by Anne Mather
'Grandpa?'
'My grandfather,' said Thomas simply, and Catherine nodded.
'I know. But doesn't he usually go downstairs?'
'No. Not for years and years. He—he and my mother don't get on, you see.'
'They don't?' Catherine's voice was faint.
'No. She's always grumbling about him. He's old, you see, and he drops ash on the carpets, and sometimes he spills things.'
'I see.'
'He smokes in bed, too, and that really makes her mad.'
Catherine shook her head. 'It can be dangerous.'
'Oh, yes, I know, but everything Grandpa does makes her mad. I think—I think she expected him to die much sooner.'
'Thomas!'
'Well, anyway, when Grandpa went downstairs, I had to listen. He had heard her arguing with Daddy, you see— about me. The Pendower school hasn't opened again. It's not expected to open until after the Christmas holidays, and she said that she wasn't going to put—put up with me any longer.'
'But it's only three weeks to Christmas,' Catherine protested.
'I know. But—but she wants Daddy to take her away at Christmas. She—she said he—he owed it to her. Because—because of you!'
'Me?' Catherine was horrified. 'What did she say about me?'
'Not a lot. It was mostly about me. Until Grandpa called her an—an unnatural woman, and she said he was a stupid old man!'
Catherine pushed back her hair with unsteady fingers. 'And—your father? What did your father say?'
'He he said he'd go to prison before—before he'd sell Penwyth.' His eyes widened in terror. 'He won't go to prison, will he, Miss Tempest? If—if he does, I'll never be allowed to come home…'
'Oh, love…' Unable to withstand the agony in his face, Catherine put down her cup and went to him, lifting his thin little body up from the chair and sitting down herself with him in her lap. 'Going to prison… that's just a figure of speech. Your father won't allow that to happen. And—and your mother—well, she'll get over her anger —'
'She won't.' Thomas's jaw wobbled. 'She told Daddy she was going to drive me back to—to St Matthew's today! This morning. That—that's why I ran away.'
He buried his face in her shoulders, shuddering as more tears came to claim him. Catherine shuddered, too, at the realisation that the boy had walked the ten miles from Penwyth. No wonder it had taken him all night! Thank goodness, he had had the sense to put on his duffel coat. He'd have died of exposure without it. As it was, she was sure he ought to be examined by a doctor, but that could come later. After she had contacted Rafe, as she would surely have to do…
'Tell me about St Matthew's,' she said quietly now.
'Tell me why you don't want to go back there. Why do you hate it so?'
Thomas burrowed closer. 'I just don't like sleeping there,' he insisted, 'that's all.'
'But why don't you like sleeping there?' persisted Catherine. 'Why won't you tell me what it is that's frightening you?'
'I'm not frightened.' Thomas lifted his head at this, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, leaving grubby smudges across his cheeks. 'I just don't want to go to boarding school.'
Catherine sighed. 'But don't you see? That's illogical. If you can't give any reason why you don't like boarding school, how can you expect anyone to understand?'
Thomas's lips pursed. 'I've told you. I don't like sleeping there.'
'But why? You're not a. baby, are you? You don't need someone to tuck you up, do you?'
'No!' Thomas was indignant. 'I can put myself to bed.'
'There you are, then.'
Thomas hung his head. 'You don't know what it's like. At—at home, I can get up if I want to.'
'Get up?' Catherine frowned. 'Why would you want to get up, after you've gone to bed?'
Thomas's cheeks went red. 'You know,' he muttered.
Catherine hesitated. 'You mean—to use the bathroom?'
Thomas nodded.
'But can't you do that at school?'
Thomas shook his head.
'Oh, Thomas! That's not true.'
'It is true. It is.' Thomas stared at her, his long lashes damp and silky. 'After—after lights out, no one's allowed to leave their beds until the morning.'
Catherine's frown deepened. 'But—that's ridiculous!'
'I know.' Thomas looked down at his hands.
A dawning comprehension made Catherine suddenly stiffen. 'You mean—' she bit her lip in disbelief, 'even in an emergency—'
Thomas sniffed. 'Mr Walton said that boys have to learn to control themselves. That—that it's just a—a matter of self—self-discipline.'
