Edge of Temptation

by Anne Mather

  '—emotion,' Rafe finished flatly. 'I know. When I'm near you, I don't always think coherently.'

  'Oh, Rafe…' But the words were silent, choking the breath in her throat and making further conversation between them impossible.

  She wondered what had happened to the lighthearted girl who had got into the car. She seemed to have made such a mess of everything. She loved Rafe, so why was she letting this happen? Why was she giving in when she had so much to fight for? She didn't want to close the Pendower shop. She had spoken recklessly, in the heat of the moment; she hadn't really intended to let it go so far. What would she do? Where could she go? Not back to London. Her spirit rebelled at such a thought. But where, where?

  Yet, if she stayed, what could she do? Wait for an old man to die? No! Not because she didn't love Rafe enough, because she loved him too much to put that kind of pressure on him. It would be better for everyone if she left. Uncle Mervyn had his farm again. Gillian could have her baby with confidence, and Owen would no longer accuse her of fraternising with the enemy.

  Thomas was still asleep when the Volvo stopped before her cottage gate. Gathering her things together, Catherine made a concerted effort to act naturally.

  'I—I want to thank you,' she began, fumbling for the door handle, when his mouth silenced her good intentions.

  'Don't say it,' he muttered, his breath warming the contours of her ear. 'Don't say anything. Just let me know where you are. I'll come and find you.'

  Catherine pushed open the door and got out. That kind of talk was intoxicating, and she needed a clear head to face the future.

  'Look—look after yourself,' she managed, chokily, and then almost ran up the path to her door.

  Lucy came to the boutique the following morning.

  Catherine was serving a customer when the green Volvo stopped in the High Street, and for a heart-shaking moment she thought Rafe had changed his mind and come back. But even as the colour came and went in her pale cheeks, and the customer she was serving regarded her with some curiosity, she heard the click of Lucy's heels on the pavement, and the duller tread as they encountered the rubber-backed carpeting of the boutique.

  Mary went to attend to the newcomer and Catherine endeavoured to concentrate on what she was doing. But her mind buzzed with questions as to why Lucy was here, and she couldn't prevent her ears from straining to hear what Mary was saying.

  Presently, however, Mary approached her. 'Mrs Glyndower wants you to serve her,' she whispered confidentially. 'Shall I take over here?'

  'Oh—if you wouldn't mind…' Catherine cast a smile of apology in her customer's direction, before excusing herself and crossing the floor to where Lucy was waiting. 'Good morning, Mrs Glyndower. Can I help you?'

  'Indeed you can.' Lucy's eyes snapped as she surveyed the serving area with critical appraisal. 'Do you have an office? Where we can speak privately?'

  Catherine trembled, but she stood her ground. 'I think anything we have to say to one another can be said here, Mrs Glyndower,' she insisted. 'Is it the gown you bought? Has something happened to it?'

  'You dare to stand there and ask me about some cheap gown I bought weeks ago!' Lucy hissed. 'You know perfectly well why I'm here. And if you're prepared to have your affairs bandied about the streets of Pendower, I most certainly am not!'

  Catherine followed Lucy's pointed stare to where Mary and the woman she was serving were watching their encounter with interest. Pressing her lips together, she realised they could not continue their conversation out here, but equally, she was loath to take Lucy into her office. It was so small, and the perfume Lucy wore was unmistakable. She didn't want that small room permeated by its fragrance.

  'You'd better come into the stockroom,' she declared reluctantly, leading the way down the steps, and after a moment's hesitation Lucy followed her.

  The stockroom was filled with racks of suits and dresses, some still in their plastic containers, like shrouds. Looking about her, Catherine quailed at the task that confronted her, of transporting all these garments to some other stockroom in some other store, and after the sleepless night she had spent, every task seemed overpowering.

  'Now…' With the door closed behind them, Lucy came straight to the point and Catherine was forced to put her own needs aside. 'I have only two things to say to you—one, stay away from my husband, and two—get out of this valley!'

  Catherine gasped. She couldn't help it. It was so much like a scene from some melodrama. Did Lucy really think she could come here and say such outrageous things to her? Who did she think she was? She had no right to order her about, no authority over her actions whatsoever.

