FENELLA’S bookshop, the Readers’ Nook, was situated in the small Perthshire town of Glengower. The granite building had two storys, Fenella living in a flat above the shop with her cat, Sailor, for company. Directly across the street was the Rubber Ducky Play School, where Jessica had enrolled Jason a couple of days before starting her new job.
“Jason has settled in well,” Fenella remarked one morning after Jessica had been in Glengower almost a month. The two were between customers, and enjoying a mug of coffee behind the shop counter. “But…” Fenella’s normally sweet expression became worried as she scrutinized Jessica’s pale face. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same about you.”
Jessica forced a smile. “I’m fine, honestly. It’s just that…since my trip to Starlight…I’ve found myself thinking a lot about how Jason’s going to feel when he’s old enough to realize that he has a father somewhere, and that I’ve deprived them both of their right to know each other.”
“I don’t think Mitch has any rights where his son is concerned,” Fenella said grimly. “And when Jason is old enough, you can tell him exactly why you kept him from his father.”
“I plan to keep them apart, if I can…but I won’t turn Jason against Mitch,” Jessica said in a quiet voice.
Fenella sighed. “No, best not to. I always admired Mum for not trying to sour us on men while she was bringing us up, though with what our father put her through, she had reason enough. But in my case,” she went on flatly, “she didn’t have to. Tonia and I were only ten when he walked out, but I was glad to see him go. He was an obnoxious b—” She broke off when she saw Jessica’s quickly raised eyebrows, and with a shrug, she corrected herself. “Bully, then, and a womanizer, without one redeeming feature.”
“He’s the reason you’ve never married, isn’t he.” Jessica’s words were in the form of a statement, not a question, and she uttered them in a low, compassionate tone.
“You finally figured that out, did you?” Fenella said wryly.
“Oh, I figured it out a long time ago.”
“Funny thing is…” Fenella perched herself on a stool beside the till “…I liked Mitch. I met him only once, but I must admit he charmed me. And he seemed so right for you. I thought there was something very straight about him—only shows how we can never rely entirely on our instincts.” She grimaced. “You were only five when our father left, but I know his leaving hurt you just as badly as it did the rest of us…and yet you gave yourself so trustingly to Mitch, so sweetly, as if you’d never been let down by a man before.”
“It’ll never happen again,” Jessica said bitterly. “I’ve learned my lesson this time. And now I can really understand how Mum felt when Dad left—”
“She was well rid of him!”
“We should be thankful we three took after her, rather than after Dad—I don’t think we turned out so badly!”
“You’re right.” Fenella quirked her little finger as she lifted her mug to her mouth and went on with an affected genteel accent, “We are all such nice girls!”
Jessica burst out laughing. Seeing her sister with that exaggeratedly snooty expression on her face, hearing her adopt the same snobbish tone she had used to such effect years ago when she had wanted to tease Jessica out of some unhappy little mood, had, for the moment, pushed her present unhappiness to the back of her mind. “Oh, Fen, you may be thirty-three, but sometimes you act like a schoolgirl!”
The ping of the doorbell had Fenella straightening her face, and Jessica hurrying to the back shop till her giggles subsided. Then, after wiping her eyes with a Kleenex, she slipped quietly into the shop again. The customers were two middle-aged women, obviously well-known to Fenella but strangers to Jessica. As Fenella discussed something with them—apparently some new books one of the women wanted to order—Jessica made her way to the shelf at the back where she’d been dusting earlier.
She’d been there only a couple of minutes, when she heard Fenella say, “Tell me, Mrs. Mackie, how’s Jeannie doing?”
“Just grand,” the woman replied. “She’s to be getting home from hospital the day after tomorrow.”
“Super! And have she and Danny decided what to call the new baby?”
“Aye, they have that. He’s going to be Robert Struan Mackie, after his two grandfathers.”
“That’s a good strong name, Mrs. Mackie.” Fenella’s voice was warm. “Now, dear, I’ve got your order. I’ll give you a ring when the books come in. Allow about a month.”
The bell pinged again as the two women left, and Jessica heard Fenella go through to the back, heard her calling “Jessica?” up the stairs leading to the flat, and Jessica called out, “I’m in the shop, Fen, dusting.”
