“You owe me nothing. Get some rest. I’ll come and fetch you in two hours.” Nan nodded and shuffled off, desperate for her bed.
Petra made her way up the stairs with a sinking heart. She’d pinned her hopes on seeing Avery, but it seemed that Lady Blythe would not be up to entertaining this day. Petra nearly gagged as she stepped into the darkened bedchamber. It reeked of vomit, sweat, and worse. Lady Blythe lay huddled under the counterpane, her face waxy and drawn. She was shivering despite the roaring fire, her teeth chattering loudly when she tried to speak.
“Where’s that slattern?” she demanded, referring to Nan. “I told her to take out this chamber pot ages ago, and I need a clean shift. This one is soiled,” she added miserably.
“I’ll see to everything. Nan’s in the kitchen, preparing broth,” Petra lied. Lady Blythe would be livid if she knew that Nan was sleeping. Petra took a clean shift from the trunk and helped Lady Blythe change before tucking her back into bed. She needed a wash, but that would have to wait until she felt better and wasn’t shivering so violently.
“Just let me be,” Lady Blythe croaked. “Need rest.”
“As you wish, lady.”
Petra fetched an extra blanket, added another log to the fire, and stepped out of the room, leaving the door open to air out the terrible smell. She opened the window on the landing just a crack, sucking in fresh air. Lady Blythe would be furious if she knew that precious heat was being wasted, but the miasma that permeated the entire floor was so awful it nearly made Petra ill. She waited a few minutes, then shut the window and went downstairs to the kitchen where porridge was simmering over the open flame. Judging by the smell emanating from the pot, it was badly burned. Petra carefully moved the pot out of the flames and examined the contents. She’d expected to break her fast with Lady Blythe and was hungry, so she might as well eat. Petra helped herself to a bowl of porridge, careful not to scoop up any burned bits, and a cup of ale. She’d have to let the pot soak once it cooled and have Nan scrub it clean later.
Petra ate slowly, her stomach burning with disappointment. She’d so looked forward to seeing Avery, but now she would spend the day cleaning up vomit and emptying out the filthy chamber pot. She felt sorry for Lady Blythe, but the old lady had the constitution of an ox; she would recover in a day or two. Petra finished her breakfast and filled a bowl for Lady Blythe. Perhaps she would take a spoonful or two. The thick porridge might help to absorb some of the bile in her gut.
Lady Blythe had stopped shivering and had thrown off the extra blanket, her eyes now more alert. “Where’s Nan?” she asked again, peering behind Petra. “Did she burn the porridge? I’d beat her blue if I had the strength.”
“It’s only a little burnt. Will you take some, lady?” Petra asked as she perched on the side of the bed.
“No porridge, but I’m thirsty. Mouth so dry. Bring me a cup of ale.”
“Right away.” Petra returned downstairs, left the bowl of porridge for Nan, and filled a pewter mug with ale. She held the cup to Lady Blythe’s lips, helping her to drink. “Are you feeling better now, lady?”
“A bit. It was that mutton,” Lady Blythe grumbled. “I’ll have a stern word with that butcher come market day. If he thinks he can sell me rancid meat, he has another think coming, the rogue.” Petra had the mutton as well, but she felt quite well, and Thomas slept through the night untroubled by indigestion. Perhaps something else was ailing Lady Blythe, but Petra refrained from suggesting it.
“Shall I send a message to Father Avery and tell him not to come today?” Petra asked with a sinking heart.
“No need. Have Nan make a kidney pie and some peas. Tell her not to skimp on the butter for the peas, and bake a fresh loaf of bread. There are some apples in the cellar. She can make stewed fruit for dessert. The food at the priory is plain and never plentiful. The poor man looks half-starved.”
“Is Father Avery to dine alone?” Petra asked, mystified. With Thomas away and Lady Blythe indisposed, he would be left to fend for himself, which wasn’t very hospitable.
“No, you foolish girl. You can keep him company. I’m sure you can manage to hold a polite conversation for an hour. You can benefit from Father Avery’s wisdom, even if he won’t benefit from yours. But at least he’ll have a good meal in him. I owe him that much for the kindness he’s shown me. Now get me some more ale.”
