Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Relative Sins
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘I AM the resurrection, and the life, said the Lord…’

The minister’s voice went on, the strangely familiar words of the funeral service arousing disbelief as well as numbing grief. The November day was icy, and the crowd gathered about the grave huddled deeper into their dark coats and warm gloves. Sara was fairly sure that they were wishing it were over, not just because of the unhappy circumstances, but because it reminded them of how truly mortal man was.

For herself, she had the feeling that she’d never be warm again. The chill she was experiencing came from inside as well as out. Her feet were freezing and her hands were cold, but she was hardly aware of physical discomfort. It was her emotions that felt as if they were encased in ice.

Thankfully, the ritual was almost over. In a little while she could escape so many sympathetic eyes and grieve in peace. One or two of those in attendance had raised handkerchiefs to their faces, quietly dabbing at their eyes or blowing noses to disguise an errant tear.

Harry’s mother was one of them, and Sara wished that she could feel closer to her mother-in-law. But Elizabeth Reed had never shown any affection for her daughter-in-law while Harry had been alive, and Sara suspected that she blamed her now for Harry’s untimely death.

The little boy standing beside Sara tugged at her sleeve, and she turned at once at the distraction. ‘Stand still, darling,’ she whispered softly. ‘We’ll be leaving soon.’ And then she immediately felt a pang of disloyalty for saying the words. All the same, if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth Reed Ben would not have attended his father’s funeral, and Sara was still of the opinion that her son was far too young to share their grief.

‘But I’m cold,’ Ben persisted, and scuffed his toe at a clod of earth.

‘I suppose we all are,’ Sara replied comfortingly. ‘But, I’ve told you, it won’t be long now. At least it isn’t raining.’ That would have been the final straw.

Ben’s dark head turned to look at the row of cars parked outside the churchyard. Watching him, Sara realised that her four-year-old son hadn’t comprehended the seriousness of the occasion. She’d told him that his father had gone to heaven, that he wouldn’t be coming back again. But she was sure he imagined heaven was some distant corner of his universe, and that in a while they’d all go home.

But where was home? she wondered unhappily, aware that Elizabeth Reed was watching them, and no doubt deploring Ben’s lack of discretion. Certainly not in Brazil, where Harry had died, and definitely not at Perry Edmunds, where her in-laws had always lived.

Tears came, unbidden, to Sara’s eyes and she tried to blink them away. She’d tried not show her grief too openly for Ben’s sake, but now and then the realisation overwhelmed her.

How could the urban guerillas whom Harry had so often negotiated with and trusted have mistaken him for a political opponent? The ambush, on a remote and mountainous section of the highway, had put Harry in the wrong place at the wrong time. The attempted assassination of the diplomat whom Harry had been accompanying had gone tragically wrong, and her husband had not expected to die at the hands of people he had previously befriended.

A bullet from one of the guerillas’ illegally obtained rifles had hit Harry in the neck, and although he had been rushed to a hospital in São Joaquim it had been too late. His life had proved to be just another trophy in the increasing war that was raging between affluence and poverty, power and subjugation in the world today. Ironically, Harry had been working to break down the very divides in the country’s class system he had died for. When they had brought the news to Sara in Rio she had felt his frustration above all else…

‘Will we be going home in that long black car?’

Ben’s question relieved the sense of anguish she was feeling, and she realised that she owed it to Harry’s memory to give her son all the love he deserved. It wasn’t his fault that his father was dead, nor hers—only Harry’s mother found that hard to accept. But she had to acknowledge that that part of her life was over, and she and Ben were on their own now against the world.

‘I expect so,’ she answered him gently, and as she returned her eyes to the coffin it was lowered majestically into the ground. It was left to her to make one final gesture, and, plucking a peach-coloured rose from a wreath, she tossed it swiftly into the grave.

The vicar gave his final blessing and gradually the mourners began to drift away. Some of them—the Reverend Mr Bowden amongst them—approached Sara, and, clasping her hand, offered their sincere condolences. Others, she knew, she would see back at the house—not least the staff at Perry Edmunds, who had loved Harry as their own.

