Old Desires

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Clearly.’

  She pushed her hair back and, propping her chin on her knees, considered for a moment, taking full advantage of this opportunity to study his face openly. Here, in the open air and sunshine, he looked so much younger than that first grim impression.

  ‘I’m thirty-two,’ he said, finally putting her out of her difficulty. He leaned back upon an elbow. ‘Since you were obviously wondering.’

  ‘You look older,’ she said, leaning forward to cut a piece of cheese and cover her confusion at the ease with which he could read her mind. ‘I’d have said thirty-four at least,’ she added, attempting to turn it into a joke.

  ‘It’s been a difficult year.’

  She looked up. ‘Am I being a nuisance?’

  ‘A bit.’ He shrugged. ‘The Highfield buyers are ready to sign contracts,’ he said, returning to his original subject.

  ‘Buyers?’ She felt an odd little tug at her heart. ‘You have buyers for the house?’

  ‘I did tell you,’ he said, patiently.

  ‘Did you?’ Her forehead creased in concentration. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘No. Well, you were rather distraught at the time so I didn’t press it. I had assumed you would be around when I needed to discuss the details. I didn’t realise that you intended to leave the country for an indefinite period.’

  ‘I had nothing to hurry back for.’

  ‘Oh?’ He frowned, then shrugged. ‘Well, they’re getting impatient to complete and it is a very good offer.’ She bit back an exclamation that she didn’t care about the money. She would have gladly forgone her inheritance if she had just known about Mary before it was too late. But it was too late and there was nothing she could do about that. Going back would make no difference.

  ‘Surely I don’t have to go back to England?’ she objected. ‘I’ll sign your piece of paper right now and then I won’t waste your valuable time.’

  ‘Did I say my time was wasted?’ His look was intense, unsettling. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Apart from anything else, you’ll have to decide what to do with the contents of the house. There are some very good pieces of furniture and porcelain and if you don’t want to keep any of it I’ll have to put it to auction.’

  She could imagine what he was thinking. She’d better take it because it was a lot better than the stuff she had at home.

  ‘Sell it,’ she said roughly.

  ‘Better come and look at it first. Since you’re coming home anyway.’ His tone suggested that argument would be futile. ‘Why don’t you have some of these olives? They’re very good.’ She absently took a small green olive and he poured her another glass of wine. ‘Don’t worry about the house now. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow. Tell me about your holiday.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek and stroked it very gently with the back of his fingers. ‘You look wonderful. Like a ripe peach.’

  His touch shivered through her and reached for her hat to move from the disturbing, dangerous intimacy. Then wished she hadn’t before calling herself every kind of fool.

  Apparently unaware of the agitation he had caused, Joshua prompted her to tell him about her travels and, relieved to be on less difficult ground, she described her visit to Florence and the art galleries there, and her weeks in the Tuscan hills.

  ‘What made you move on to France?’ he asked. ‘I had the impression you intended to carry on teaching.’

  ‘You were the one who said I should resign.’

  He glanced at her with a slightly jaundiced expression. ‘You didn’t take too kindly to the suggestion, as I recall.’

  ‘No. And to be honest it wasn’t my decision. That last evening at college I discovered that one of the classes was being closed because the education budget was overspent. The teacher involved had a wife and two children and a mortgage.’

  ‘So you volunteered to go in his place?’ She didn’t answer. She would have done it, even without the legacy. ‘Now you’re a full-time artist. Are you enjoying it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Too much of a good thing, perhaps.’ She had moved on to Provence hoping to find fresh inspiration in the Roman ruins, pine-clad hills and small terracotta villages, but concentration had been difficult. ‘I’ve been planning the trip to Tuscany for ever,’ she said quickly, not wanting to think why it had been difficult. ‘But I think I crammed too much in, too quickly.’

  ‘A bit like eating too much chocolate at Christmas?’ he suggested.

