by Anne Mather
Ashley bent her head. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’
‘Which means I’m right, doesn’t it?’
‘Malcolm, you don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
Ashley sighed. ‘Hassan died the day after the wedding—’
‘So?’
‘—and his family blamed me!’
Malcolm stared at her. ‘Why?’
Ashley turned her head away. ‘Oh, Malcolm, don’t make me go into all the details. Let it be enough that they thought they had grounds for thinking that.’
‘But it wasn’t true?’
Ashley looked at him with tortured eyes. ‘No, it wasn’t true.’
‘And later, when they found out you were pregnant?’
Ashley hunched her shoulders. ‘We were estranged. I’d gone back to college. When—when—Hassan’s brother found out, he gave me a choice of alternatives.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Either I handed over the child when he was born, and allowed them to bring him up in the way he deserved, or he would wait until the child was older and then fight for him through the courts.’ She expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I wanted to do that, to keep him, and care for him, but how could I? I had no money of my own, and I wanted nothing from the Gauthiers. And—and I knew Alain meant what he said. He would have taken Andrew from me, by one means or another.’ She bit hard on her lips to prevent them from trembling, then added tautly: ‘You read about these things every day. Babies, children—snatched from this country, and taken to live with their fathers in some foreign place. Alain could have done that, he would have done that, I know. And how much harder it would have been for me to lose him after I’d learned to love him…’
She avoided Malcolm’s eyes as she said this. There were other reasons why she had let the boy go, but she had no intention of revealing them. She had told him too much already, more that she had told anyone, except the Armstrongs, without whom she might never have recovered from that traumatic experience. But it had been over. There had even been days when she had not thought about him at all. And now to find she was not to be allowed to forget it was the cruellest blow of all.
‘Alain?’ said Malcolm now. ‘This, I assume, is Hassan’s brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘But their names are dissimilar. And Gauthier—that’s not an Arab name.
‘No.’ Ashley cleared her throat again. ‘There’s—there’s French ancestry somewhere in their history, and—and Alain’s mother was French, actually. She—she was his father’s second wife.’
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean your husband and his brother had different mothers?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hassan—your husband—his mother died?’
‘No.’ Ashley spoke tautly. ‘So far as I know, she’s still alive. Prince—Prince Ahmed is a Moslem.’
Malcolm was amazed. ‘I see.’
Ashley had had enough of this. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, moving away from Malcolm and stiffening her spine. ‘So you see,’ she said, endeavouring to speak calmly, ‘my remaining here is—is quite out of the question. I shall look—’
‘Wait. Wait!’ Malcolm slid off the desk and stood facing her impotently, balling his hand into a fist, and pressing it into his palm. ‘Ashley, there must be something I can do, some way I can persuade you to change your mind.’ He paced restlessly across the floor. ‘If I were to transfer him to another class—transfer you to another class—’
Ashley shook her head. ‘You couldn’t do that, Malcolm. He’s—seven. He should be with seven-year-olds.’
‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take another form,’ Malcolm pointed out recklessly. ‘If I speak to Harry Rogers—’
Ashley turned away. ‘He’d still be in the school.’
‘But—’ Malcolm made a sound of frustration, ‘you wouldn’t know him. You need never see him. He would be just another boy—’
‘You’re asking a lot,’ Ashley exclaimed, glancing at him over her shoulder. ‘Could you do it? Could you work here, knowing your son was in the school and didn’t know you?’
Malcolm had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you could,’ said Ashley steadily. ‘I don’t think anyone could.’
‘Well, you must give me time to think, to make arrangements,’ Malcolm exhorted desperately. ‘Tomorrow the boarders return, and the day after that school re-opens. You can’t abandon me without notice, Ashley.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘How much notice do you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A month is usual. A term would be better.’
‘And in my case?’
Malcolm sighed. ‘Two weeks?’ he ventured tentatively.
‘Two weeks!’ Ashley sucked in her breath. ‘Malcolm—’
‘I’ll transfer you. I’ll let Rogers take your form. Who knows, you may change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Ashley was very definite about that. But she managed to maintain a semblance of composure as she added: ‘I’ll submit my written resignation this afternoon. And I’ll transfer my things to Room 1A.’
Malcolm made a baffled gesture. ‘Won’t you at least think about this, Ashley? You’ve been here five years!’
‘I know.’ Ashley moved towards the door. ‘And they’ve been good years. But you must see, I have to do this.’
Eventually he let her go, but she knew he was not entirely satisfied that she was determined. He still held out hopes that she might change her mind, while Ashley knew that nothing he said or did could alter her decision. She would be sad to leave Brede School. She had been happy here, or at least, she had been content. Now she was lost and uncertain, with the unwelcome knowledge that it was not going to be easy to find another post. It was the wrong time of the year, and she could only hope that there was someone else, like her, who suddenly found her present position intolerable.
But even as these thoughts occurred to her, they were superseded by others. Andrew was going to be living in England, in London, and unless she took a post out of the capital, he would always be only a few miles away. Her small flat in Kilburn was only a bus ride from the school. She could make it there in less than half an hour. Could she bear to go on living within breathing distance of her son?
