open the shop at nine o'clock.'
'You have a shop?' Thomas's eyes lit up. 'What kind of a shop?'
'I sell clothes,' said Catherine flatly. Then, prompting him: 'What time, Thomas? What time is your father coming over?'
'Oh—right away,' declared Thomas airily, shocking her so much she almost choked on her tea.
'Right away?' she echoed. 'But I'm not dressed!'
'That's all right.' Thomas was unconcerned. 'You look fine to me. I like that yellow colour, it's pretty.'
'Well, thank you, but—' Catherine ran frustrated fingers through her hair. 'I've got to get some clothes on. You—er—you drink your tea. I won't be long.'
Upstairs again she sluiced her face thoroughly, cleaned her teeth, and ran a hasty brush over her hair. Her working clothes of dark red cords and an embroidered smock were to hand, so she put them on, grimacing at her appearance as she searched for her boots.
Downstairs, Thomas was perched on the stool he had occupied the night before, apparently unperturbed that his father's arrival was imminent. It was as if, secure in the reiteration of her support, he was no longer afraid to face him, and Catherine wished she could instil the same kind of confidence in herself that she obviously instilled in Thomas.
'You look nice,' he said, as she came in, regarding her with appraising interest. 'You're tall, aren't you? I wish I was as big as you. Then no one could tell me what to do.'
Catherine pulled a wry face, and went to examine the contents of the fridge. 'It's these boots,' she declared. 'They have a high heel. Now, what do you want for breakfast? I only have eggs, I'm afraid.'
'Do you think I could have a boiled egg, please?' he asked, his eyes sparkling, and she felt a smile lifting her lips.
'You can have two, if you like,' she declared humorously, and saw his genuine excitement at the prospect.
'Why don't you go and put your clothes on, while the eggs are boiling?' she suggested, but Thomas's reactions were not enthusiastic now.
'Can I do it later?' he pleaded. 'I'm awfully hungry, and I don't expect Daddy will get here for ages and ages.'
Catherine's eyes widened at this. 'You said he was coming right away,' she reminded him, and he shrugged his thin shoulders.
'That could mean anything,' he replied, looking so longingly at some grapes on a dish that she broke a sprig off and gave them to him. 'Thank you. And I will get dressed, just as soon as I've finished eating.'
'All right.'
Catherine gave in, realising as she did so that she was probably doing, everything wrong. First, she had
allowed him to stay with her, when she had known she ought to take him home, and now she was allowing him to eat breakfast in the borrowed nightshirt, when she was sure that at home he was expected to present a tidy appearance.
Still, she consoled herself, with a pang, it was never likely to happen again, and maybe he deserved a little freedom. It wasn't her responsibility to discipline him, and apart from his evident dislike of boarding school, he was extremely well behaved. He seemed a perfectly normal ten-year-old, who needed a family environment, instead of the unnatural isolation of living away from home.
Despite his nonchalance, however, Catherine saw the way he stiffened when the doorbell rang halfway through breakfast. She felt her own nerves tighten as she got up from the table and went to open the door, and she couldn't deny the impulse to glance at her reflection in the mirror hanging in the hall. It was as if she was condemned always to meet Rafe Glyndower defensively, and she swung open the door with a determined air of defiance.
He stood on the path outside, lean and dark and disturbing in a navy fur-lined parka, his hair sparkling with drops of rain tossed from the cherry tree in the garden. It was just light on a grey autumn day, and his face reflected the dourness of the weather.
'Good morning,' he said, making no attempt to enter. 'Is he ready? I've left the engine running.'
Only then did she notice the dark green estate car at the gate, its steady vibration and the open door significant of his desire not to delay longer than was necessary. For some reason this knowledge irritated her beyond reason, and with uncharacteristic complacence she said: 'He's having his breakfast, Mr Glyndower. We didn't expect you quite so promptly. And as he's not yet dressed, I'm afraid you'll have to come in and wait.'
Her eyes challenged his, tawny softness confronting ice-blue steel. She would not be intimidated, she told herself angrily. Just who did he think he was, coming here with that supercilious air? She was glad Thomas still hadn't got his clothes on. It would do Rafe Glyndower good to be thwarted for once.
It was an uneven battle. Her eyes were already wavering as he turned away, but he allowed her the victory. Without saying a word, he went and switched off the Volvo's engine, locking the door, before coming back up the path.
Mutely, Catherine stood aside, and he entered the narrow hallway, loosening his parka as he did so, bringing with him an odour of dampness and tobacco, and the warm male smell of his body. Unlike Robert, he made the hall seem small and claustrophobic, his nearness arousing an uneasy awareness inside her. Although she was a tall girl, he still topped her by a couple of inches, even in her high-heeled boots, and although he was lean, he was muscular. There didn't seem to be anywhere else to look than into his eyes in that small confined space, and the colour was rising up her face when his gaze shifted from hers to some distance beyond her.
Glancing round, she saw Thomas standing in the lighted doorway of the kitchen, his long thin legs outlined through the cotton nightshirt. He was gazing apprehensively at his father, and with a word of apology to Catherine, Rafe strode down the passage towards him.
Catherine hesitated, uncertain as to whether she should be an uneasy interloper to their reunion. No doubt Rafe Glyndower had things to say to his son that were not for her ears, and it was obvious he had no intention of delaying longer than was necessary, but this was her house, after all, and she had played some part in Thomas's flight from authority.