  ‘A surfeit of old masters?’ She smiled at the idea. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, I wanted to be quiet, to think. Provence is a bonus from Mary. There was always something more urgent to spend the money on before,’ she explained.

  ‘I noticed. It was bucketing down with rain when I called at your house last week in the vain hope that you might have returned. I’m afraid your guttering is in dire need of replacement.’

  She groaned. ‘I hoped it would keep until the autumn. I’ve been saving the money from David’s rent to pay for it.’

  ‘He pays you rent? He gave me the impression…’ He let the sentence hang, unfinished.

  ‘What impression?’ His response was scarcely a shrug but it spoke volumes, saying far more than words ever could. ‘He suggested that we live together?’ She raised long lashes and regarded Joshua Kent coolly. ‘I wonder why?’

  His impassive expression was oddly unsettling. ‘That’s not for me to say. Perhaps he sees me as some sort of threat. Maybe he was simply warning me off.’ His look was unwavering.

  ‘You could have put his mind at rest,’ she prompted, inwardly mocking herself for being so obvious.

  This seemed to amuse him. ‘Do I need to?’ he asked, and she felt hot colour rise to her cheeks. ‘Perhaps if you’d let him know where you were, and when you’d be back he’d be less anxious. One postcard is hardly compensation for not bringing him with you.’

  ‘He’s not interested in art.’

  ‘That undoubtedly explains the omission. But I would have thought that during the six weeks you’ve been away you might have found a little time—’ he looked thoughtful, and it suddenly occurred to her that Joshua might be doing a little prompting on his own account ‘—to let him know where you were.’

  ‘I was busy,’ she answered, guiltily aware that David had never once entered her thoughts. She raised her eyes to his. ‘But you didn’t know either. That must have been some comfort to him.’

  ‘You’d have thought so.’ He offered a bland smile. ‘As soon as you get home you’ll be able to explain it all to him yourself.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain.’ But Holly silently swore that David would be left in no doubt that if he harboured any thoughts of moving along the corridor to her bedroom he would be looking for somewhere else to live. ‘So when do we leave?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘In the morning. I’ve booked two seats from Montpellier. You’ve plenty of time to finish your drawing.’

  She looked at the discarded pad, lying where it had fallen. ‘I can’t get it right.’

  ‘On contrary, Holly. It’s a remarkable likeness of your mother. She must have made quite an impression on you.’

  ‘Mary has been on my mind.’ At night she seemed to call to her. Sometimes the feeling was so strong that it caught her unawares even in the daytime.

  He leaned back against a tree and half closed his eyes. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can help.’

  She hesitated and yet who else would understand better? ‘I was so angry,’ she offered tentatively. ‘When I said neither of them was my mother…’ She didn’t know how to go on.

  There was no hint of disapproval. He remained relaxed against the trunk of an olive tree, his hands laced behind his head. ‘It was a perfectly natural reaction, Holly. There’s no need to feel guilty.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ She sighed. ‘Margaret loved me; she didn’t deserve that. She was my mother in every sense of the word that matters. But Mary is crying out to me, Joshua…’

  She tol
d Joshua what Mary had written in her journal. How she’d loved a man with a sweet, wild abandon and carried his child for nine long months. Described how her hands had felt the gradual swelling of her belly, felt the child move and grow strong inside her and all the time she had known that she would have to give her up.

  ‘It wasn’t an easy option.’

  There had been less awkward ways out of such a problem, but Mary Graham had borne her out of love, and out of love had given her the gift of life.

  Joshua listened to her stumbling over the words.

  Finally he said, ‘She made her choice, Holly. I told you that she didn’t blame you. She had no right to blame you.’

  ‘You would, if you knew.’ She sensed a sudden stillness about him. ‘You see, it was my fault.’

  His pose, outwardly relaxed as ever, sharpened. ‘But you didn’t know—’

  ‘Mary came to see me on my seventh birthday.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes?’

