He’d told her very little about himself, except to say he’d tried several jobs but hadn’t yet found the right one. And his eyes still constantly strayed to Sarah and Jonty, thus increasing her jealousy to fever pitch. Her feelings for Jeremy had been nothing compared to this, which had come quite out of the blue.
‘Hasn’t he even tried to kiss you?’ Sarah teased.
Beth flinched, hating the implication that no man would want to kiss her. ‘I’ve no wish for him to do so.’
‘You’re desperate for him, deep down.’
That was the worst thing about having a twin, Beth decided, even one you didn’t get on with. She could read your mind, ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said. And much to Beth’s annoyance, Sarah walked away, laughing.
Jonty Reynolds, in Sarah’s view, was the most exciting man she’d met in a long while. Not as good looking as Frank admittedly, but with a potent undercurrent of danger which excited her. She rather liked his cragginess, his arrogance, and his pulsing energy. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. Nor, satisfyingly enough, could he his from her.
They took every opportunity to slip away into Brockbarrow Wood. Sarah would have liked to take him upstairs into the big four poster bed, had it not been so dusty, and Beth hanging around all the time. Escaping her sister’s eagle eye was the hardest part. She constantly had to think up some excuse to explain where she had been and why. Not that they were ever gone long, for they were both so highly charged it took no time at all.
The excuse today was the need to exercise the dog. In no time they’d lost him, as usual, and since the weather looked uncertain, they went to the small bothy that stood by the tarn.
Once inside it took no more than moments for him to thrust her against the wall and rid her of her restricting clothes. But then if he wasn’t fast enough she did it for him and, frantic with desire, pulled him greedily inside her. His grip upon her was punishing, pounding into her so hard her head banged on the rough stone wall, but she loved it all the more for that. Foreplay, kisses, soft words didn’t interest Sarah. Clasping his head to her breast she threw back her head while he suckled her, moaning with agony. He was a man with energy and skill and Sarah liked that.
But then she wasn’t seventeen any more. And she was on the pill.
It was on the eighth day that Pietro made his revelation. They were again by the tarn, their favourite place these lazy summer days. ‘Do you like travelling?’ Beth asked, trying to make conversation. ‘No, not at all.’ His reply surprised her.
‘Then why do you do it?’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I did like it, at first. Now it is very tiring. I am glad for a rest.’
‘Glad of a rest.’
He looked down at her. ‘My English is good, yes?’
‘Very good.’ She rolled over on to her stomach and propping her chin in her hand gazed thoughtfully up at him. He seemed more relaxed somehow, today. ‘Is that why you came to England, to improve your English?’
‘It is one reason. This land, it is very beautiful, is it not?’
Beth agreed and smiled at him, and something about his answering smile startled her, melting away all her misgivings and petty jealousies, filling her with uncertainties. The sick feeling was back in her stomach and with it the smallest degree of hope. ‘Are you really Italian?’
‘Yes, and no. Part of me feels English. Now that I am here, there will be no more travelling.’
Beth blinked. ‘You can’t stay, not in our house. Not for long anyway,’ she added, trying to be fair.
Pietro’s lower lip jutted. ‘It is my right.’
‘Your what?’
‘My right. My grandfather, he tella me about all of this. He was born here, so I have the English blood as well as the Italian. Is good, sì?’
Beth sat up very straight. ‘Born here? In Larkrigg Hall? He couldn’t have been. It belonged to my great grandmother and her family before that.’
‘Not here in thees house,’ Pietro conceded, ‘Close by.’
Beth relaxed again with a small smile. ‘So that was why you came to Lakeland? You too are visiting your roots. How lovely. Seems to be fashionable. Everyone’s in the library these days searching out their family tree.’ She lay back on the cropped grass and closed her eyes again, the sun warming the lids, aware of every movement of his body close beside her. She’d probably been worrying unduly. Sarah would flirt for a while. Then she’d quickly tire of the game as she usually did. Willing captives soon bored her. The boys would visit one or two places, search out some ancient ancestry and then leave, like all the other tourists. But did she want Pietro to leave? Or did she want him to stay and be more to her than a friend?