“Oh.” Fenella came back through the doorway. “I thought you’d gone upstairs for something. That was Nell Mackie and her cousin. A nice woman, Nell, but tends to keep me all morning unless I cut her visit short right at the start.”
“Mmm. It’s quite a story really.” Fenella went behind the counter and busied herself writing out the order for Mrs. Mackie’s books. “Her daughter Jeannie,” she went on in an absent tone, “got married three years ago to a fellow from Skye, Dan McLeod, who’d had life-saving cancer surgery when he was younger. Knowing Dan would be sterile after his operation and assuming that farther down the road he might want to marry and have children, his doctor had suggested that they preserve some of his sperm—”
“That can be done?”
“Mmm. They freeze it. Apparently hospitals have been banking the sperm of men with cancer for quite a few years now.” Fenella looked up, and smiled. “At any rate, Dan went along with his doctor’s suggestion, so after he married Jeannie, she went to an in vitro fertilization clinic in Edinburgh and took part in their program.”
“And it worked?” Jessica’s curiosity was aroused.
“Not the first time around, apparently, but although the doctors could only offer a twenty percent chance of being successful, she and Dan were lucky the second time they tried.” Fenella shook her head, as if she still found it hard to believe. “A minor miracle, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Jessica smiled in return. “A minor—”
She broke off abruptly, and Fenella raised her eyebrows. “What is it, Jess?” she asked, and then added, “Whatever’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
For a long, taut moment, Jessica just stared in front of her, not really seeing her sister, or even making sense of what she was saying. A minor miracle. She had wondered for a fleeting moment why the phrase seemed so familiar, then it had come swooping back into her mind: those were the exact words Mitch had said on the beach, when she had asked if Amanda’s baby looked like Garth. “That would be a minor miracle,” he had drawled. And she had assumed he’d been referring to the fact that Garth had not been the father.
She had also assumed that Mitch had been the child’s natural father.
But she had not carried on from there. She had not allowed her brain to come up with any scenario that might throw a different slant on that truth…that apparent truth.
Dear God…she struggled to keep from losing her train of thought for things were happening in her brain, things over which she had no control. Facts were meshing with facts, the internal computer in her mind coming up with suggestions and possibilities…both startling and outrageous…and conclusions that had her heart staggering and her blood rushing dangerously to her head.
“Fenella.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Suppose you were married, and your husband couldn’t, for some medical reason, make you pregnant, yet you both desperately wanted to have a child…what would you do?”
“Well…” Fenella’s gaze was thoughtful. “Adopt, I suppose, or at least, try to. I’ve heard that nowadays, with the Pill, and with so many single mothers opting to keep their babies, it’s not as easy as it once was.”
“It’s almost impossible. So then—” Jessica’s voice was no longer quite so steady “—what would you do?”
Fenella rested her elbows on the counter, and, steepling her hands, let her chin sit in the cleft of her fingertips as she gazed at her sister. “I guess the next step would be to go the route Jeannie and Dan did.”
“In vitro fertilization.”
“Mmm, and then, of course, we’d have to decide whether we wanted an anonymous donor, or someone we knew.” Fenella swallowed, and as she drew herself up straight, Jessica saw a dawning comprehension in her eyes. “If I were in such a situation, and if my husband had a brother—even an adoptive brother—whom we both admired tremendously—” Her voice was tight with controlled emotion. “Then he would be the ideal choice. Oh, Jessie, surely you’re not thinking that—”
“Yes. I am. Garth and Amanda.”
When the idea had exploded in Jessica’s brain, in the first few moments it had all seemed clear to her; now as Fenella stared at her, waiting, confusion splintered her mind, and she found it difficult to gather the pieces together and organize them into logical thoughts. But finally she did, and felt as if her heart—her whole being—was falling into space. “It all makes sense, Fennie,” she whispered. “Garth had a rare hereditary heart disease—such a very serious disease he wouldn’t have wanted to pass it on to a baby.”
Fenella hugged her arms around herself. “But of course he would want Amanda to have a family—”
“And she would want a child as close to Garth as possible, especially when they both knew he…wouldn’t be around…for too many years.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
Jessica had a heady disconnected feeling, as if she was at a too high altitude and the air had become so thin it was painful to breathe.
