was like to have to tell my parents I was pregnant. My parents… didn’t make allowances for mistakes. I had already been accepted at university for the next year. To them it was unthinkable that I should keep the baby. And I… I didn’t have the courage to withstand them. I could have managed-left school, found a job. I could have done something.” Hannah’s voice had risen. She found herself trembling again and clasped her arms tightly across her chest. After a moment she spoke again, more calmly. “It was all very discreetly arranged. I went to stay with an aunt. When the baby came my parents took him away, saying they had found a suitable home.”
She turned now to face him, dropping her arms to her sides as if baring herself. “It wasn’t until last March, when my father died and I had access to his personal files, that I found out what they had actually done. My father-he was a solicitor, did I say?-had among his clients a Major and Mrs. Rennie, desperate for a child of their own. Of course my father never told them it was his own grandchild he offered them. All neat. All so very tidy.” Hannah strangled a sudden hysterical desire to laugh. “Do you know the worst thing of all? My father kept up with you all those years, and I never knew it. Your parents sent him school reports, photos of Patrick’s first cricket match, Patrick’s first pony-and I never saw them. To him you were a real person, but I… I never had that privilege.” The words ran down, finally. She had no justification left to offer. For the first time since Hannah had begun she looked at him directly. Not until she saw the white stillness of his face did she realize just how unruffled he’d been when she had more or less accused him of murder.
Silence rang in Hannah’s ears. She wondered when the lawnmower had stopped.
Patrick swallowed. “What… I don’t believe it. You? My mother?” His voice rose incredulously, for once out of control. “You can’t be. You’re too young-”
“I’m not, Patrick. I was practically a child.”
He shook his head. “You can’t-”
“Why would I lie to you? What possible reason could I have for telling you if it weren’t true?”
He subsided for a moment. “But I knew him. Your father. He took Dad and me to lunch at his club sometimes when my father had business in London. I never connected the name. I never dreamed-”
“That he was your grandfather? No, he made sure you wouldn’t.” This final betrayal of her father’s made her feel sick. She closed her eyes. The picture was quite clear in her mind. Her father, genial over cigars and brandy with the faceless Major Rennie, saying, “Don’t tell the boy I arranged his adoption. It might make him feel uncomfortable.” When she opened her eyes Patrick was staring at her in consternation.
“Why now, Hannah? You could have tackled your father long ago. You were an adult with an adult’s rights. And why like this?” He sounded bewildered. “How did you find me? I mean here at Followdale House?”
“I hired a private detective.” She flinched at his look of distaste.
“My god, I don’t believe it. You had me followed? Spied on me-”
“I only had your parents’ address. I couldn’t just go to them and say I wanted to see you. And I wanted some time to know you on neutral ground, no judgements, no biases. I wasn’t even sure I’d tell you.”
“How nice and safe for you. Your choice, once again. What would you have done if I’d been unattractive? Or stupid? Walk away and pretend it never happened, just like you did nearly thirty years ago?” Patrick’s expression was bleak, free of that overlying gloss of charm, and for the first time Hannah saw echoes of her own features. “Why did you decide to tell me, Hannah?”
“I found I had to, in the end. I couldn’t live with not telling you.”
“For the sake of your peace of mind, or mine?”
Hannah had no answer. She stood miserably before him, waiting for what would come next.
“What did you expect from me? Did you think you could just walk into my life after all these years and be welcomed with open arms?”
“Patrick, please-”
“It won’t work, Hannah. There’s nothing to build on. My parents have been
The words that had flooded from her had drained her utterly, leaving her without the strength to speak. How could she Cell this suddenly harsh man how she had loved him all those months she’d carried him? How she had grieved when they had taken him from her? And how could she explain what had happened to her afterwards? It seemed ridiculous, absurd to even think of it. She drew in breath with an effort. “Patrick, I…” The tears she had managed to fight off until now tightened her throat. “You don’t understand. I can’t make you understand.”
“No.”
The silence lengthened until Hannah
“You wanted,” Patrick said, his tone more gentle now, “the impossible. How disappointing for you,” he added ironically, “to find your long-lost son and think him capable of murder.”
“No, Patrick, that’s not true, I never thought that.” Hannah’s voice rose in agitation. “I was afraid for you, afraid things might be difficult for you. I didn’t want you-
“To spoil your image of the perfect son? Kept sleeping all these years like the fairy prince, to wake at Mother’s kiss?”
Her tears spilled now, unheeded. “No, Patrick, please, that’s unfair.”
“I suppose it is,” he said after a moment, “but so were your expectations. You should, as they say,” his smile held no humor, “have left well enough alone.” Patrick studied her, seemed to come to some decision. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”
Hannah watched him lay his hand to the ruined sill, vault over it and walk away from her across the grass.
She sat on the toilet lid, a wet cloth pressed to her face. The tears had finally stopped and she felt drained, with that curious light-headedness that sometimes follows prolonged weeping. It had been years since she had cried like that, the sobs welling up from some place inside her she hadn’t been aware existed. Now she felt oddly peaceful, almost purged.
Patrick had been right, of course. What had she expected? Acceptance? Even love? It had been a fantasy, fed on need. She had created an image of the perfect son to fill some undefined void within herself.
Hannah sighed and dipped the cloth into the basin of cold water. Well, it was finished now. She had done what she set out to do-there was no point in lingering to humiliate herself even further. If the police would let her go, that is. She bathed her face once more with the cloth and then patted it gently with a towel, afraid to look in the mirror. It would be hours before the swelling subsided and she had better tackle Inspector Nash now. Otherwise she might lose her resolve altogether.
Hannah tried Kincaid’s suite first, hoping for moral support, but as she brushed her knuckles against the door, she found she couldn’t face him and turned away. Better to see Nash alone.
The hall was empty, the house silent, and Hannah realized she had no idea of the time. Lunch? Early afternoon? Teatime? The divisions had become meaningless to her. She stood a moment at the top of the stairs, rehearsing what she would say to Nash. Her mentor ill? A rush to return to Oxford, some urgent project at work?
Guilt flooded through her. How could she have forgotten Miles’ illness, these last few days. Not even a phone call to the clinic to check up on him, and after all he had done for her. It was high time she pulled herself together.
She heard no sound. Only the breath of air told her the door had opened behind her. Before she could turn, or speak, she felt a hard shove in the middle of her back.
As the stairs rushed up to meet her, her mind fastened on one small, inconsequential thing-the hand at her back had felt warm.
CHAPTER 15
Suffolk to Sussex to Wiltshire to Oxfordshire, ring around the roses. It made Gemma dizzy to think of the past two days. And tired.
Her clothes already looked as if they’d been slept in and this was only her second stop of the morning.