No, she really mustn’t think of him in that way. At least she could stay here for ever, if she so wished. Beth felt a warm glow kindle deep inside.
‘My father was robbed of his inheritance,’ Pietro was saying. ‘It was stolen from him.’
‘Oh dear.’ Her lids felt far too heavy to open so she didn’t bother to try. ‘How very sad.’
‘His papa let himself be beguiled by an ambitious woman. So now it is lost to my family for ever.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You know of it, I think. It is called Broombank.’
Her whole body jerked and her eyelids flew open. ‘What did you say? Broombank? Our Broombank?’
He was nodding and smiling at her, as if it were a great joke. ‘Funny, huh? Thees house of your grandmama’s, it should be mine, you understand? So why should you not let me stay in your house for a while? It is only fair, sì?’
‘Why didn’t you tell us right away?’
Sarah had been brought over, and even she looked stunned by this revelation. Tessa sat quietly playing with James, not taking part in the conversation, considering it none of her business but staying close by in case the girls should need moral support. Jonty, still sitting on the blanket by the edge of the tarn, brought out a mouth organ and started to play, When I Need You.
‘Not now,’ Sarah snapped. ‘I want to understand what’s going on here.’
He ignored her and continued to play. The beautiful sounds echoed over the water and down to the valley below. Somewhere above a curlew cried, as if in response to the haunting melody. After a while Pietro lifted his eyes to his friend and the notes died away.
‘There is no mystery,’ he said. ‘I am telling you now, am I not? I feel shy to speak of it. It take me time to strike up - no, pluck up - the courage. I wish to stay in your house for a leetle while. That is all.’ There was a small silence. ‘It is not that I wish to take it from you, you understand?’
‘Then why have you come?’
‘To fulfil a dream. I wish to see what I have lost. Is wrong?’
Beth found it hard to condemn him. She knew about dreams. ‘Why do you say Broombank should be yours?’
‘My grandfather, Jack Lawson, was born at Broombank. It should by rights, have been his and in time, mine.’
‘Not necessarily…’
‘Instead, his papa, Lanky Lawson, he leave it to your grandmama, Meg. He expected her to marry Jack but in the end they did not marry. Jack married my grandmother instead. Do you see?’
Sarah said, ‘You’ve lost me, brother. Oh, my God. Yes, I do see.’ She turned to stare at Beth.
‘What?’
Sarah turned back to Pietro. ‘No wonder you’ve kept your family background and your surname very quiet. You’re Pietro Lawson?’
‘I am.’
‘Then if Jack Lawson was your grandfather, you must be some sort of distant cousin. Half anyway, on his side of the family, because we know that our mother, Lissa, was the child of his relationship with Kath, so he must be our grandfather too. How terribly complicated.’
They all stared at each other for a long moment and then Sarah burst out laughing. ‘Well, would you believe it? We’re related.’
It all seemed somehow to be a great relief. One moment they’d been surrounded by strangers, now one of them
had turned out to be very nearly family.
Meg was mending a thorn hedge when the twins brought Pietro to meet her. She greeted them with a smile, one hand raised to shade her eyes against the sun.
‘Mrs Margaret O’Cleary.’
No one had called Meg by her full name since the day she’d married her darling Tam. She shifted her position to get a better view, blinking at the familiar face, wondering where she had seen the young man before.
‘I am so pleased to meet you at last,’ he said, stretching out one fine-boned hand. His voice held the trace of an accent Meg couldn’t quite place.
She rubbed her grubby palms on her overalls, smiling as she took his hand, looking straight into his blue eyes. Then it came to her, all in a rush, and she felt an odd little chill run down her spine. She would never forget those eyes. Could it be? ‘You are Italian?’
‘My name is Pietro Lawson.’
There was a silence. She was right. The years seemed to slip away and she was back on Kidsty Pike, Jack promising to love her for ever. No, he hadn’t quite done that. Asked her to wait for him. Given her a ring, certainly. And her best friend his baby.
‘My grandfather he tell me you will remember him. But perhaps because he was not important to you.’