  ‘She brought me a doll; did she tell you that?’ He shook his head, leaning forward, all attention now. ‘It was very special, too expensive for Mum to buy.’ Holly wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her head there so as not to see his eyes. ‘It was in a big green and gold box and there were layers of tissue paper. Oh, lord, Joshua, I was so thrilled that I just threw my arms around her and hugged her.’ The memory was sharp, bright. Clear as the Provencal sun. ‘Then I saw Mum’s face, saw that she was crying. I didn’t understand, but I knew she was unhappy and I pushed Mary away and ran to her. It was in the journal. She decided then not to come back.’

  He was beside her in one movement, lifting her face to meet his. ‘Don’t, Holly. Don’t torture yourself. It wasn’t your fault; they should have told you. They hurt themselves.’

  ‘I helped.’

  ‘No,’ he said fiercely. ‘You were seven years old. They were two grown women who between them made a difficult situation impossible.’ He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on. It’s getting far too hot to sit out here. You haven’t got the colouring for it.’ His fingers trailed through her hair. I’ll bet you were a hit in Italy,’ he said a little roughly.

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ she groaned. ‘After the first day I kept it hidden under a scarf.’

  ‘What idiots men can be,’ he said. He smiled slightly. ‘If I promise not to pinch your bottom, will you let me take you out tonight?’ When she didn’t immediately answer he added lightly, ‘Unless, of course, you have some great hairy Frenchman a slave at your feet?’ She suddenly laughed, teased out of her gloomy mood. ‘I’ll give him the night off,’ she promised.

  *

  Joshua had taken a room at the small inn where she had been staying for the past couple of weeks. It was clean, comfortable in a basic sort of way, but hardly his sort of place, she would have thought, and yet he seemed perfectly at home when she went out into the courtyard that evening and found him relaxing over a smoky glass of pastis with the patron.

  The two men looked up as she appeared and she was glad she had taken so much trouble with her appearance.

  She had chosen to wear a new dress, grey and white, one of several she had bought in France.

  Her hair, bleached white with the sun, swung loose to her shoulders, bare but for the shoelace straps of her dress, in contrast against the light gold of her tan. Joshua was first to his feet, but the patron was swift to leap up and dust off his chair and hold it for her, before leaving her alone with Joshua.

  He sat for a moment and regarded her intently.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, convinced that she must have a smudge on the end of her nose. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I was just thinking that coming to fetch you was one of my better ideas.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disconcerted by this unexpected declaration. ‘I think that was a compliment.’

  ‘You think right. Shall we go?’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘On a mystery tour. Will you place yourself entirely in my hands?’ He held her with his eyes for a moment, demanding that she trust him, and she felt every nerve-ending stir as he took her hand and tucked it into the warm crook of his arm.

  His hired Peugeot was parked in the square and as he opened the door a blast of hot air met them. ‘It’ll soon cool down, when we’re moving,’ he promised as she pulled a face.

  He headed towards the exciting, marshy delta of the Rhone and once in a while Joshua pointed out something of interest, or a place he had visited and was sure she would like too, asking where she had been and what she had seen.

  ‘I think I’ve done too much sightseeing. I went to Gordes to see the Vasarély in the château last week and vowed that was the last. I’m afraid I enjoyed the boutiques far more.’

  ‘Is that where you bought the dress?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you know, Joshua?’ she asked in apparent amazement. ‘You’d better check my credit card statement on your friendly computer,’ she suggested and was rewarded with an appreciative grin.

  The sun quietly died as they drove towards the delta, leaving the evening sky full of pinks and purples that reflected magically on occasional glimpses of flat water and turned a startled herd of wild horses from white to momentary amethyst.

  It was dark by the time they drove into the square of a small white-painted town. Joshua edged the car down a narrow lane and then into the courtyard of a house that stood above the dark sea.

  ‘We’ve arrived,’ he said, opening the door for her.

