by Gloria Cook
As he bent his head towards her, Kate found herself reaching up to kiss him back.
Jonny closed his eyes, making his kiss warm and lasting. It was pure heaven to feel her lips on his cheek. ‘I’ll see you again very soon, darling Kate.’
‘Take good care of yourself, Jonny.’ She watched him until he had disappeared in the darkness.
Jonny vowed that now his love for Kate was known he would find a way to make this their last parting.
Chapter Eighteen
For over an hour Abbie had been in the flock-papered morning room of Oak Tree Warren, sitting at her easel, her subject the family Springer spaniel dozing on a fireplace armchair. Her mother had set up her painting gear for a charming study of Jester in his favourite place, to encourage her to resume what had once been her passion. So far she had made only a sketchy outline of the friendly old dog.
‘Hello there!’ The cheery greeting came from the doorway.
‘Oh!’ Starting in fright Abbie dropped her paintbrush, the light thud it made on the carpet also making her heart leap. Jester merely opened a lazy eyelid. ‘Douglas, for goodness sake!’ She was angry with her former brother-in-law for scaring the wits out of her and she was deeply disturbed at how easily she was still panicked. She was in a constant state of jittery nerves. Jester growled at Douglas Goodyear and heaved his clumsy old bones off the chair. Abbie patted him to show there was no cause for him to be alarmed.
Douglas came forward holding out an apologetic hand; in the other he had a bunch of russet and gold chrysanthemums. On his unexciting face the horror that his ploy to lift her spirit had not only failed miserably but had cruelly scared her was plain. ‘Forgive me, Abbie. I’m such a dolt. The last thing I wanted was to upset you. I thought I’d drop in again, hope you don’t mind. Your mother wondered if you’re about ready for a drink. I could fetch it in here, if you’d like.’ He pointed to the flowers. ‘I brought you these. I’ll get the maid to see to them.’
Abbie had clamped a hand to her racing heart. She took several deep breaths to become calmer, watching the guilt and sympathy chewing away at Douglas. She lost her irritation. He was such a dear and a comfort to her. He had supported her parents throughout their ordeal too. ‘It’s very sweet of you to drop in, Douglas. Yes, I would like a cup of tea in here. And thank you for the chrysanths.’ She recognized the flowers as from the gardens of his house, where she had formerly been the mistress. Such a lot had happened to her since she had been widowed.
‘May I join you for tea?’
‘Of course.’ Abbie could tolerate little company nowadays but Douglas never strained her. He and Rupert were as chalk and cheese. Polite to a fault but never boring, he never made assumptions or pushed anyone beyond their capabilities. Under his firm but fair military-style directorship Goodyear Publishers was flourishing. Most important to Abbie, he had never questioned her about her abduction.
‘I’ll be back in a trice.’ A minute or two later he carried in a tray of tea and biscuits.
Abbie was curled up on the big leather winged chair stroking Jester’s long curly ears. Douglas smiled at her then looked down as he set the tray beside her on a wine table. Unlike Rupert or Jonny Harvey, he was shy with women. Years ago he had been engaged for a brief time. His fiancée had eloped with another man and Douglas had only dated occasionally since then. ‘Thank you, Douglas.’
‘My pleasure, Abbie.’ He drank his tea on his feet in front of the mantelpiece. Since leaving the Army on Rupert’s death to take over the company, his duties in the office had denied him the exercise he enjoyed and he didn’t care to sit about. One nice thing about Abbie was that she gave little regard to social niceties and he could relax the need to follow them to the letter. She was a woman he admired greatly, intelligent and gifted and not given to endless titivation or the usual female moods. She had been wasted on his superficial brother. Sadly, she was almost lifeless, and thin and shrunken. Her hair was dull and in need of styling, her skin was winter pale and her eyes weary. She was wearing shapeless lounge pyjamas, a thick wool cardigan and crocheted shawl and furry slippers over bed socks. None of that mattered. She was still a lovely woman.
Abbie saw his concerned expression. She realized that in all the weeks he had been a devoted friend to her she had not asked him how he was. She did so now.
‘Oh, I’m very well, thank you, Abbie.’