Meg inwardly flinched but let the remark go. He was arrogant, as the young often were. Clearly imagined he had all the answers. ‘Ah yes,’ she said, becoming aware of the coolness in the breeze. ‘I remember Jack well. Very well in fact. So you are his grandson?’ Then she turned her back on him, making him wait while she weaved a pliant strip of hazel in to the hedge she was layering and set the billhook safely away. It gave her time to collect herself, and to wonder why he had come. ‘Jack was in Italy during the war, and afterwards returned, if I remember correctly.’
‘That is so.’
Meg looked fully into his smiling face. ‘And you have come to find your roots?’
‘It was time.’ He laughed and looked confidently about him, at the hills and the lime-washed walls of Broombank farm, at the twins: Sarah close by, Beth sitting hunched on a log.
A small, strained silence. ‘Did your grandfather talk much about the Lake District?’
The smile widened as he shrugged his fine shoulders. ‘He talk about it all the time. He say it ees his home. He also say you took his house, this Broombank, sì? That is so?’
Meg ignored the question, wishing suddenly that Tam hadn’t chosen this particular morning to drive into Kendal for fresh supplies. Pulling off her hedging mitts, she massaged her aching hands. ‘I dare say you’ve heard the story many times so I won’t bore you by repeating it.’ She managed a bright smile. ‘Let me see now, you must be some sort of distant half cousin to the twins.’
His eyes were on the house. ‘Broombank looks a fine and prosperous farm.’
Meg turned, her gaze upon its white walls mellow in the sun, and felt her heart swell with pride. ‘It has always been a warm family home, though not so prosperous when I first took it over. Rather neglected, in fact.’
‘And you were ambitious to be the sheep farmer, yes?’
Meg, feeling oddly reluctant to talk about the past, admitted that was the case. A faint stirring of disquiet made her wonder if he meant anything particular by this interest. ‘It was all entirely legal,’ she said, and could have kicked herself for sounding almost defensive.
‘I do not doubt it. You must have been pleased to acquire such a fine farm.’
‘It wasn’t so fine then. Jack was never interested in farming. Too much of the wanderlust in him.’ She laughed. ‘And there was a war on.’
‘You were to be married, is that not so?’
Meg had no wish to resurrect the past, or to pick a quarrel with Jack’s grandson, though he seemed to be twisting the facts somewhat. It was too late now to explain how things had worked out, all those years ago. For all his excessive courtesy, a part of her did not like this young man, who clearly had a very high opinion of himself, or his probing questions. Perhaps it was the stillness of his face, the glint in his eyes that reminded her too much of Jack. And such a deep blue, so very like Sarah’s own that it made her shiver with foreboding.
What was he doing here at Larkrigg Hall? Should she say something? What could she say? So far as she knew he meant them no harm. The twins would only tell her they had their own lives to lead, that it was none of her business.
‘Life moves on,’ she said.
A flicker of eyebrows and a half shrug of the shoulders. ‘Of course. And a new family. You let him down so he left.’
Meg felt herself flush as if she were again that young girl hurt by Jack’s betrayal but too sensitive of the fact he was fighting a war to confront him on the matter. ‘You have it all wrong,’ she said, lifting her chin.
‘Pietro didn’t mean it quite as it sounded, Gran.’
She patted Beth’s hand and said nothing more, yet deep in her heart knew that he had meant every word. But if Pietro Lawson wanted a fight, then he’d come to the right place. She’d never backed away from one yet.
Sarah was saying, ‘Why don’t we all go indoors and have tea? It’s turning chilly. And Pietro can see Broombank properly at last. You don’t mind, Meg, do you?’
‘No, of course not. I don’t mind at all.’ Oh, but she did. She minded very much indeed.
There was no question now of sending them away. Even Beth was able to forget her ambivalent feelings and be content to let them stay. How could she refuse such a small request when Pietro had every right to visit his roots, which were, after all, the same as their own. Their relationship might be tenuous but real enough. And he seemed to have so little and they had so much. He told them how he was on a student’s visa, studying and touring Europe, as well as the old home of his family here in Lakeland. It all sounded perfectly reasonable. Secretly she was pleased it had all turned out so happily. At least this meant she could stop worrying and enjoy the pleasure of his company a little longer.
