by Margaret Way
He took her beautiful, agonised face between his hands. “Christopher can no more stop loving you than I can.” He spoke not gently, but with some force. Enough force to close out certain fears from her mind. “What you have to do is remember you’re at the very centre of our lives. Hold the thought close. I’ll find him.” He bent his head and kissed her hard.
It had been dark for well over an hour. Wherever Christopher was, he surely must have heard their raised voices. The whole area was ringing with the echoes of his name. People, truly chilled by the turn of events, were loath to return home. Even Gordon Prescott, deeply distressed, had called in to the Lodge to express his concerns, then set out with Charlotte’s father, friends from childhood. The searchers would come out again at first light, but the darkness was complete.
Were the Marsdons jinxed? For that matter the Prescotts?
Both families, so closely entwined, had suffered tragedies, and that was the question people were asking themselves. The atmosphere all along the riverbank had struck many a soul as extremely spooky. They all knew Matthew Marsdon’s tragic story. They had been given instructions where to search. Every last man and woman hoped they would be the one to find the boy safe. But the more time that elapsed, the more fearful the searchers became. A seven-year-old child in peril! It struck at the heart of every parent.
Why had the boy taken off? All they had been told was that he had most probably overheard a family argument and become upset. Quite a few people had seen the big Bentley driving through the area, the ex-Mrs Marsdon sitting regally in its back seat, a uniformed chauffeur up front. Once a very highly regarded woman, Barbara Reiner as she was now had taken a nosedive in the popularity stakes. The love and attention she had lavished on her son had left her only daughter out in the cold. Small wonder Charlotte Prescott’s marriage hadn’t worked. The feeling at the time had been that it was a marriage of convenience. And some reckoned she’d just had to be pregnant when she walked reed-slim down the aisle. What did it matter anyway? Charlotte Prescott was a beautiful young woman. Inside and out. Her son had to be found.
Alive.
Rohan didn’t know the moment the answer to the question of Christopher’s whereabouts came to him. Was it Christopher’s guardian angel whispering in his ear? Or Mattie? Or maybe Mattie had been elected for the job?
He commandeered one of the search vehicles, a utility truck, and sped off. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but that didn’t matter. He had the strong conviction Christopher had headed off to the cottage where Rohan and his mother had lived. He thought now he had made some comment about it to Christopher—about the place where he and his mother had lived for the first seventeen years of his life.
As if a button had been pushed, there was a shift in his thinking. He remembered how he had pointed out his grandmother’s old cottage to Christopher from the helicopter. The cottage had long been empty. He knew the land—not valuable—had been bought for future development, but so far nothing had happened. The timber structure appeared to be settling down into the earth. The white picket fence had a great many broken teeth. The corrugated iron roof, once a bright red, was thickly sown with dead foliage from the overhanging canopy of trees. What had been the small front and back gardens were overrun by long grass and vegetation gone wild. It was a veritable jungle now. The old cottage where he had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks was an abandoned old derelict.
There was no moon tonight. It was as black as only country black could be. No street lights to pierce the darkness. He had a heavy-duty torch with him on the passenger seat. Would his boy be shrinking from the darkness? Would he be sitting frozen with fear of snakes? Would he be desperately regretting what he had done?
Rohan drove the utility truck right through what had been the front gate, jamming on the brakes at the base of the short flight of steps. He swung out of the vehicle, leaving the headlights on.
“Christopher!” he shouted, running up onto the verandah, hoping the old boards would take his weight. “It’s me. It’s Rohan. You must come out. You’re a responsible boy. Your mother is sick with worry. So is your grandfather. People have been searching for you for hours. Come out now. You’re quite safe. I’m here now. I’ll never leave you again. That’s my solemn promise, Christopher. Come out, son. We need to get you home.”
The front door lay open, hanging on its hinges. Vandals? Or simply years of no one caring what happened to the place. Having accomplished so much, Rohan was having difficulty accepting he and his mother had ever lived in such a place—but then his mother had kept the cottage spotlessly clean. He had helped her put in a vegetable garden at the back. He had cut the grass while his mother had looked after the beds of perennials around the picket fence.