Petra ran downstairs to fetch the ale. She’d give Nan the two hours she promised her, then wake her up in time to make the meal Lady Blythe ordered. She’d help her cook. The thought of spending an hour alone with Avery left her nearly breathless with fretfulness. What would they talk about for a full hour? Would he feel angry at having to dine with her instead of Lady Blythe? Would it be terribly awkward?
Petra glanced toward the stairs, then approached the window and opened it all the way. Father Avery was probably used to all kinds of awful smells, living with monks who weren’t known for their fondness for bathing, but she’d be damned if he had to inhale the reek of vomit while dining with her.
Chapter 19
January 2014
Edinburgh, Scotland
“How can one child have that much energy?” Gabe asked as he sank into a wing chair and reached for his coffee cup, taking a healthy gulp. “I’m exhausted,” he complained.
“Having second thoughts about fatherhood already?” Quinn asked as she sat down across from him. Gabe offered to pour her some coffee, but she passed. She was jittery enough as it was.
“Of course not. Emma is…” Gabe replied, searching for the right word, but not coming up with one immediately. The smile of awe on his face told its own story, however. “Amazing. An absolute miracle,” he added happily.
“She certainly is, but a very energetic one,” Quinn laughed.
They’d taken Emma to lunch after her playdate at the nursery school and then made their way to the zoo where they spent several hours walking from one enclosure to another, making a pit-stop at the petting zoo as any self-respecting parent would. Having seen every single animal, Emma demanded to go back to see her favorites, which proved to be nearly all the animals they’d already seen. Since it was too early to bring her back to the Lennoxes after the zoo, Emma had expressed a desire to go to a playground and spent another hour running around manically from the slides to the swing, and back again. Gabe followed her around for the first half-hour, terrified that she’d hurt herself or get abducted by a lurking predator, but he soon exhausted himself and consented to sit on a bench that offered a panoramic view of the entire playground. He never took his eyes off Emma, but quickly learned that he didn’t actually have to go down the slide with her.
“And just think; we get to do it all again tomorrow,” Quinn teased.
“I think it’s time we went home,” Gabe replied. “Emma has had time to get used to us. We can’t stay here forever, and I think the Lennoxes would like their life back. What do you say we leave tomorrow?”
Quinn considered that idea for a moment. She supposed Gabe was right. Even if they waited another week, it wouldn’t be any easier to announce to Emma that she was going to live in England with the two people she’d only just met. Mari asked them not to tell Emma that Gabe was her father just yet. She said the child needed time, but there was never going to be a perfect time. It was time to tear the plaster off and deal with the pain.
“All right. Tomorrow, we go home, but tonight, I attend this cocktail party.”
Quinn had left Gabe and Emma at McDonald’s after the playdate, Emma enjoying her Happy Meal and Gabe looking dubiously at his own burger. Gabe didn’t hold with junk food, but Emma had been adamant that her mum allowed her to have McDonald’s once a week, and it was time for her treat. Quinn strongly suspected that Emma was playing them like a violin, but had no wish to argue, not when she needed to escape for an hour to buy a dress. Gabe looked terrified when Quinn waved to him through the window and took off for the nearest shop. She didn’t need anything fancy, just a little black party frock
that didn’t cost a week’s pay. Quinn found the perfect dress on a clearance rack, and shoes to match. It wasn’t black, but it was too pretty to pass up and priced to sell. The dress was made of satin, in a decadent shade of claret, and had an asymmetrical design that gave it a trendy and unique appearance. Quinn was smitten. She paid for her purchases, grabbed her bags, and raced back to McDonald’s where Gabe was beginning to look slightly desperate.
“Thank God you’re back,” he breathed. “She wants ice-cream.” Quinn didn’t think this was reason for panic, but recognized Gabe’s dilemma only too well. He was afraid to say no and upset Emma, which was understandable, but it was important for them to establish their authority.
Emma looked at Quinn with an expression of pure innocence. “I’d like a cone, please.”