Catherine's shoulders sagged. 'And didn't Mr Walton explain the situation to your father?'
Thomas shook his head.
'I gather—there were times…'
'Yes, yes!' Thomas was distraught. 'The other boys used to laugh. It was awful, awful!' His sobs broke out anew. 'You see—you see why I can't go back there. I can't, I can't!'
Catherine let him cry, realising tears were not just a self-indulgence, but a release of tension. And she could sympathise with him. She could imagine exactly how it was. A boy like Thomas, a sensitive boy, forced to endure nights of torment, without anyone to whom he could turn. It was a mother he needed at times like this. He wouldn't want to admit the situation to his father. But his own mother never had any time for him…
'Look,' she said now, making him dry his tears, 'shall I speak to your father? Shall I tell him?' And as Thomas started to shake his head, she added: 'I promise he won't be angry—honestly. And—and he just might be able to do something about it.'
Thomas blew his nose vigorously, then looked sideways at her. 'You like Daddy, don't you? I know you do. I wish—I wish you and Daddy—'
But Catherine stopped him there, getting up from the chair and depositing him on it. And as she did so, the telephone started to ring.
Immediately Thomas shrank back into the chair, his face mirroring the agony he was feeling. 'Don't—don't tell them I'm here,' he begged, and they both knew who they guessed was calling.
'I—I have to, Tom. Can't you see that?' Catherine protested gently. 'Darling, you can't hide for ever!'
Thomas said nothing, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them, as if to occupy the smallest space possible. Catherine was reluctant to leave him, but the telephone was insistent and she had to answer it.
It was not Rafe, however, but her Aunt Margaret at the other end of the line, and her first words dispelled any doubts Catherine might have been feeling.
'It's Penwyth,' she said, without preamble. 'I thought you ought to know. There's been a fire, and—and the old man and the boy are—are dead!'
'Dead?'
Catherine couldn't take it in at first. It was so unreal, so unexpected, and with the awareness of Thomas behind her in the living room, ears pricked to every word she uttered, she could hardly comprehend what her aunt was saying.
'Yes, dead,' went on Aunt Margaret flatly. 'It was terrible! Terrible! Rafe—Rafe tried to go back into the flames, but they wouldn't let him.'
'Rafe.' Catherine tried desperately to understand what her aunt was relating, and as she did so, she heard the storm of weeping break out behind her.
'Daddy?' Thomas was screaming. 'Daddy's dead? Daddy's dead!'
'No…' Somehow, Catherine managed to grasp the boy's arm, pulling him close to her and saying urgently: 'Your father's all right. Believe me, he is!'
Thomas's sobs were starkly audible, and her aunt could be heard to catch her breath. 'You've got the boy there?' she cried in disbelief. 'Dear God, Catherine, what is going on?'
'He's here, he's here,' Catherine exclaimed, her voice eloquent with feeling. 'Aunt Margaret—please! What happened?'
'No one knows. But the old place went up like tinderwood.'
'And—and Lord Penwyth—'
'The fire caught that wing first. He must have been asleep, overcome by the fumes. They couldn't get to
him. And—and they couldn't find the boy…' Aunt Margaret's voice broke. 'Catherine, is Thomas really there with you? Oh, God! Wait till Rafe hears!'
'Yes.' Catherine's breathing was constricted, and aware of Thomas still gazing up at her through tear-soaked eyes, she said: 'I—I'd better telephone—oh, oh, no! I can't do that, can I?' She squeezed Thomas's shoulder in an effort to reassure him. 'Oh, lord, what am I going to do?'
'Owen can go up and tell them,' said Aunt Margaret firmly, controlling her own emotions. 'Rafe's still up at the house—what's left of it. You—you keep the boy with you.'
'Where else would he go?' demanded Catherine huskily, and Aunt Margaret made a sound of acceptance.
'I won't ask what he's doing there now,' she said. 'But thank God he is. Thank God!'
With the receiver replaced, Catherine went down on her haunches beside Thomas, taking his small face between her hands and saying gently: 'You've got to be very brave—'
'You—you said Daddy—'
'Daddy's fine. Daddy's well. But—but Penwyth—the manor—your home—' She sighed, realising there was no way of breaking it to him gently. 'There was a fire. The house has burned down.'