“It would explain so much,” Fenella offered on a soft breath.
“But Megan…Amanda’s daughter…why would Mitch have told me nobody knew who her father was? Why would he have tried to make me believe she was an adopted child?”
Fenella crossed to her sister and, lifting Jessica’s cold hands, held them tightly, her warmth spreading through Jessica’s skin into her blood. And when she spoke, it was with compassion in her voice.
“I think, darling Jess, the only person who can answer that question for you is Mitch.”
Jessica felt her heartbeats jam together. For a long time she just stared at her sister, her vision blurred, her thoughts ascramble, as she tried to quell the feeling of panic gripping her.
“If we’re right,” she said, her voice catching, “Mitch will never forgive me for having kept Jason from him.”
“That may well be the case,” Fenella said, pulling Jessica close. “And if that happens, you’ll have to find some way to live with it. But if you’re right about the baby, and Mitch did do this thing for Garth and Amanda, then he’s a man in a million, and he’ll find it in his heart to understand. Hold that thought, Jessica, when you go looking for him. It’ll help carry you through.”
It took only one phone call to the Golden Chain head office to find out Mitch’s whereabouts. He was, according to his secretary, at the Markington Estate in Wiltshire, supervising the building contractors who had already begun work on the extensive renovations there.
“Take my car,” Fenella had offered right away, but Jessica had declined the invitation.
“Thanks, but it’s a while since I’ve driven and I’m a bit rusty. And the way I’m feeling,” she’d added wryly, “I don’t think I’m fit to be in charge of a wheeled vehicle. I’d be a danger to myself…and anyone else on the road. Besides, you’ll have Jason, and it’ll be easier to get around if you have your car. Are you sure you’re going to manage, coping with the shop alone during the day, and then coping with him when you pick him up at the Rubber Ducky?”
“With my hands tied behind my back!” Fenella retorted confidently. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know! Now—” she bent over the road map of Britain spread out on the shop counter “—you’ll have to take the train to Salisbury, then a bus to Davington. Once there, you’ll probably have to take a taxi to the estate—it looks as if it’s a couple of miles farther on. But—” She looked up with a hopeful expression. “After that, if all goes well, Mitch will be driving you around in his Jag.”
“He drives a Range Rover,” Jessica said automatically, and then grimaced. “Well, he used to. Who knows what he drives now! At any rate, I’m not counting my chickens—he may throw me out on my neck after he hears my story. Then I’ll hear from him only through his lawyers.” Mitch would, of course, want custody of Jason; but Jessica kept her thoughts determinedly away from that contingency. Think positively, that’s what Fenella always said, and that was what she must try to do.
Still, it was hard, and the following evening as she sat in the back of a taxi splashing its way up the winding drive leading to Markington Manor, positive was the very last word she’d have used to describe the way she was feeling. And the weather didn’t do anything to cheer her up. It was wintry cold and miserable, leaden rain slanting in a northerly gale, and the visibility almost nil. Thank heavens, she reflected as the taxi pulled to a halt, that she had decided against borrowing Fenella’s old Austin.
It had taken her much longer to get here than she’d counted on, because she had just missed a bus to Davington, and had to wait two hours in a freezing waiting room for the next. Once she got to the small town, there was no taxi immediately available, so she’d had to wait in a draughty café till one was free. And now—she glanced at her watch in the dim light inside the cab as the driver turned to collect his fare—it was pitch dark and close to seven.
“Thanks, luv,” the driver said as Jessica paid him. “Now—” he peered through the murky night “—are you sure there’ll be somebody here? Place looks deserted. Would you like me to hang around, till somebody comes to the door?”
“Would you mind?” she asked apologetically. “I wouldn’t like to be stranded away out here on a night like this. Could you just wait till somebody comes to the door? I’ll give a wave if it’s all right, then you can go.”
“No problem.”
He kept the engine running, but as Jessica hurried to the front steps, clutching her shoulder bag and wincing as the rain sleeted against her cheeks, she heard nothing but the sound of the gale howling around the huge dark house.