  But even as the words of protest sprang to her lips, she stifled them. What was the point of arguing with Lucy? What could she hope to gain from proving the other woman did not intimidate her? Maybe this was what she wanted. Maybe she hoped Catherine would defy her. Who could honestly tell what Rafe's wife was thinking?

  Still, it was not easy to say quietly: 'Thank you for your advice, Mrs Glyndower,' even if Lucy was taken aback by her composure.

  'I mean it, you know,' she persisted. 'I know what's going on. Rafe tells me everything about his little— affairs.'

  Catherine's cheek muscles stiffened. 'Thank you, Mrs Glyndower. If that's all—'

  'Damn you, it is not all!' Lucy was very much on her dignity now, her narrow nose shrunken to a sharp point. 'You'll listen to everything I have to say before you show me the door!' She snorted. 'Don't think I don't know what your game is. I do. You're thinking—don't get involved with her, don't let her upset you, don't listen to what must be the most painful truth of your life!'

  'Mrs Glyndower—'

  'Mrs Glyndower! Yes, Mrs Glyndower, Miss Tempest. And don't imagine Rafe will ever change that situation, because he won't.'

  'Please—'

  A distinct pain was making itself felt behind Catherine's eyes now, and she wished she had been better prepared to face this. For her part, Lucy could see how her continued assault was affecting the other girl, and as Catherine's confidence dwindled, hers swelled.

  'Yes. You don't like to hear that, do you, Miss Tempest? But it's true, nevertheless, and I think you know it.'

  'Mrs Glyndower…' Somehow Catherine had to stop this tirade. 'You're making a terrible mistake. You—you have no need to ask me to leave Pendower. I'd already decided to go.'

  'What?' Again, Catherine had succeeded in disconcerting Lucy. 'Why, I—I don't believe you! Thomas— Thomas told me how—how Rafe came to your mother's house yesterday evening—'

  'Thomas?' Catherine raised her eyebrows, a feeling of faint understanding bringing a tingling warmth to the inner coldness that gripped her.

  'Yes, Thomas!' Now she had said it, Lucy didn't try to change her words. 'But Rafe would have told me, sooner or later. He always does.'

  'Mrs Glyndower, I think you'd better leave…' 'Don't you tell me what to do!' Lucy clenched her small fists. 'And remember this—if you do change your mind about leaving, I'll do everything in my power to make things as difficult for you as I can. And you know what I mean. How long would Rafe care about you, I wonder, if every time he looked at you he remembered that because of you he had to sacrifice Penwyth. That house means something to him, even if it is only that old man upstairs. Lord Penwyth!' she sneered. 'He doesn't even know his own name!'

  The opening of the door behind them saved Catherine from answering her. In all honesty, she didn't know if she could have done so anyway. Her head was throbbing, and the tight feeling in her throat wasn't just emotion. 'Did you call, Miss Tempest?'

  Mary's inquisitive little face had never been more welcome, and Catherine put out a detaining hand.

  'I—will—will you show Mrs Glyndower out, Mary?' she asked unevenly. 'She—she was just leaving.'

  There was a moment when she thought Lucy was going to defy her and say something more, but discretion won. Tucking her handbag under her arm, she strode abruptly up the steps, and without waitin
g for Mary's escort, left the boutique.

  Mary looked after her departing figure with curious eyes, and then turned back to Catherine, her expression changing to one of concern as she saw her employer clinging weakly to a rack of dresses.

  'Hey, miss, are you all right?' she exclaimed, hurrying towards her. 'Good heavens, you're like a fire, you are! Got a cold coming on, I shouldn't wonder. Or was it that spiteful old bitch who's upset you?'

  'Mary…' Catherine had hardly the strength to remonstrate with her. 'Oh, but yes, I do feel slightly woozy. I think I'll sit down for a while…'

  Mary shook her head. 'Strikes me you'd be better off at home,' she declared. 'After all, I didn't expect you in today, did I? I can manage—I told you so.'