Thomas absorbed this with a curious lack of emotion. 'And what—what about Grandpa?' he asked, with poignant dignity, making Catherine's task that much more painful.
'He—he died,' she said, realising she could not lie to him. He had heard his grandfather's name mentioned, and he knew someone was dead. 'I'm sorry.'
Thomas nodded, but it was as if he was cried out. No tears welled from his eyes then, just a strangely adult acceptance pulled down the corners of his mouth, as if now there was no hope of reprieve.
Catherine didn't know what to do, what to say to him. Pulling away from her, he trudged back into the living room, and when she looked through the open door she saw he had resumed his curled-up position on the chair. She wanted to comfort him, to hold him close and reassure him that nothing was ever as hopeless as it appeared, but she knew he would not believe her. He had not even asked about his mother. Only his father could assuage his grief. His father…
Licking her lips, Catherine turned doubtfully towards the stairs. She ought to dress, to make herself respectable for when Rafe and Lucy arrived, for she had no doubts that they would come, once they knew their son was safe. But she didn't like to leave Thomas, and with a feeling of despair she admitted that Rafe would not look at her while his wife was with him. And in any case, she had no secrets from him. So instead she resumed her seat opposite the boy, staring into the dying flames with a curious sense of unreality. She had not known old Lord Penwyth, but she pitied anyone who died in such tragic circumstances. She could imagine Rafe's feelings. He had loved his father so much. How awful that he should have his prophecy of his father wanting to die at Penwyth fulfilled in such a terrible way.
And Lucy; how would Lucy feel now that the old man who had stood in the way of her ambition was dead? She was Lady Penwyth now, Catherine had to remember that. And Rafe was Lord Penwyth. How hollow the title sounded. Not at all like the strong, virile man she knew he was.
And Thomas… Her eyes shifted to the boy facing her. How would he face up to the future, a future that had never seemed more uncertain in his eyes?
It seemed hours before they heard the sound of a car in the square, and then they both stiffened, as if arming themselves against the confrontation that was bound to come.
'Wait here,' Catherine told Thomas, as she went to answer the imperative ring of the doorbell. 'And don't worry. Your father loves you. Remember that!'
As she crossed the hall, it was less easy to give herself advice. She dreaded the look of triumph she would see on Lucy's face, and she wished with all her heart that she could hide her own emotions more successfully. Think of Thomas, she kept telling herself. Think of him, and don't let Lucy see what depths of misery she had plumbed.
But when she opened the door, only Rafe stood on the threshold, tall and dark and familiar, streaks of soot making the weariness in his face that much more marked. His parka was torn and soot-stained, his hair unkempt, as if he had constantly raked his fingers through its overlong thickness, and his eyes were dark and red-rimmed from the smoke—yet filled now with the light of relief.
'Tom's here?' he demanded huskily, and when she nodded, he came towards her into the hall, slamming the door behind him with his foot, jerking her into his arms. 'Oh, God! Catherine,' he groaned, burying his face in the scented hollow of her throat, 'I've been through hell tonight, but it's over now… over now…' and his mouth sought and found hers.
Catherine didn't understand, but he had always been able to rob her of any resistance against him, and his arms about her were so wonderful after the awful hours they had spent waiting for him to come. Her lips parted automatically, submitting to the exploratory caress of his, and she clung to him weakly for a moment, desperately trying to keep her head.
Then, as if aware they were no longer alone, Rafe lifted his head to regard his son, who had come to stand at the living room door. With a wry smile for Catherine he put her gently aside and went towards the boy. Thomas seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain of his reception, and then, when his father held out his arms, he ran into them, pressing close to him and letting the tears he had swallowed earlier come through again.
'Easy, son, easy…' Rafe squatted down beside him, holding him between his hands gently, waiting for the storm of tears to subside. 'I gather you've heard that Grandpa's dead, hmm? I know how you must feel. I love him, too, you know. But he wanted to die at Penwyth, you know that. And he did.'
Thomas's lips quivered. 'The house is gone?'