Thomas solved the problem for her, however. 'Did you thank Miss Tempest for letting me sleep in her bed, Daddy?' he asked, raising his voice, which was just a trifle shaky, so that Catherine could hear what he said, even if she had not overheard his father's low remonstrance. 'She—she was jolly nice to me. She let me have two eggs for breakfast.'
It was impossible for Rafe to ignore her after that. With a tight smile he glanced over his shoulder, and after a barely perceptible pause, he said: 'No. No, I didn't thank you, did I, Miss Tempest? I apologise. Naturally, I'm very grateful for what you've done.'
He didn't sound grateful, and Catherine made a mute gesture, going down the passage towards them, smiling at Thomas and saying gently: 'Don't you think you ought to go and get dressed now? It is getting late, and I do have to go to work, you know.'
Thomas hesitated. Then he nodded, brushing past her with an appealing grimace, padding up the stairs with an evident lack of enthusiasm.
After he was gone, it was worse, if anything. Rafe Glyndower stood silently in the passage outside the kitchen door, and she had to brush past him to reach the remains of her own breakfast. She had been having toast and coffee, and now she picked up the percolator and said: 'Can I offer you some, Mr Glyndower?'
He looked at her steadily for a long moment, and then, as if relaxing some control he had over himself, he nodded, shrugging out of his parka and draping it carelessly over the end of the banister. His open-necked shirt and close-fitting pants were infinitely less formal. Catherine guessed they had been pulled on in a hurry, and paused to wonder whether she had got him out of bed after all.
'This is your cottage, Miss Tempest?' he asked, as she poured coffee into a cup. 'When you said you lived in Pendower, I assumed you lived—with your parents.'
'My father is dead.' Catherine pushed the cup towards him across the bar where Thomas had been eating his breakfast, and indicated the cream and sugar. 'My mother remarried. She still lives in London.'
'I see.' He helped himself to two spoons of sugar, but no cream. 'And you work in Pendower?'
'I run a boutique,' she admitted reluctantly, unwilling to admit her commercial success to him. 'I like designing clothes. It's always interested me.'
Rafe nodded, making no attempt to drink his coffee. She was irritated to discover that it hurt her that it should be so. They were exchanging the same kind of small-talk one could hear at any social gathering, between people who had never met before, and were never likely to meet again. Surely there were more important topics to discuss than this. Like why Thomas kept running away from school, for example.
Licking her lips, she exclaimed: 'You don't have to pull your punches, you know. I know you're really furious because I kept him here. But I couldn't let him stay out all night, and he'd never have come with us if I hadn't agreed to wait until the morning before contacting you!'
If she had expected her outburst to provoke some equally emotional retort, she was mistaken. Rafe merely shrugged his shoulders and picking up his cup, he said quietly: 'I'm sorry if I've given you that impression. I was —surprised, that was all. I shouldn't have thought you and your—er—friend would want company.'
Catherine gasped, staring at him with indignant eyes. 'You think—you think—Robert and I—'
'It's nothing to do with me, is it?' Rafe retorted, turning back into the hall, his cup raised to his lips, and Catherine felt like dashing its contents all over his cold, expressionless face.
'Robert Brooke is my accountant,' she declared vehemently, not quite knowing why she felt this need to justify herself to him. 'And we are not—friends—in the way you understand the word!'
Rafe put down his cup then with carefully controlled movements. She noticed with some amazement that his hands were not quite steady as they guided the cup on to the bar, and she realised she had been wrong in imagining he was unmoved by what had happened. Thomas's appearance must have shocked him more than she thought, and her own attitude was not helping matters.
'I'm sorry,' he said, tugging impatient fingers through his hair. 'Your—personal affairs are not my concern, and I had no right to insinuate that they were. You'll have to forgive me, I'm not usually so ill-mannered.'
'Oh, honestly…' Catherine put out a hand towards him automatically, withdrawing it swiftly when her fingers encountered the taut muscle of his arm, hard beneath the dark grey silk of his shirt. She had no right to touch him, to offer him sympathy. He was just someone she had known for a brief period in her life, someone who had grown away from her, a virtual stranger after all these years. The fact th
at circumstances were contriving to throw them together again was neither of their faults, and no matter how disturbing she found him, she must never forget who he was, or that he was married…
Taking a backward step, she extended her hand politely, forcing a smile and saying awkwardly: 'Can't we just be friends, Mr Glyndower, instead of antagonists?'
'Antagonists?' He took her hand in his, and she felt a moment's anxiety at the sensation those strong fingers inspired inside her. He must never suspect he could arouse her this way, and she longed to pull her hand away from him and put the width of the room between them. 'We are not antagonists, Catherine,' he declared flatly. 'Perhaps it would be better for both of us if we were.'
'What do you mean?'
The words were torn from her, but he released her hand then and turned away, saying casually: 'Are these beams the original timbers? I seem to remember these cottages being renovated some years ago. Did you know they were once part of the Penwyth estate?'
'No. That is—' Catherine sought for coherence, '— the beams were restored, but I didn't know the cottages were once yours.'
'Not mine,' Rafe amended dryly. 'My grandfather's, perhaps.' He gained her silent permission and strolled into the low-ceilinged living room. 'And even that might be wishful thinking. They were probably struggling for survival even in those days, and selling property was always a convenient way of raising money.'
Catherine followed him into the room, hovering near the door as he walked to the lead-paned windows, to stare out broodingly on the garden at the front of the cottage.