She hurried along the corridor from Malcolm’s study with a feeling of impending disaster weighing down on her. Why, oh, why had Alain chosen to send the boy back to England to be educated? She would never have expected it of him. The United States, perhaps, but not England. Not after everything that had happened.
And then again, she argued, why not? Both Alain and Hassan had been educated in England. Why should she have imagined anything less would be good enough for Andrew? He was a Gauthier. And unless Alain had married and produced a son, the only heir to his grandfather’s fortune.
Ashley’s stomach churned. Alain could have married, she acknowledged, but the thought still had the power to leave her weak. It was not fair, she thought, that one man should wield so much power over her, particularly when he regarded her as an inferior being, a nonentity, something to be trampled on. And it was ironic that history should have appeared to have reversed itself. Prince Ahmed had married Alain’s mother after his first wife, Princess Izmay, had produced a series of daughters. But, within a year of Alain being born, she had borne him a son, Hassan, thus ensuring the line of succession. Now Alain’s brother had succeeded in marrying before him, and the son Ashley had had was heir to Prince Ahmed.
In the entrance hall she paused, looking about her almost with a sense of bereavement. This school had come to mean a lot to her. She knew many of the boys, as they had passed through her form on their way to the middle school. She was popular with them, and being young herself could understand their problems better than some of the older masters. She and the biology mistress were the only female tutors on the staff, and she had begun to regard it less like a job and more like a voca
tion. She had never thought of marrying again, and these boys had become her family. Brought up by an elderly aunt, without either brothers or sisters of her own, she had welcomed their friendship and their confidences, and she dreaded the thought of beginning again with strangers.
The doorbell rang behind her, and she turned automatically, going to open it without hesitation. She guessed it might be the launderers or the caterers, or even the firm of contractors who had been redecorating the dormitories, and making minor repairs, and she flung the door wide, glad of the diversion. But the man and the boy who stood outside the door were not tradespeople at all, and Ashley’s jaw sagged in horror as she perceived their identity.
The man, too, looked taken aback at her appearance, but with the assurance that came from his position he recovered more quickly, hiding his real feelings behind a mask of courtesy. As she struggled to evade the encroaching wave of blackness that threatened to engulf her, he gathered his composure and assumed a polite expression, and she was left to gaze at the boy, as if she was afraid he might disappear in a cloud of smoke.
She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, she simply couldn’t believe it, and her knees shook abominably as she hung desperately on to the door handle. The amazing thing was, he even looked like her, although he had his father’s dark hair and skin. But the green eyes were hers, and so too was the straight nose, and the generous mouth was parted slightly, as if aware of some irregularity here.
‘Miss—Miss Gilbert, is it not?’ Just by the momentary hesitation did Alain betray his agitation, and Ashley dragged her gaze from the boy’s tall slim figure to the man’s tautly controlled features.
‘P-Prince Alain,’ she acknowledged, bowing her head. ‘Wh-what can I do for you?’
Alain glanced about him half impatiently, as if seeking deliverance. A tall lean man, with straight dark hair, and just the slightest crook in his nose, where it had once been broken in a boyish fight, he had changed little over the years, she thought. He was, she knew, in his early thirties now, and although the lines in his face were more deeply carved than they had been, he was still the most disturbing man she had ever encountered. In an immaculately-cut European suit, he looked cool and businesslike, but she also knew he looked equally well in a loose flowing burnous or the tunic-like djellaba he had worn about his apartment. The apartment! Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. Why did she have to think of that now?
Alain fixed her with a steely gaze, and then spoke, almost with reluctance. ‘I wish to speak with a Monsieur Henley,’ he declared, his deep voice harsher than she remembered. ‘He is the headmaster here, is he not? Will you please tell him I am here?’
Just like that, thought Ashley bitterly. Within the space of a few moments, he had accepted her presence in the school and dismissed it, and was already issuing his orders. He did not ask how she was; he did not ask what she was doing here; he did not care how she might be feeling, having just seen her son for the first, and possibly only, time in her life. Without sensitivity or emotion, he expected her to do his bidding, and ignore the deeper ravages of time and circumstance.
Her eyes moved to the boy again, searching his face eagerly, hungrily, seeking some recognition from him, even though she knew such a thing was impossible. The boy did not know her. He had probably not been told of her existence. And of a certainty, his uncle would never reveal her identity.
Yet, as if aware of the intentness of her gaze, Andrew responded, his mouth tilting at the corners to form a smile, a smile that entered his eyes and caused them to twinkle with evident humour. He smiled at her, shyly but warmly, and her heart palpitated wildly at this evidence of his amusement. Ashley could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes, she could sense the unspoken communication between them; and she knew an almost uncontrollable impulse to put her arms around him and hold him close…
‘Mr Henley, mademoiselle?’ Alain did not move, but the barrier his words erected was an almost physical thing. ‘He is here, is he not?’
‘What? Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’
Foolishly, Ashley stepped backward, her eyes still on the boy, still shaking with the emotions he had aroused in her. He was so handsome, she thought, so beautiful! And he was hers! Her son! Hers and—
‘Will you give Mr Henley my message?’