  Catherine brushed back a few tendrils of hair that had strayed on to her forehead. It was a great temptation to give in and go home, even if she could not escape from her thoughts as easily as from her duties.

  'Oh, Mary…' she began, but she was weakening, and Mary knew it.

  'You're getting flu, by the looks of things,' she said disapprovingly. 'I don't know where you've got it, but I don't want it.'

  Catherine bent her head, so that Mary should not see the revealing weakness of her tears. 'No,' she murmured quietly, 'you're probably right. People who have flu should stay at home.'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  During the next couple of days, Catherine did not have the energy to seriously consider what her next move should be. Committed now to leaving Pendower, she knew she must make some arrangements soon, but the idea of telling Mary, and the part-time assistant, that they were out of a job filled her with regret. What would Mary do if the boutique closed? There were few enough jobs in the small town, and the chances of her finding alternative employment were slim. Yet she was not old enough or experienced enough to run the boutique herself, and even if she was, that would leave Catherine with no alternative but to return to London and the Hammersmith branch. Sarah wouldn't like that. She had become accustomed to being her own boss. Unless she could be persuaded to take over the Pendower boutique…

  But there Catherine baulked. She didn't want Sarah coming to Pendower, taking over where she left off, living in this cottage. This was her home. She had been happy here. And the truth was, she didn't want to leave.

  The weather continued to be unpredictable, with days of rain, when the temperature was almost mild, alternating with days of icy brilliance. Catherine's cold kept her confined to the cottage, and secretly she welcomed these days of respite, when she had an excuse for not making any irrevocable decisions. Curled on the couch before a cosy fire, she tried to shut out the world and its problems, deliberately numbing her mind to the inevitable step she would have to take.

  The first days of December slipped by. Then one morning Catherine was awakened by a distinct tapping at her door. She was feeling a lot better, well enough to go to work, in actual fact, and as she pulled on her dressing gown with some reluctance and went drearily down the stairs, she reflected that she could no longer put off the evil day. Maybe this was a sign. The postman, or the milkman, or whoever it was knocking at her door, had awakened her, and now she was up, she might just as well resign herself to the fact that she could not go on avoiding her problems.

  Releasing the chain, she opened the door a crack, peering round it wearily. At first she thought there was nobody there, and then her eyes were drawn to the boy standing shivering on the step.

  'Thomas!' she exclaimed disbelievingly, blinking as she registered that he was alone. 'Thomas, for heaven's sake! What are you doing here?' 'Can I come in?'

  His teeth chattered as he spoke, and automatically she opened the door wider to allow him into the hall. Then she closed the door again, staring at him with anxious eyes.

  'You've run away, haven't you?' she said, trying not to sound as disturbed as she felt. 'Oh, Thomas! You shouldn't have come here!'

  'There was nowhere else,' he replied simply, and her heart went out to him.

  'No—I don't mean—how that sounded,' she fretted, expelling her breath on a sigh. 'What I meant was—you shouldn't have run away.'

  'I had to,' he declared tremulously. 'She—she was going to send me back to school—to—to St Matthew's—and I couldn't go back there. I couldn't—I couldn't—'

  And without waiting for any invitation, he threw himself at her, burying his face in the soft folds of her dressing gown.

  He was shaking, shuddering with sobs, and shivering with cold. She didn't honestly know where one ended and the other began, but what was painfully obvious was that Thomas was dreadfully distressed, and in no fit state to be chastised. Yet, as her arms closed almost instinctively about him, and she felt the dampness of his clothes, the thought uppermost in her mind was how on earth had he got here? Surely he hadn't been out all night? Surely he hadn't walked from Penwyth?

  Smoothing her fingers over his dark hair, so like his father's, she soothed his desperate sobbing with gentle words. 'Don't,' she breathed. 'Honey, you mustn't upset yourself so. Come along. We must get you something to drink, something to warm you up, and then you must tell me how you got here.'