Chapter Seven
The days of summer passed pleasantly enough. Beth was working hard on the house but Sarah constantly complained of feeling unwell, or declare she hadn’t slept a wink.
‘If you’re fit enough to swim in the tarn, you’re fit enough to help,’ Beth would say, only to meet with a casual shrug, or a plea to bring her up some coffee. ‘And perhaps a bacon sandwich? I’m too exhausted to cook breakfast, darling. Do you mind? I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Only she never did.
As a consequence there were times when Beth felt thoroughly drained. One afternoon in late August when the heat haze shimmered on the stubbled fields, Andrew Barton called at Broombank, ostensibly to ask if there were odd jobs needing doing.
‘We’re on our way up to Larkrigg, as a matter of fact,’ Tessa told him. ‘You could always put in an offer there. The twins are doing it up and would be glad of all the help they can get.’
‘Right.’ He looked almost pleased to be asked and Beth thought it must be because he had a soft spot for Tess. Which would more realistically explain the reason for his call. He certainly seemed happy enough to play with James, tossing him up in the air and making the baby squeal with delight. He walked up to Larkrigg with them and the girls chattered on, telling him about their two visitors.
‘What do you know about them?’ he asked, frowning slightly.
‘Quite a lot,’ Sarah said, with a wry smile.
‘One of them is distantly related, would you believe?’ Beth found herself explaining, without quite knowing why.
But Andrew’s cautious nature forced him to issue a warning. ‘I’d take care, if I were you. Happen he’s here for a reason.’
‘Of course he is, to discover his roots and where his grandfather was born. Rather as we are,’ Sarah said.
‘But why? Bit suspicious, I call it.’
‘Oh, Andrew, don’t be such an old misery-boots,’ and she fluttered her eyelashes at him, making him flush with bashful embarrassment. The explanations and arguments continued until th
ey were met by the sight of Jonty and Pietro, chopping logs in the yard.
‘Getting ready for winter,’ Pietro said, grinning at Beth.
Andrew intercepted the glance and prickled with angry disappointment. ‘Winter?’
Blue eyes shifted from Beth to Andrew and perceptibly cooled. ‘You have the objection to that?’
‘It’s naught to do with me.’
‘Indeed not.’
Beth hastily stepped in and introduced the young men properly to each other. Nods all round but no one offered to shake hands. A slight awkwardness developed which she didn’t fully understand.
‘You intend to stop on for a bit then?’ Andrew mildly enquired, in his slow, quiet voice, the vowels rolling broader, the consonants more clipped than ever. Watching him, Beth couldn’t help but notice that beside the sleek Pietro, he looked sadly like a poor peasant talking to a god.
‘We like it here. We in no hurry to leave, OK?’
‘Move about a lot, do you?’
‘When we feel inclined,’ Jonty said, grinning. ‘Free spirits, that’s us.’
Andrew’s frown deepened to a scowl and Beth tried to soothe tempers by scurrying round with cans of beer. This gave a few moment’s respite while everyone found a log or dry-stone wall to perch on, can rings were pulled, drafts of cooling ale supped. Then Andrew pointed to the brown and white dog at Jonty’s feet. ‘That your cur?’
‘He’s not a cur.’
‘He’s considered so in these parts. What breed does he reckon to be then? Bit of terrier in him, is there?’
Jonty’s angular face grew dark as thunder. ‘He doesn’t reckon to be anything. This is Dart. He’s a mongrel. I found him in London.’ The animal glanced up at the sound of his name, happily waving a long scraggly tail, and Jonty’s hand reached down to pat him.
‘Best keep an eye on him then. We don’t like stray dogs round here.’
‘He’s not a stray. He’s mine. A city dog, right? You farmers don’t have a monopoly on caring, or owning bloody dogs.’
The two young men glared at each other for a long, chilling moment, looking very much as if they’d like to tear each other apart. Over a scruffy dog? Beth thought, amazed.
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