That was it, he never burdened others with long expositions on his own affairs. It was just one of the things she liked about Douglas. He struck an accomplished figure. Today he was not in one of his bespoke suits but elegant tweeds. He didn’t come across as exacting but, as always, pleasingly well groomed.
‘It’s good to see you painting again, Abbie.’
‘I didn’t manage very much.’
‘That doesn’t matter. It’s a big step forward for you.’
‘Yes, it is. I hadn’t looked at it like that. Thank you, Douglas. I’d been feeling a resounding failure.’
‘Always happy to help, Abbie. It’s quite a pleasant day. Would you consider taking a stroll round the garden? I’m sure Mrs Rothwell wouldn’t object if you wrapped up really well.’
Abbie had rarely been outside since her release from the infirmary. All she wanted was to stay where she felt safe. To reassure herself she was out of her horrendous prison and back at home. Every morning she was afraid to open her eyes in case she found herself a captive in that stinking tiny room. She knew she should make the effort to get out and about. She would like to walk on her father’s arm but the condition of his lungs meant he daren’t breathe in any cold air and his crippled feet made walking difficult. He often used a wheelchair these days. Douglas would make an ideal substitute. ‘I think I’d like that. And Jester could do with a walk.’
Abbie changed into several warm layers and wool stockings, then stood like a child in the hall while the maid brought her fur hat and coat, fur-lined boots, gloves and woollen scarf. She allowed her mother to help her into them. She was glad to switch off the present and return to the security of being a pampered little girl.
‘There.’ Honor viewed her when satisfied she wasn’t likely to freeze and succumb to pneumonia. ‘Be very sure you don’t overtax her, Douglas. Keep her out of the wind.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, elbow out ready for Abbie’s arm. He had put on his overcoat. A checked scarf was knotted expertly to complement his trilby hat and leather gloves.
Two walking sticks tapping along the hall announced the arrival from the drawing room of Archie Rothwell on his tripping steps. A little bent from consistently having to favour his chest, his extreme height was evident nevertheless. He was wearing two cardigans and a thick muffler, thanks to Honor’s care and caution, and for warmth his thick white hair was kept rather long. Of quiet dignity, his watchful green eyes gleamed with pride on Abbie. ‘Enjoy your walk, darling. When you come in we’ll have some hot chicken broth ready for you.’
With the doting audience of her parents, the maid and a faithful friend, Abbie felt a rush of emotion, her strongest positive feelings for some time. She wanted to stay under this protection for ever. ‘It’s like I’m setting off to school on the very first day.’ On the verge of tears, she added quickly, ‘Off we go then, Douglas.’
With Jester ambling on ahead along the paved and gravel paths, sniffing at stone walls and grass verges, and making friends with the trunks of various trees, Abbie clasped Douglas’s arm with both hands and breathed in the gentle air. There was a benevolent sun in a light grey sky, nothing remotely threatening, and the gardens and sheltering woods were reassuringly familiar. She loved the autumn, the changing colours from lush greens to glorious amber, copper, red, bronze and gold, and she was glad to be alive to enjoy this year’s splendour. Glad to be able to call ‘Good morning, Jackman’ to the gardener raking together fallen leaves, someone she had known all her life.
Pausing and lifting his antiquated cap, the whiskery Jackman called back, ‘’Tis a pleasure to see you out
’n’ about, Miss Abbie.’
‘You’re enjoying this,’ Douglas stated with pleasure.
‘I am, thanks to you.’ They followed a path that divided the lawn. Abbie stopped and gazed up at a solitary monumental oak tree. As a girl she had thought this tree reached all the way up to heaven. Her favourite story had been one about a magic acorn. A little girl had discovered it was the home of a fairy who granted its finder three wishes. Searching with her eyes for acorns scattered on the ground she wished she could go back in time, wished she had never left Ford Farm in a hurry to take that train. She would have been taken ill with the measles there, and although she would have felt uncomfortable about upsetting Jill, Mrs Em would have willingly nursed her until she was well again. And Jill wouldn’t have stayed angry with her for long. She had written a pleasant letter to her, wishing her well, and apologizing for her reaction to the mention of Kate’s birthday, saying that she would never forget she owed her life to her. Jill had filled her in on all of Kate’s amazing progress from timorous mouse to confident butterfly. Kate had written too, mentioning how she enjoyed riding and that she was missing Jonny away working in the Lake District. Abbie had met near disaster in Cornwall but she couldn’t altogether say she regretted going to stay there. She had met some delightful people and her experiences before her abduction had shown she’d needed to take stock and change if she was to avoid further heartbreak and risk losing her friends. She had thought she would never see her parents again, never be here again at Oak Tree Warren. She took comfort that the oak tree now casting a protective shadow over her had matured in this spot for over one hundred years, and would be there for another seven hundred. It wouldn’t change in her lifetime or, if she had children, for many, many generations to come.