Alain’s voice had hardened, and as she dragged her eyes to him once again she flinched beneath the withering contempt of his gaze. Of course, she thought bitterly, he must know how she was feeling, but what satisfaction was he getting from torturing her in this way?
Shaking her head, she tried to recover some perspective. He was here—they were here—to see Malcolm, and somehow she had to accept that this encounter was an accident, nothing more, a cruel accident, for which none of them was to blame. It was not a deliberate attempt to wound her, to crucify her with images of what might have been. Alain must be as shocked as she was, but she knew well his capacity to hide his true feelings.
‘I—er—I’ll get someone to take you to Mr Henley,’ she said huskily, knowing she could not do it herself. Not now. Not when Malcolm knew! It would be just too much for her to bear.
As they stepped into the hall she looked about her desperately, praying for a friendly face, and was rewarded when Mr Norris, the elderly caretaker, came trudging down the stairs.
‘Oh, Mr Norris,’ she exclaimed in relief. ‘Mr—er—this gentleman wishes to see Mr Henley. Do you think you could show him the way to Miss Langley’s office? She—she’ll see if Mr Henley is free.’
‘Very well, Miss Gilbert.’ Mr Norris smiled. He liked the young English mistress. She was quiet and unassuming, and she wasn’t always complaining when the lights fused or the radiators persistently remained cold. ‘If you’ll follow me, Mr—er—?
‘Gauthier,’ inserted Alain without expression, shunning his title. ‘Thank you.’
His thanks encompassed both of them, but Ashley was scarcely paying attention. She was looking at Andrew again, imprinting his likeness in her mind, creating an image for all the empty years ahead of her, holding it there with a persistence born of desperation. If only, she thought, as he started obediently after Mr Norris, if only…
‘Do not even think of it,’ Alain’s harsh voice decreed, in a tone low enough for only her to hear. ‘He is not your son. He is Hassan’s. He will never be told that his mother caused his father to take his own life!’
CHAPTER TWO
ASHLEY arrived back at her flat in a state of extreme nervous exhaustion. She had a sense of unreality, too, as if what had happened was just some awful nightmare, from which she must soon awaken. But although she might wish otherwise, the feelings fermenting inside her were not imaginary, and nor was the raw vulnerability of her emotions. She felt exposed and defenceless, powerless in the face of such a potent adversary, and no amount of objective thinking or cold self-analysis could spare her the agony of losing her soil for the second time.
As she ground the beans and filled the coffee percolator, all without any conscious thought, she thought how incredible it was that she should have allowed the Gauthiers to take him without a fight. He was her son. She was his mother. She had the most elemental right in the world to look after him, and care for him, so why had she let him go so easily?
Clattering a cup into a saucer, she knew she did not have to think hard to find the answer. It was because of Alain she had let him go, because of Alain she had not put up a fight; and because of Alain she was now in this deplorable position.
Leaving the coffee to bubble, she went into the main room of the flat. This was a comfortably-sized living room, with an L-shaped alcove accommodating a round dining table and four chairs. It had taken her three years to graduate to this standard of living, from a room in a boarding house, via a bedsitter, to this two-bedroomed apartment, with kitchen and bath. With care, and careful saving, she had finally succeeded in furnishing it to her liking, and she looked round now at the green velvet chairs and yellow-patterned
carpet, in a desperate search for reassurance. But all she could see was a boy’s smiling face, framed by straight dark hair, and a man’s grim, forbidding countenance.
In an effort to escape the futility of her thoughts, she hurried into her bedroom, unbuttoning the skirt and blouse she had worn to. go to school and donning instead a pair of yellow baggy pants and a brown and green striped smock. Then she loosened her hair from its confining knot so that it spilled like honey-coloured silk below her shoulders. As she brushed its silken length, she realised it was an unnecessary vanity. It would be far more sensible to have it cut, and keep it in one of the short modern styles, which were so flattering to the girls of her acquaintance. But somehow it was a link with the past, an unconscious one to be sure, and only now did she realise that Alain’s influence still reached out to her.
The percolator was bubbling merrily when she went back into the kitchen, and after pouring herself a cup of coffee she carried it into the living room. It was after two o’clock, she realised with a pang, but she wasn’t hungry, and she determinedly picked up the daily paper and tried to interest herself in the national news. But the events of the morning persisted in intruding, and eventually she gave it up to recapture those moments when Andrew had smiled at her. She allowed herself the pleasure of wondering what he would have done if she had taken him in her arms and told him who she was. How would he have reacted? Would he have been pleased or apprehensive, glad or sorry? Would he have believed her? Or would he have thought she was some crazy lady, claiming a relationship that was totally alien to him? He had been brought up by the Gauthiers. It was a predominantly Moslem household. How could he ever identify with her, particularly after all this time?
Her coffee cooled as the realities of the situation dispelled her momentary euphoria. They were from different cultures, different civilisations. From an early age he would have been taught to regard women as secondary beings, created for man’s enjoyment and little else, expected always to defer to their masters, and obedient to their wishes. He would know that his grandfather had two wives, and even if Alain’s beliefs had been in opposition to his father’s, who was to say what those beliefs were now, or whether he too had not adopted the sexual morals of the rest of his family…