The kid was good, Quinn would give her that. “Now, darling, you’ve just had a good meal. Why don’t we leave dessert for later? I’m sure you’ll want a treat after the zoo,” Quinn suggested.
“No, I want it now. Mum always got me a cone after my meal.”
“Well, Mum’s not here.” Emma’s eyes filled with tears, but she knew she was beaten.
“All right. But I want ice-cream at the zoo. They have animal-shaped ones. I like the one that looks like a monkey.”
“And you shall have it,” Gabe jumped in. Quinn gave him a filthy look, but it was too late. He’d already promised. Now Emma would want the ice cream as soon as she walked through the gates.
“You can have ice cream after we’re finished at the zoo. Shall we go then?” Quinn asked.
“I want ice cream first.” Emma fixed Gabe with a steely stare. “You promised,” she reminded him before pulling on her hat and gloves.
“All right. Ice cream first,” Gabe conceded.
Emma smiled coyly. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, she was so cool. Quinn couldn’t help admiring her negotiating skills. If she got her way so quickly at four, what would she be like at fourteen? Quinn wasn’t ready for the answer, and neither was Gabe.
Now, hours later, Quinn was tired and would have liked nothing better than a hot bath followed by an early night. She had no desire to get dressed up and go to a party where she didn’t know a soul, but this was her only chance to get close to Robert Chatham, and she couldn’t afford to pass it up. She sighed and reached for the shopping bag, pulling out the dress. The sight of it cheered her up marginally, although pajamas would have made her much happier, especially since Gabe was already lounging on the bed and scrolling through the movie selection in search of something that appealed. Quinn applied some make up, twisted her hair into a stylish chignon, and pulled out a few tendrils to frame her face. There, that would have to do.
“You look beautiful,” Gabe said from his position on the bed. He had firm plans to watch TV until she got back, and had stockpiled a few snacks in case he got hungry in the process. “You never dress that way for me,” he added petulantly.
“No, but I undress for you, which is more important,” Quinn teased and leaned in to give him a kiss. “Don’t wait up.”
“Be careful.”
Chapter 20
Quinn checked her coat at the cloak room, stole a quick peek at her appearance in the mirror, and walked into the room where the party was being held as if she had every right to be there. She felt relieved when no one challenged her and made her way to the open bar. It was always easier to circulate with a drink in hand. She ordered a glass of Pinot Noir and surveyed the room from her vantage point. The party had been underway for nearly two hours, and the guests were at the stage where they’d consumed a few drinks and were feeling friendly and less inhibited than they would normally be at a work function. Quinn spotted Robert Chatham right away; he was difficult to miss. Quinn had done some research on the man and his company, but seeing him in person still made her mouth go dry.
Chatham was a good-looking man. He was tall and broad, his ash-blond hair lightly silvered with gray, which only made him look more distinguished. Unlike many men of his age, his jowls hadn’t gone soft, nor had he grown stout about the middle. He looked trim and fit, and his face appeared very youthful for a man on the cusp of fifty. He was deep in conversation with several people, but even from a distance, Quinn could see that the conversation centered on him. The body language of the other guests made it evident that they deferred to Robert Chatham and valued his opinion, putting him at the center of the discussion.
Several people, mostly men, tried to engage Quinn in conversation, but she replied politely and moved on, her gaze fixed on Robert Chatham. She had no wish to interrupt his conversation, so had to bide her time until he was left on his own for a bit. Quinn wasn’t comfortable with what she was doing, since deceit never came easily to her, so she tried to pretend that she was at an Institute do where everyone stood about awkwardly until the alcohol began to flow. A short time later, tongues suddenly loosened and sexual innuendo became the order of the day, not a pretty sight in a roomful of middle-aged archeologists. The day after the party was usually charged with uncomfortable silences and almost palpable regret, pertaining mostly to drunken hook-ups in empty offices. At least there’d be none of that tomorrow, since Quinn would leave as soon as she’d had a chance to speak with Robert Chatham and gather a sample of his DNA. Quinn smiled to herself. Monica Fielding, the only person she could think of whom she genuinely disliked, was the mistress of dissemblance and subterfuge. Tonight, she would be Monica; a woman comfortable with deception and fluid morals. Quinn finally saw her chance and moved toward her target.