‘I should come outside to paint,’ she said. ‘Start off in the shelter of the summerhouse.’
‘Would you like me to fetch your things there?’ Douglas asked, pleased at this next sign of Abbie’s recovery.
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll know when it’s the right time to work again. After what happened to me, Douglas, it’s put everything in a different perspective. My career isn’t as important to me now. Only my family and the people who really matter to me.’
Douglas hoped he counted as one of those people. She had opened up to him and he chanced a question. ‘Are you nervous about facing the world again, Abbie?’
‘Yes. I’m very afraid.’
‘I’ll always be on hand to help you, you know.’
‘Thank you. It’s one of my comforts knowing I can rely on you.’
‘You do everything in your own good time, Abbie. If you ever want to talk…’
Talk? She didn’t even want to think about the vile Mitchells, her incarceration, and the indignities they had heaped on her. How she had nearly died. Thank God, at least, she would not have to give evidence in court. The Mitchells were pleading guilty to all charges, but even that was a selfish ploy to receive lighter sentences. At the beginning they had got her to sign what she had thought was the guesthouse register. They had copied her signature and cleared out her bank account. But she could never clear the fear and suffering out of her mind. The wretched couple had stolen more than her possessions and money. They had stolen several weeks of her life and her peace of mind. And they had put her parents through hell and had planned to rob them too. She hated them. In a voice steeped with pain and venom, she blurted out, ‘I hate them, Douglas!’
He put his arms around her. It was awful she should bear new anguish but it was good that she had started to unburden herself. He was more than pleased she had done so to him. Abbie was more to him than a friend. She was precious. ‘I’m sure you do, Abbie, and with every good reason. I hate them too for hurting you.’
‘Will you take me in now, Douglas?’
‘Right away.’ He allowed her to stay silent while they went back to the house, sensing it was what she needed.
Abbie was shivering under all her wrappings from the effect of her terrible memories. She was so cold. She had no appetite but she would make herself eat every drop of the chicken broth. She badly needed to build up her strength. If she could become well enough to stay outside for long periods she would feel better and gain some peace, and hopefully sleep better and suffer fewer nightmares and flashbacks. Her body, at one time strong and healthy, was totally out of sync.
It occurred to her that her monthly had not happened for some time. Had she had one before leaving Ford Farm? She couldn’t remember. Her mind was cloudy and she had shut out a lot of the details of her ordeal and just about everything else until arriving home. She had lain in her own filth at the end of her drugged imprisonment but there had been no sign of a menstrual flow. It could be that the poor state of her health was responsible for her missing periods. Or… She was seized with panic. Had Mitchell raped her while she was drugged? She had been examined at the infirmary, and although there had been no apparent signs of sexual interference the doctor had told her something. What was it? Her brow furrowed and her head throbbed with the effort to recall. Then she knew. Dear God, she knew! ‘I’m afraid it is my duty to inform you, Miss Rothwell, that you are pregnant.’ Pregnant! The word, the fact screamed at her. She had screamed back at the doctor and refused to listen to him any more, and begged him not to tell her mother when she arrived, warning him she would sue him for breach of patient confidentiality if he did. She was pregnant. My God, she was pregnant. Unable to cope in her distress, her mind had blocked out the vile reality. But she had to face it now.
She was squeezing on Douglas’s arm, hurting him, and he was aware of her anguish, that she was weakening. ‘Abbie, would you like me to carry you the rest of the way?’