He moved into the house, shining the torch down the hallway that ran from front to back. God! He could cover it in less than half a dozen paces.
“I know you’re here, Christopher,” he called, gentling the urgency of his voice. “I know you’re frightened. But there’s nothing to be frightened about. I used to run off myself when I was a boy and things got too much for me to handle. I know how you feel. But your mother and I want you to come home. Please, Christopher. There are always things in life we have to face. We have to swallow our fears. Find our courage. Come out now. Let me see you. We can confront what is worrying you together.”
Rohan didn’t even consider he was talking to an empty old house. Christopher, his son, was here somewhere.
A moment later a small boy stumbled out of what had been the kitchen and into the hallway, vigorously rubbing his eyes. “I’m a real sook,” he announced, in a quavery voice he tried hard to make stronger. “I’ve been crying.”
Rohan thought he would never forget this moment. Huge relief bubbled up in his chest. He moved towards his son, feeling such a rush of love he couldn’t begin to describe it. “Grown men cry, Christopher,” he said, unbearably touched by the way this small boy was trying to hold himself together. “There’s no shame in shedding a few tears. Come here to me.”
“I wanted to see where you’d lived,” Christopher explained, starting towards the wonderful man he had been drawn to on sight. “Are you my real dad?” he asked, realising with a pang of sadness that he had been having difficulty remembering the man he had once called Daddy for some time.
Rohan reached for his son, fragile as a bird in his strong grip. He lifted him high in his arms. “I am your father, Christopher,” he said. “I am so very, very sorry for the confusion that’s gone on.” That surely couldn’t be the best way to put it to a child? Rohan agonised. Confusion? He could hardly say he hadn’t even known he existed until very recently. “I want to be your father. I want to do everything I can for you and your mother. How does that feel?”
Christopher had already reached his decision. He buried his hot, sweaty little face in his father’s neck. “Real good!” he said.
Rohan used his mobile to have the search called off. News that young Christopher Prescott had been found safe and sound flew around the network. And Rohan, in a matter of days, was to make a sizeable and very welcome contribution to the Valley’s Search and Rescue Team.
All’s well that ends well—was the general view. One had to keep a close eye on kids. They created problems without meaning to. Sometimes awful things happened in communities. This, by the grace of God, wasn’t one of them. Lots of people believed in guardian angels. Young Christopher Prescott obviously had one. And Rohan Costello, absent so long from Silver Valley, had managed to channel that guiding light.
They were safe. Both of them were safe. Christopher and Rohan. The joy of it swamped her. The exterior lights lit up the garden, and the Jeep had barely come to a stop when Christopher opened the door and jumped out onto the gravel.
“Mummy!” he cried, as though the sight of her had put his world right.
The love in her son’s voice, the expression on his dirty, tear-streaked face, told Charlotte that whatever she had done her seven-year-old son
was one person who wasn’t going to hold her to blame.
“Chrissie!” She caught him to her, hugged and patted him hard, folded him into a mutual display of love. “Thank God you’re safe.”
Christopher pulled back a little, tilting his head. “It was Rohan who found me.” He slanted his rescuer, who stood leaning against the Jeep, a beaming glance.
“Of course it was.” Charlotte breathed in air. Breathed, breathed. Of course she’d known her little son would come back to her. Hadn’t she?
She turned her head, binding Rohan to her with a glance. He had made the decision to remain on the periphery, clearly giving them a minute together. Her father, who had been positioned behind her at the front door, anxiously awaiting their arrival, had joined in the reunion, his long arms now making a cocoon around his daughter and his grandson.
“Christopher, you must never run off and scare us again,” he scolded, making a sudden change of direction now the boy was safe. “We’re endlessly grateful to you, Rohan,” he called to the tall, handsome, self-contained young man standing apart. “It’s a miracle you thought of the old cottage. Christopher could have been out all night. Come in, come in,” he invited, with the warmth of a man who had decided to put the traumas of the past behind them. “Let me get you a well-deserved drink.”