  ‘Yes, but where exactly are we?’ she asked. Then she knew. The man that walked across the courtyard to meet them was a reflection of Joshua. Older, paler, the hair had never been so dark and was now well-salted with grey and his son had outgrown him in stature and build. But, despite his age, Joshua’s father was still a man who would turn heads wherever he went.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Holly,’ he said, holding out both hands to her. ‘Joshua has told me all about you.’ And after a moment in which he studied her intently, he bent and kissed her cheek. Then he put his arm around her shoulder and led her to a chair. ‘Sit down, my dear. Joshua will get us a drink and then we’ll have dinner.’

  The evening was spent quite simply. They ate wonderful food, drank a little wine and talked. About France, about art. But whenever Holly looked up she found Mr Kent’s eyes fixed upon her. Once she glanced at Joshua, a question in her eyes, but, with the smallest shake of his head, he reassured her. He had not told his father the truth of her birth. He clearly considered that something only she had the right to do. And she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Holly. Joshua must bring you again when you’re both not in quite so much hurry,’ he said as he walked them back to the car. ‘Or, if he’s too busy to bring you, come yourself and stay, any time. I look forward to getting to know you better.’

  She took his hand and he held it briefly for a second before turning away and, in the steady glow of the shuttered candle on the table, she thought she saw his eyes glisten and remembered that Joshua had told her that his father had loved Mary.

  They were both silent as Joshua drove swiftly back through the darkness, but when they stopped once more in the village square he turned away from the hotel.

  ‘I thought we might take a walk by the river and have a cognac,’ he offered in reply to her questioning glance.

  She nodded, but said, ‘I’ll stick to coffee.’ They began to stroll towards a cafe by the river. ‘I liked your father. Thank you for taking me to see him.’ Then, because it was somehow important, she asked, ‘It was him you came to see, wasn’t it? Not me.’

  ‘I spent yesterday with him. Holly. We had some business to sort out. But, unlike you, he’s not averse to using the telephone. The only purpose of my journey was to take you home.’ His expression was unreadable in the shadowy light, but his voice was utterly convincing.

  ‘Why?’

  He seemed o
ddly disconcerted by her directness. ‘You were running away, Holly. Don’t make the same mistake that your mother and Mary were guilty of.’

  After coffee, they walked for a while along the riverbank, listening to the hectic stridulation of the cicadas and breathing in the scent of the wild herbs crushed beneath their feet.

  ‘I love it here,’ Holly said at last.

  ‘The temptation to linger is almost overwhelming. But I’ll bring you back. I promise.’ She raised her head and turned to him, startled by the rare texture to his voice.

  In that moment, when the cicadas were suddenly silent, when her heart held its beat, Holly knew he was going to kiss her. Knew without doubt that she wanted him to kiss her. She turned so easily into his arms and lifted her face, offering herself to him. His mouth was warm, gentle, a kiss between friends, not lovers. Yet when he raised his head, just for that moment she could have sworn that his eyes flared with a sharp desire. But he turned abruptly and said, ‘We’d better be getting back. We have an early start tomorrow.’

  *

  Holly had thought that it would be a relief to get away from the brightness of the southern sun, but as they descended into the grey cloud blanketing London she pulled a rueful face.

  ‘It’s raining,’ she said.

  ‘Is it?’ Joshua glanced up briefly from a sheaf of papers that had apparently needed his undivided attention throughout the flight. ‘It won’t last.’

  After the almost dream-like quality of their evening together, when all problems had seemed suspended in a mixture of sights and scents heightened by his presence, the morning had brought Holly back to earth with a bump. Joshua had appeared in the early morning, hollow-cheeked as if he had not slept much, refusing anything but coffee. He had been almost sharp with her and clearly not disposed to talk.

  He whisked them through Passport Control and Customs with practised ease and his car was waiting at the kerb, a chauffeur ready to open the door for her and deal with her luggage.

  ‘There’s no need to take me home, Joshua,’ she said quickly, anxious to get away from his disturbing presence and put herself back into a more everyday frame of mind. ‘I can easily catch a bus.’