“Mr. Chatham?” Quinn asked, a playful smile on her face.
“Yes.” The man was even more attractive up-close, but had the air of a warrior surveying a battlefield and weighing the odds. On the outside, he appeared relaxed, but there was a watchfulness in him, and a coiled energy that was off-putting.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your contract with Samsung. You must be very pleased,” Quinn said, giving him her most winning smile.
“Indeed, I am. It’s was a major coup for the company. Miss?” he looked at her, his eyes full of playful curiosity.
“Fielding. Monica Fielding.”
“Who do you work for, Monica?”
“The competition, of course,” Quinn replied coyly.
“And what are you working on?” Robert Chatham asked, leaning in a little too close.
“I’m not at liberty to divulge trade secrets,” she whispered, making him laugh. “All I can say is that I’m on the administrative end of things, rather than technical. Number crunching, and such. Which is why I’m so impressed with your meteoric rise. You haven’t put a foot wrong in three years.”
“Sadly, my father passed away three years ago. He’d been at the helm of Chatham Electronics since the 1970s, when his own father retired. My father was a shrewd businessman, but like many men of his generation he found himself a little out of step with progress. Things did not move as quickly in his time, so he became fearful of taking risks. I, on the other hand, am all about risk.”
“Well, you must be psychic,” Quinn teased, “because every risk you take seems to pay off.” She watched Chatham carefully, desperate for a reaction. She wasn’t disappointed. He leaned forward again, his lips almost brushing her cheek.
“As it happens, I am psychic. I experience visions of the future all the time. Do you know what I’m seeing now?” he asked, casually brushing his hand against her hip.
“Do tell,” Quinn said. She knew where this was going, but was still hopeful that he wasn’t having her on.
“I see you coming up to my room for a night cap. This party is beginning to bore me.”
Quinn looked up at the man. He made her uneasy, but she’d come tonight with the sole purpose of gathering some form of DNA, and at the moment, she had nothing. Chatham’s jacket was immaculate, with not a stray hair in sight, and he’d given his empty glass to a waiter a few moments before. She’d go for one drink and then leave.
“One drink,�
� she said.
“One drink,” Chatham agreed.
Quinn nearly flinched when Robert Chatham placed his hand on her lower back and steered her through the crowd, out the door, and toward the bank of elevators in the lobby. She wasn’t prepared for this, but her plan, although not bulletproof, was relatively basic. Have one drink, ask to use the loo, collect stray DNA, make her excuses and depart.
Robert Chatham stood across from her in the lift, studying her with a small smile. “You remind me of someone,” he said, tilting his head to the side as if appraising a painting. “Can’t put my finger on it.”
Perhaps I remind you of my mother, whom you raped when she was just seventeen and probably haven’t given a second thought since, you arrogant wanker, Quinn thought bitterly.
“I know. You remind me of Destiny, a painting by John William Waterhouse, particularly because you’re wearing that color. Are you familiar with the Pre-Raphaelites? I own a rather priceless Rossetti. I know it’s a bit childish, but I keep it in a place where only I can enjoy its beauty. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.”
How nice for you, Quinn retorted in her head. “I am more of a modern art girl. I like things that are edgy and new,” she replied, just to annoy him. She actually didn’t care for modern art at all and would have given much to own a Rossetti, but spending millions on art simply wasn’t her style. If she had the money to spend, she’d give it to a charity for children or refugees, not on a painting to hide from the world and gloat over.
They exited the lift, and Robert unlocked his room, ushering Quinn inside. It was a suite, with a large, airy bedroom and a cozy sitting room, complete with a discreet minibar. Quinn stepped inside, eager to put some distance between her and Robert Chatham, but she’d barely taken a step before he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She instinctively pulled back, unprepared for such intimacy. Robert Chatham leaned in, his lips brushing her neck while his hand moved to her breast. He trailed kisses down her neck, moving downward and running the tip of his tongue along the top of her breast, just above the neckline of the dress. Quinn quivered with revulsion.
The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2) Page 10