What if she had come all this way for nothing? Tugging back her hair from her cheeks as the wind whipped it around her face, she located the bell, an enormous brass pull, and gave it a strong jerk. If it pealed inside, she had no way of knowing. Every other sound was obliterated by the storm blattering around her.
She hunched into the upturned collar of her navy trench coat as an extra-strong gust of wind made her gasp. It looked, she thought despairingly, as if no one was at home. Glancing around at the taxi, she thought she saw it begin to move forward. Panicking, she grabbed the bell pull again, but just as she made to tug it, the fanlight above the door lit up, and seconds later, the door swung inward, creaking, and bright light flooded out in a wide yellow cone.
Jessica recognized Mitch’s tall, wide-shouldered figure, his arrogant stance, even though she couldn’t see his face, just his bold outline, black against the light behind him. Heartbeats hammering, without turning her head, she lifted her arm, and waved to the cabdriver. She heard, faintly, the roar of the engine as he gunned it, and the crunch of gravel. And as he turned, an arc of bright light swept over the front door area, highlighting Mitch’s face for a fleeting second, long enough for Jessica to see the stunned shock in his expression, and then the glow was gone, the sound of the car faded, and Jessica knew she was alone—instinctively knew she was alone at the manor—with Mitch.
Without a word he stepped back into the hall, holding the door open, and without a word, she walked past him. She heard the door shut behind her, heard the sound of a lock clicking into place. Now that the outside was closed off, she could hear her own unsteady breathing, could hear the rain drip from the hem of her coat to the parquet floor. Nervously, she raked her wet hair back from her cheeks, and with her heart in her throat, she turned to face him.
His features were set in lines so grimly forbidding that she flinched as if he’d whipped her with a lash.
“What do you want?” His question came out in a snarl of barely contained anger. “I thought I made it clear, last time we met, that I had withdrawn my offer.”
Jessica felt her teeth start to chatter. The hall was unheated, the temperature of the air frigid. But beyond where Mitch was standing, through closed French doors, she could see a fireplace, with flames leaping up the. hearth’s throat. Yellow flames, warm, welcoming…
“That’s not why I’ve come.” Her voice had a faint tremor. “I have something to tell you.” She shuddered, an involuntary reaction to the cold air, her wet hair, the rain dribbling down her neck inside the collar of her wool sweater. “But I need to get heated up first.” She gestured toward the lighted room. “May I take off my coat and go through to the fire?”
Without waiting for his reply, she dropped her shoulder bag onto a nearby chair, and started to shrug off her soaking trench coat. Before it was half off, Mitch was in front of her, taking it from her, politeness obviously overcoming his feelings of contempt. And in that second when they were close, before he stepped back and slung the coat over the banister of the spiral staircase, she smelled whiskey on his breath. He had been drinking? But how much?
“This way,” he snapped, and led the way across the hall.
Hesitating for only a moment, Jessica followed, wiping her cold wet hands along the folds of her gathered skirt. He pushed open one side of the French doors, and stood aside to let her pass into the room. As she did, she was once again very close to him, this time so close her shoulder brushed against his chest, the contact, fleeting though it was, bringing a flush to her cheeks. He was wearing a thick-knit taupe sweater and a pair of blue jeans, faded and soft after many washings, and from him emanated a heat that brought his familiar male scent to her nostrils…a scent that had her nerves quivering in response.
“Sit down.” He gestured abruptly toward one of the sofas. Crossing to the hearth, he heaved a huge log atop the half-burned ones already in the fire, setting them sparking and hissing like angry snakes.
When he turned back, Jessica was still standing in the same place, and she saw his lips tighten. Turning away, she walked over to where a leather pouf was positioned in front of a wing chair and, hauling it over the carpet, she settled it on the ornately sculptured Chinese rug in front of the fire and sat down. Mitch, she noticed, had moved to a bar tray set on a low, polished side table.
“Have a brandy,” he said curtly as he lifted a crystal decanter. “It’ll warm you up more quickly than any fire.”
About to decline his offer, Jessica changed her mind. The alcohol would not only give her the extra courage she needed to say what she had come to say, it would also fortify her against the fury she expected to explode from him when he found out she’d not only given birth to his son but had kept that son from him.