'Just about,' Rafe nodded. 'I'm sorry, son.'
'I'm not. Now I don't have to go back there.'
Rafe ran long fingers over the boy's hair. 'Was it so bad?' he mused softly. 'I'm sorry. We'll try and make it better from now on.' He shook his head. 'It—it's just so—good, having you back again. You'll never know the night I've just spent.'
'What do you mean?'
Thomas frowned and now Rafe looked again at Catherine, rekindling the feelings of emotive confusion he had ignited earlier. 'You didn't tell him?' She shook her head, and he nodded in understanding, getting up and stretching his long legs. 'Oh, well, that's something else we have to straighten out, Tom.'
'I—I'll go and get dressed.' Catherine needed something to do, and after a moment's hesitation Rafe nodded.
'Very well.' He glanced towards the kitchen. 'Can I make myself a cup of coffee while you're gone? I could surely use some.'
'Oh—of course.' Catherine chewed on her lower lip.
'Do you—that is—shall I make it?'
'No, I can manage.' Rafe glanced significantly at Thomas. 'We—er—we have things to say to one another. You understand?'
She didn't really. She wanted to ask about Lucy, where she was, how she could allow her husband to come alone to collect the son they had both thought dead. But instead she nodded, and went towards the stairs, realising that it was really no business of hers, and she should not read more into that kiss he had given her than he wanted her to read.
The wash she had was skimpy to say the least, but she gave her teeth a through brushing, gaining a certain release from the exaggerated effort. Then she pulled off her nightgown, and quickly donned a button-through shirt and navy cords. She was brushing her hair, trying to put it into some semblance of order, when her bedroom door opened to admit Rafe. He was alone, and her hands trembled uncontrollably as he closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, successfully cutting off her only means of escape.
'Hi,' he said softly, and she had to grip the dressing table behind her with both hands to support her uncertain knees.
'I—I was so sorry to—to hear about your father,' she murmured. 'It must have been a—a terrible shock…'
Rafe straightened and came towards her, halting only a foot or so from her. 'Yes,' he said. 'I've had some shocks in the last twelve hours,
I don't deny it. The worst was imagining Tom was dead.' He shook his head reminiscently. 'That was without doubt the worst moment of my life to date.'
Catherine bent her head. 'And—and Lucy's,' she said chokily, but Rafe's smothered expletive brought her eyes up to his.
'No,' he said, shaking his head. 'Not Lucy's. That came when she heard that he was still alive!'
'You can't—you can't be serious!'
'Oh, but I am.' Rafe was bitter. 'It was hard for her to hide her feelings when we thought Tom was dead. It was impossible when we discovered that he wasn't.'
'Oh, Rafe!'
'I wasn't the only one to see it. Your aunt was there, and your cousin. They would tell you. All Lucy ever cared about was her possessions. And no court in the land will grant her custody of a boy she obviously cares nothing about I'll see to that.'
Catherine moved her shoulders helplessly. 'Sometimes sometimes people say things—when they're distressed.'
'You're not defending her to me, are you, Catherine?' he demanded, putting strong fingers beneath her chin and lifting her face to his. 'Oh, no, love, Lucy needs no advocate. But I know what this means to me—to us. I shall be free soon. Free!'
Catherine quivered. 'But—you're Lord Penwyth. Lucy wanted the title.'
'I shall rescind it. I don't want it, and after tonight, nor will she. But you may not want me when you hear all I have to say.'
'Want you?' Catherine faltered weakly. 'Oh, Rafe, I love you. You know that. I—I'll always want you.'
His eyes darkened passionately at her words, and with a sound of satisfaction he pulled her against his hard body, seeking her mouth with his. When she protested that Thomas was downstairs and might come looking for them, Rafe told her that Thomas was making an effort to eat his breakfast, and would be satisfactorily employed for at least ten minutes.
'I hope you don't object,' he murmured wryly, 'but I boiled two eggs. That is, apparently, what you allowed him the last time he breakfasted here.'
Catherine shook her head. 'I—I can't believe any of this…'
'You'd better believe it.' Rafe drew her down on to the bed beside him. 'But first, there's something I have to tell you.'
'Yes—'