“It was so dark I couldn’t see a thing,” Christopher announced. “Rohan said I have to apologise to everyone who came out to search for me. Of course I will. But I never thought people would be going to look for me. Only you and Grandpa, Mummy. Rohan wasn’t coming back until the weekend. He told me before he went away.”
“God only knows—” Vivian Marsdon started in exasperation, then stopped. “There was a good chance your mother wouldn’t have been able to contact Rohan, Christopher,” he said after a moment.
“Let’s drop it for now.” Charlotte tapped her father’s shoulder. “Chris needs a nice long shower, and when he’s done he can have something to eat. Then bed.”
“My stomach is groaning. I feel really hungry. There was no water at the cottage either. I’m sorry everyone was worried, but I wanted to go somewhere I could think.”
His grandfather frowned. “You might have had to spend the night there, my boy.”
“I think I fell asleep, but I can’t be sure.”
“Well, no harm’s done.” Rohan intervened smoothly. “I’ll have that drink, Mr Marsdon, if it’s okay?” He moved into the pool of light.
“Please, please—it’s Vivian,” Vivian Marsdon insisted, waving a welcoming hand. “I’ll join you.”
Charlotte and Rohan exchanged wry glances at her father’s dramatic turnaround. “I’ll take Chrissie off,” she said. “Could you make him a sandwich, Dad? He can have a glass of milk with it.”
“Put some Milo in it, please, Grandpa?” Christopher requested.
He turned his blond head to address his saviour, who just happened to be his father. He didn’t know how it had happened, but he was sure his mother would explain it properly to him. He had a feeling Rohan wanted to hear too. Was it confusion that had put his grandmother into such a terrible spin? He hadn’t waited on the stairs to hear all she had to say. The awful grating sound in her voice had made him feel sick. He had just wanted to get away from the house.
“You’re going to wait for me, aren’t you, Rohan?” He held his small body very still, awaiting his hero’s answer.
“Yes, I am, chief!” Rohan gave his son a reassuring smile.
Christopher beamed. “Oh, good! Rohan and I are mates, Mummy. I’m his mate. He’s my mate.” He turned to Rohan, giving him a confidential man-to-man look. “I’ll keep calling you Rohan for a while—just like you said, Rohan.”
“Good thinking!” Rohan touched his fingertips to his forehead in a tiny salute.
Christopher burst out laughing, then sobered abruptly. He shot his mother an apprehensive look. “Grandmother’s gone, hasn’t she?”
“Too right she has!” his grandfather answered, his deep voice rising, the vein in the middle of his forehead twitching away. “And she won’t be coming back in a hurry.”
“Does she know I ran away?” Christopher asked as his mother led him off.
“She will when she checks her e-mails.” Vivian Marsdon smiled grimly. “Go along now, Christopher. You’ve worn us all out.”
Charlotte and Rohan walked into Riverbend’s entrance hall hand in hand, although both were aware of the intense strain between them. Christopher had been found. The danger was over. But she knew there were many questions that were going to be asked. The problem was she didn’t know how she was going to answer Rohan, let alone find acceptable answers for their son. Highly intelligent Christopher might be, but he was still only a boy of seven. Plenty of time for him to find out how babies were made.
He had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Her father, who had put in some deeply harrowing hours searching for his grandson, had joined Christopher with his sandwiches, substituting a nice drop of Laphroaig for milk and a couple of teaspoons of Milo. Rohan had accepted a single malt whisky, but declined a chicken sandwich. He had contacted his housekeeper at the house, he explained. Dinner would be waiting. He had turned his dark head to invite Charlotte to join him—a naturally commanding young man, who wasn’t going to accept a refusal.