The brandy he poured was a more than generous measure; perhaps, despite his reluctance to have her in his house, he did feel a hint of compassion for her in her obviously distressed state. She took the glass from him, his fingertips just barely brushing her cold skin, and cupping her hands around the glass’s crystal bowl, she took a tentative sip. Glancing up from under her lashes, she saw Mitch was pouring himself a Scotch.
He didn’t come back to the hearth, just stayed where he was, over by the bar. He stood there, rigid like some stone statue, watching her, wordlessly, as she sipped from her glass. How was it possible, Jessica wondered with a tearing pain in her heart, that eyes so tawny-gold in color could yet look so wintry-raw and cold? Her nervousness escalated into panic, and she found herself sipping mindlessly, almost relishing the raw, burning sensation as the brandy fired her throat. Yet in a few minutes, it did its work. She began to feel warm, and calm, and confident…
And when she put the glass down on the marble hearth, and looked up at Mitch, she felt only a shred of the fear she had felt earlier. He was a rational man; he would listen to what she had to say, and then they would talk, discuss what was the best thing to do.
She realized, with a jolt of shock, that she had already persuaded herself that Mitch had not been involved with Amanda, at least not in the way she had for so long believed. When had that change of heart occurred? On the way down to Salisbury in the train? On the long, slow bus ride? In the taxi? Or had it happened just moments ago, when she had seen Mitch again? Had it been her deepest instincts coming into play at last, giving her insight into the truth of the matter?
Whatever…she still needed confirmation, needed to have Mitch look her in the eyes and tell her that he and Amanda had never been involved in an affair. Then, and only then, would she tell him about Jason.
Mitch cleared his throat, roughly, and Jessica sensed that his patience was running out.
Pushing herself to her feet, she stood straight, her hands clasped tightly together at her waist.
“I’ve come to ask you something,” she said. “And…I know it’s a very…personal…question, but you must tell me the truth. It’s…very important.”
Mitch had downed the last of his Scotch and replaced the glass on the low bar counter. Now he stuck his hands into his pockets and regarded her through eyes that were shuttered. “I make no promises.”
The fire made a singing noise, drowning out the mellow tick-tick of the antique clock on the mantelpiece, just for a moment or two. Jessica drew in a deep breath. This was it. It was all or nothing now.
“I want to ask you about Megan—” she began, only to be interrupted by Mitch’s harsh inquiry.
“Megan? What the devil has Megan got to do with you?”
“Nothing to do with me, Mitch,” Jessica said evenly, “but…what does she have to do with…you?”
He stared at her, as if she was out of her mind. “When you talk sense, then I’ll answer.” His eyes glittered with hostility, his hand flung out in a gesture of extreme impatience.
“Who is Megan’s father?” There, it was out. Out in the open, to be tidied up, answered…or not.
Mitch rocked back as if she had threatened to throw something at him. “I told you,” he said with bewilderment in his tone, “when we were on the island, that nobody knows who Megan’s father is. My God, do you mean to say you’ve come here, on a night like this, to waste my time—?”
“Will you swear that’s the truth?” Jessica persisted, dizzy now as a result of the brandy. “On the Bible?”
Mitch took in a deep breath. She saw his chest rise and fall, once, then twice. And then he turned his back on her. He made for the door. He was going to leave, without ever answering her question. Hysteria and despair rose up inside Jessica, and she ran stumbling after him.
“Tell me, damn you!” She reached him and grabbed the back of his sweater, pulling it hard to stop him. “I need to know—I need to know if Megan is your child!”
He hadn’t been making for the door, but for a bureau alongside it. He turned from it now, his expression that of a man who was having a knife twisted into his heart, over and over and over, the utter incredulity in his eyes sending an ominous chill shivering down Jessica’s spine. In his hands, she saw vaguely, was a photograph. A silver-framed photograph. After a frozen, endless moment, he held it out to her, slowly, and after another long, taut moment, Jessica took it from him. And all the time, her eyes were locked with his.
“Look at it.” His voice was thick. “And you’ll find your answer.”
Jessica closed her eyes. It was the moment of truth; she knew that, as surely as she knew Mitch was watching her, his face closed.
