Kitty agreed. ‘It used to be in the parlour and I was glad Helen didn’t take it with her. She took a lot of the other good pieces but the place was so crammed full that there’s more than enough for us both.’
She chucked the baby under the chin and said, ‘It’s time for your dinner, isn’t it, Kate? We’ll get the maid to take you into the kitchen.’
‘You call your baby Kate?’ asked Robbie in surprise.
She looked around, checking that no one could hear her and whispered, ‘She’s not my baby. She’s Marie’s. When she was dying she gave her to me and I’m keeping her. I don’t tell people she’s not mine though because I’m afraid that David will want her if he knows she’s his sister’s child. He’s horrible, Robbie. He’d not be good to her. That’s why I didn’t put anything about Kate in my letter to you. It’s a secret.’
Robbie could not help himself from exclaiming, ‘I’m glad she’s not yours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m glad she’s not yours because when I saw her I thought you’d found another man.’
‘Another man?’ For once Kitty’s composure faltered. She looked girlish.
He threw caution to the winds. ‘I love you. I think I’ve loved you since that day we met in the farmyard when you were looking for your mother, do you remember? I didn’t realise it till we met at Menton and I showed you my garden but you were with that jockey then… When you went to Paris for me, I thought about you all the time. I had to go to America but I thought about you there as well.’
Kitty was clutching Kate tight as she said, ‘But I thought you were in love with Marie. You bought her big picture from the Edinburgh show, the one in your villa. You said you had to have it… I thought it was because you loved her. That was why you sent me to find her in Paris too – that’s what I thought.’
He was standing close to her now with his earnest blue eyes searching hers. ‘I admired her as an artist but I didn’t love her in any other way. Love never crossed my mind with Marie. I was sorry for her. She seemed so doomed… from the beginning she seemed doomed. It was an evil inheritance that she had.’
Kitty sighed. ‘An evil inheritance. I suppose she did. I’ve a strange inheritance too. You could call that evil as well.’
Robbie shook his head. ‘No, not yours. Your inheritance was vital and maybe even brutal but it wasn’t self-destructive like Marie’s. You’re a survivor. That’s one of the reasons I’m in love with you.’
She was listening to him intently with her lips half-parted. ‘I remember watching you in your garden at Menton. I remember admiring you there. I compared you with Freddy and you had all the things Freddy lacked, all the good things.’
‘But you were in love with him,’ said Robbie.
‘It wore off. When it did, there was nothing left. I needed more than Freddy could offer me… Over the last few months I’ve been realising how much I need them,’ she told him.
Robbie’s doleful expression had lightened. ‘I’m not a saint. I’m not going to pretend that I am. I’ve had a few adventures in my time.’
‘I’m glad of that,’ she cried. ‘I wouldn’t want to live with a saint. That would be too much for me!’
They both laughed and Robbie held out his arms. She and the baby walked into them.
A Bridge in Time Series
A Bridge in Time
Wild Heritage
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1995 by Orion
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Elisabeth McNeill, 1995
The moral right of Elisabeth McNeill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788636391
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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