She’d had absolutely no idea what response her father would make. He was a man of the old school who regarded himself as the head of family, to be deferred to no matter what one’s age or status in life. Would he say it might be best if she remained at home? As it was, she had every intention of returning to the Lodge late. Christopher might very well awaken during the night. He had, after all, suffered his own trauma.
Instead Vivian Marsdon now walked them to the front door, where he paused to look at the younger man, his expression that of a man who had set aside time to put a nagging concern in order. “I want to tell you, Rohan, I deeply regret what has gone before.” He fetched up a great sigh. “I can’t, of course, change anything. None of us can. But I allowed my wife to control the whole terrible situation surrounding Mattie’s death. Like a fool, I couldn’t see what was under my nose. I’d very much appreciate it now, Rohan, if we could be friends?” He held out his hand, the tone of his deep, rich voice absolutely sincere.
This was the moment when Rohan would be well within his rights to reject an overture that had come far too late. Instead, without a moment’s hesitation, he took Vivian Marsdon’s hand in a brief, firm grip. “I’d like that, sir.”
“Good. Good.” Vivian coloured, fiercely pleased. He bent down to kiss his daughter’s cheek. “Go along now, Charlie. Enjoy dinner. Relax your nerves. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about. I’ll leave the light on for you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Charlotte gave her father a lovely tender smile. “Chris was pretty much exhausted, but I’d like to check on him during the night.”
“Hungry?” Rohan led the way past the grand reception rooms to the state-of-the-art kitchen.
“Not really, thank you, Rohan.” Hours of the most intense anxiety had shocked hunger out of her.
He studied her intently, noting the haunted expression in her green eyes, the way she held her slender body taut. “Better have something all the same.” He was reminded of the way she had looked on that long-ago terrible day at the river. Both of them had suffered more than their fair share of grief.
“I shouldn’t stop too long.” Her eyes were stinging. What must he think of her? Rohan had always been her greatest friend. He had made her happier than anyone else in the world. He had been her truly glorious lover, was the father of her child. But she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that she had lost his trust for ever. That weighed very heavily on her.
Louise Burch, the housekeeper, came bustling through the swinging kitchen door, leaving tantalising aromas in her wake. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, Mrs Prescott. I should have met you at the door,” she apologised, sounding a little short of breath. “I
was just coming to check.”
“Don’t worry about that, Louise. Roy not home yet?” Roy Burch had been one of the searchers.
Louise’s face lit up with a smile as she turned to Charlotte. “All of us are so happy and relieved young Christopher has been found, Mrs Prescott. Boys are such scamps. Roy went off with some of our friends to have a celebratory drink. I was going to join them.”
“Then you mustn’t wait,” Rohan said immediately. “Charlotte and I can manage.”
Louise Burch adopted her professional manner. “Thank you so much. There’s roast chicken just out of the oven. Pesto and mascarpone sauce. Little chat potatoes, beans, and baby peas from the garden. I’ll wait and serve up.”
“No need for that, Mrs Burch,” Charlotte intervened with a smile. “You go off now. My father and I are enormously grateful to all the good caring people in the Valley. I will be telling your husband that when I see him. There’s no need for you to look after the two of us.”
“Well, if you say so.” Louse Burch glanced from one to the other. What beautiful young people they were! “We do say so, Louise.” Rohan gave her an easy smile.
Louise blushed. Talk about sex appeal! “Then thank you so much. That’s very good of you.”
“Not at all. And we’ll clear away afterwards, so you’re not to worry,” Charlotte said.
Moments later, apron folded away, Mrs Burch took her leave. “By the way, I made a plum cake with plum syrup,” she told them with a bright smile. “One of my specialities. Plenty of ice cream and whipped cream in the fridge.”
“Thank you, Louise,” said Rohan. “I’ll probably have a very large slice.”
Louise Burch went off beaming. She and her husband were more contented than they had ever been, looking after Mr Costello. He was the best boss in the world, and their bungalow in the grounds couldn’t be more comfortable. Silver Valley was absolute heaven after their last job, with a demanding old matriarch. They had made friends in no time.