“Look at it,” he ordered again harshly, and she did.
At first, she couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, she recognized Amanda, and she recognized Garth, their faces both bright with happiness…but the child in Garth’s arms, a little girl…Jessica felt the ground swaying under her. Oh, dear God, she had been wrong, so very wrong.
“This is Megan.” Moving like an automaton, Mitch took the photo from her shaking fingers and replaced it with careful precision on the bureau. “The little Vietnamese girl Garth and Amanda adopted after her mother’s death. The father was Vietnamese, too, but his identity is unknown.”
The brandy was doing its potent work. Jessica felt as if she were floating, as if the world as she knew it no longer existed. All her inhibitions were gone, she had no control over what she was thinking…nor over what she was saying.
As if the voice she was hearing was not her own but that of some stranger, she listened to it echo around the room. “But I heard you and Amanda talking, that day you took me to Stokely Manor. I heard her say she was pregnant. And. I heard you admit that the child was yours.”
Mitch froze, his back still to her. She sensed the tightening of his body, felt it as surely as if he was holding her. Everything in him froze.
And then, when she could stand the intensity of the tension no longer, he turned, the movement heavy, and looked down at her with such revulsion in his eyes that it scraped like a sharp knife blade against Jessica’s heart.
“So,” he said in an ugly, rasping voice, “on the basis of that scrap of overheard, private conversation, you decided, in your Godlike wisdom, that Amanda and I were having an affair.”
Jessica’s head was spinning, she felt as if she was going to faint. Vaguely, she heard Mitch go on,
“…only part of the story…and so just let me set you straight. Yes, Amanda was pregnant—she did, however, lose that baby. She miscarried, at four months. My child? Yes, it was my child, but only in the most basic of ways. You see, because of Garth’s hereditary heart problem, doctors had advised him not to…”
Jessica was still staring at him, but not really seeing him. Not even really hearing him anymore, because she didn’t need to hear him, didn’t need to hear what he was saying. She already knew. Her instincts had already told her. Garth and Amanda had asked for his help…and he had not refused them.
Oh, God, what had she done?
Tears welled up inside her, deep in her soul. What she had done was judge him without being in possession of all the facts. She had believed the worst of Mitch, walked out of his life…and taken his unborn son with her.
He would never forgive her. Fenella had been wrong. It was too much for any man to forgive.
She saw, through blurred eyes, that he had turned away from her, had gone back to the bar, where he stood, palms flat on the low, polished wood surface, his arms rigid, his whole body rigid, his head bowed as if he was weighed down with pain.
This would be as good a time as any, Jessica thought anguishedly, to flee.
Sobs rising uncontrollably in her throat, tears running down her cheeks, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet and a sudden hissing of the fire, Jessica ran from the room. Throwing on her coat in the front hall and scooping up her bag as she went, she ran to the door, unlocked it, and once outside, in the gale, she ran hysterically down the steps.
The night was dark as pitch. But she knew her way down the drive, and once she got out onto the road, she would set off for Davington. It was only a mile or so away. There she would find an inn for the night. And one thing she needn’t fear, she thought, feeling as if her heart had broken into a million bleeding pieces, was that Mitch would come after her.
If he had despised her before, it would be as nothing to what he would feel for her now. She had accused him of being Megan’s father, and had let him know she believed he’d had an adulterous affair with Amanda…
The wind howled in the trees—echoing the howling of despair in her soul—as she kept running. Soon, she thought, she must reach the road. But she had somehow lost her bearings and must have veered off the drive in the dark, because now she was running on wet grass, soggy grass, and it seemed to be trying to drag her back, seemed to be telling her she was going in the wrong direction.
Go back, it warned. Go back…
But she kept going, blindly kept going, the brandy wiping out the logical part of her brain, the part that tried to tell her perhaps she was running into danger.
And when the danger came, by that time it was too late. She felt the ground give way suddenly under her feet, and as it did she screamed. The sound rent the air, just for a moment, and then it was drowned out by the fury of the gale.
And as she tumbled forward, headlong into space, reaching out desperately but to no avail for a handhold as she fell over and over, down and down, into a seemingly bottomless pit, her wail of terror was lost in the night.