‘I think I can walk. Take me in quickly, Douglas, and ask my mother to phone the doctor. I need to see him at once.’
* * *
‘Well?’ Abbie fearfully prompted Dr Ellerson Fellowes as he closed his medical case. They were in her spacious bedroom. Honor had wanted to be there but Abbie had insisted on seeing the doctor alone. ‘How far along am I?’
Ellerson Fellowes, heading towards retirement age, learned and kindly, removed his gold-rimmed spectacles. Abbie was sitting on the bed. He was perched on the dressing-table stool. ‘You’re sixteen weeks, Abbie. The pregnancy will soon be showing.’
‘Sixteen…?’ Gripping the counterpane, she forced her mind to operate clearly, making calculations. She let out a tremendous sigh as some of the appalling disgust drained away. ‘Then I wasn’t raped. Thank God. I had a brief fling with someone from Hennaford.’ It was Jonny’s baby. They had slipped up. It was still a dreadful thing. ‘Dr Fellowes, I don’t want this baby. If it had been my abductor’s child I wouldn’t even have been able to bear the thought of it inside my body. I’d hate it. I’d go mad. I would have ripped it out of me rather than give birth to it. What am I going to do?’
Fellowes went to her and took a firm hold on her imploring hands. ‘First of all, Abbie, you need to calm down. Have you lost contact with the father? Did he let you down? Is that why you were suddenly eager to leave Cornwall?’
‘No, it was none of those. The father is a good man.’ Too weak to stay sitting up, she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes for a few moments. It was Jonny’s baby. An accident, but when she thought deeper about it, the child was an innocent factor conceived in lust and joy. It was not something vile and corrupt living inside her. ‘It’s not so bad now. As long as it wasn’t that beastly man’s… I can’t even remember what he looked like, thank God.’
‘Do you think the father would stand by you?’
‘He’s not the marrying sort but he would stand by me, I’m confident of that.’
‘Then may I suggest you get in touch with him as soon as possible. If marriage is on the cards, then the sooner the better. It could be just the new start you need, Abbie. Or another possibility could be to go away and have the baby adopted, then you could put it all in the past.’
‘I need to th
ink about it for a while before I do anything, doctor.’
‘That is wise, but don’t let it be for very long.’
‘I don’t want my parents to know just yet. Could you tell them I came over all weak? It isn’t a lie.’ On a thought, Abbie sat up urgently. ‘Doctor, I’ve been malnourished for some time. Will it have damaged the baby?’
‘It’s a possibility, Abbie, although not necessarily. We would have to monitor your pregnancy more carefully than usual.’
Abbie lay down again and put her hands over her abdomen. Was that a slight swelling she could feel? If she had died her baby would have died too. She had hung on to her life and suddenly the well-being of her baby was important to her. She caressed the place where it was growing and it felt as much a vital part of her being as she was of it. If all went well it would be a handsome child. She would keep this child. She certainly would not marry Jonny. It wouldn’t work. She didn’t want another failed marriage. Her parents would stand by her. They wouldn’t care about the social stigma.
She had survived and been returned to them, they would be delighted to be gaining a grandchild.
She rose from the bed, a little energy flowing through her. ‘Actually, Dr Fellowes, I am ready to speak to my parents.’ Douglas would be waiting anxiously too. She didn’t mind him learning her news. ‘Would you like to escort me down?’
Chapter Nineteen
Tony Viant was loafing in his mother’s raggedy chair, his feet up on the table, chain smoking and tapping ash on the floor. Things were different now, thanks to him. He had ended his detestable mother’s reign. There was no need to plan to escape. He saw Delia differently. She had become haggard and bad tempered. He wanted no personal involvement with her. He would never risk another woman treating him with contempt and keeping him down.
From the other side of the gloomy kitchen Delia glared at him with disgust. Although he hadn’t got any jobs today he was in his work clothes. She hadn’t been able to get them off him for weeks to launder and she could smell his offensive odours from where she sat at the table, the pages of the West Briton spread out on the scrubbed wood for easier reading. This was her only pleasure, to read the local news after the men had all leafed through the weekly newspaper. ‘Would you stop doing that, Tony!’