  He allowed himself to be helped out of the duffel coat which was obviously his school attire, but underneath, Catherine was appalled to find he was only wearing his vest and underpants. Her questioning gaze brought his lids drooping over his eyes, and realising how delicate the situation was, she merely gathered up a woollen jacket of her own, and draped it quickly over his shoulders. He was cold, chilled to the bone, and she felt a sense of bewilderment that his parents could have allowed this to happen. There were so many questions that needed answers, and while her initial instincts were to ring Rafe and tell him where his son was, she was loath to risk destroying the boy's confidence in her. Perhaps, after he had had a warm drink, he would tell her what had happened, allow her to contact his father…

  The kitchen was chilly, which wasn't surprising considering the hour, thought Catherine bleakly. Six-thirty! she registered, looking at the clock on the cooker. Dear God, Thomas had to have been out all night!

  Trying not to show her alarm, she said: 'I'll put some milk on to boil, and then we'll go and stir up the fire in the living room. You'd like some Horlicks, wouldn't you?'

  She was trying to think of things that might warm him up. One couldn't give a boy of his age brandy, and besides, he probably wouldn't like it.

  Thomas didn't say anything. He gave a sort of half-hearted nod, and then stood shivering while she poured milk into a saucepan. But she was reluctant to let him out of her sight, and after plugging in the kettle she hurried him into the living room.

  The fire spluttered into life. A few small sticks of wood soon had it crackling away, and she noticed how Thomas huddled near it, trying not too obviously to warm his frozen fingers. Discretion gave way to determination, and taking him by the shoulders, she set him down on a chair in front of the fire. Then she knelt down beside him, tugging off his shoes and socks, and taking his icy little feet between her hands.

  The brisk massage she gave them brought the blood tingling beneath her fingers, and his tears gave way to smothered giggles as he tried to pull away. 'You—you're tickling me,' he gulped, though his mirth was brief and quickly controlled, but when Catherine left him to make his drink, she had the satisfaction of knowing that he was beginning to lose that pinched look of exposure.

  With a mug of Horlicks between his palms, he eventually stopped shivering altogether, although he still continued to sniff from time to time, little indrawings of his breath that ended on a sob. Catherine made herself a cup of coffee, cast a doubtful look at the telephone, and then closed the living room door before joining Thomas by the fire.

  'Now,' she said, 'don't you think I deserve an explanation?'

  Thomas licked a moustache of milk from his upper lip. 'I—I s'pose so.' He cast her an anxious look, then muttered: 'You won't send me back there, will you? I— I—can't go back.'

  It was worse than Cathe
rine had imagined. What could she say to him? How could she make promises she had no way of keeping? How could she explain now that there was no possibility she could care for him? That only his parents had that right?

  Sighing, she said quietly: 'Tell me why you ran away. Does anyone know where you are? Does anyone know you're missing? Because if they do, Thomas, they must be out of their minds with worry.'

  'No one knows,' he said, sniffing again. 'They—they think I'm in bed. She always puts me to bed if she wants me out of the way.'

  Catherine stared at him unhappily. 'Honey! Don't judge your mother so harshly.' She paused, trying to be objective. 'I mean, it isn't always—easy to know what's best for a child. Your mother obviously feels—'

  '—that I'm a nuisance!' declared Thomas tearfully. 'She doesn't want me around. She never has. She never wanted me, you know. She hates me—'

  'Oh, Thomas!'

  'She does, she does. She said so.'

  Catherine endeavoured to school her features. 'Darling, you know people can say things in anger that they don't mean.'

  'She does.' Thomas gulped into his Horlicks, and Catherine removed it from his hands while she gave him a tissue to blow his nose. Then, when he had taken hold of it again, he added: 'She said—she said I couldn't stay at Penwyth because it was going to be sold—'

  'Sold?'

  'Yes, sold.' Thomas nodded. 'She said Grandpa would have to go into a home, because she wasn't going to put up with either of us any longer.'

  Catherine was aghast. Penwyth—sold? Surely Rafe would never allow that.

  Thomas rubbed his nose with an unsteady finger, and then went on: 'There—there was the most awful row after—after I was sent upstairs.'

  'Then how do you know all this?' Catherine knew she was taking advantage of him, but she had to know.

  'I—I listened. On the stairs.' Catherine remembered he had listened there once before. 'I—I wouldn't have, if—if Grandpa hadn't gone downstairs.'