She wondered if any of them found it as difficult to equate the humorous man she had known and loved with the gloomy service in the churchyard. It was hard to imagine leaving Harry here, and she had to remind herself that it was only his body, not his spirit, in the grave. In spirit Harry would always inhabit the warmer places of the world—the villa they had lived in in Kuwait, perhaps, or the sprawling bungalow in Rio.

‘Sara.’

She stiffened.

She’d been expecting to hear that voice ever since she and Ben had arrived in England. She’d actually been half-afraid that he might come to meet her at the airport. After all, she’d reasoned, he was bound to have flown home for his brother’s funeral. Harry had been the only sibling he had.

But only Harry’s father had been waiting in the arrivals hall. And when they’d arrived at the house only Elizabeth Reed had been there. She hadn’t learned until the following morning that Alex was on a filming assignment in Kashmir, and that so far they had not been able to reach him.

‘I’m sorry.’ Alex spoke again, but whether he was apologising for being late or offering his condolences for Harry’s death she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t particularly care, she thought rather bitterly. It would have been so much easier for her if he’d stayed away.

‘I know you must be thinking the worst, but I did get here as fast as I could. Unfortunately I didn’t get into London until after midnight, and I couldn’t get a connecting flight until this morning.’

His explanation was legitimate enough, and Sara had no doubt that he had come as quickly as he’d been able. Bearing in mind his busy schedule, she amended uncharitably. Alex always had lived life to the full.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied now, her expression revealing nothing of the turmoil she felt inside. He’d be gone again in a couple of days, she reassured herself tensely. Until then, surely she could be polite.

‘We’ll talk at the house,’ Alex added, and she was forced to meet his piercing eyes. ‘Just remember—I’m here if you need me. It’s what Harry would have wanted, I know.’

Do you? she thought.

For a moment Sara felt a wave of almost crippling fury sweep over her, and her anger demanded some kind of outlet for its force. But Harry’s parents had joined them, Elizabeth taking Ben’s hand and leading him away, turning them into a family unit which she had no right to break—well, not at this moment anyway, Sara thought grimly. Later they would see. She didn’t need anyone’s help, particularly not Alex Reed’s.

To her relief he seemed to sense that this was not the time to put pressure on her, and although she resented it he accompanied his mother to the car. Watching him talking to Ben in that charming way he had, introducing himself to her son and making him smile, irritated her beyond belief. He had no right to do that, she thought indignantly. Harry’s son meant nothing to him.

‘Come along.’

Harry’s father touched her arm, and she turned to look at Robert Reed with some remorse. This wasn’t easy for any of them, and she had to keep her head until it was over.

‘Don’t think too badly of him,’ murmured her fatherin-law as they walked to where the limousines were waiting, and Sara had no difficulty in interpreting whom he meant. ‘If Newcastle hadn’t been fogbound, he’d have landed here before nine o’clock. As it was, the flight was diverted to Tees-side and he had to hire a car from there.’

‘Well, it is a raw day,’ Sara offered, realising that she couldn’t expect his father to understand how she felt about her brother-in-law. And fortunately Robert didn’t notice anything amiss.

‘I imagine it’s quite a change from the kind of climate you’re used to,’ he commented. And then, as if regretting his implication, he went on, ‘You must think of Perry Edmunds as your home now.’

‘Thank you.’

Sara managed the words of gratitude, but she knew that she couldn’t stay here. Apart from anything else she had to get a job. She had no intention of living on the Reeds’ charity, and she doubted if Harry’s pension would support her. She had been working in London when she’d met Harry, and that was where she expected to make her home.

All the same, as she climbed into the back of the limousine beside Elizabeth and her son she couldn’t help thinking how swiftly things could change. Two weeks ago the most important decision she’d had to make was which wine to serve at dinner. Now her husband was dead, her son was without a father, and the pleasant life they’d had in Rio was just a bitter-sweet memory.

‘Are you all right?’

Her mother-in-law was eyeing her intently now, and Sara wondered what Elizabeth thought she’d seen in her face—regret, perhaps, grief, sorrow certainly, but was she looking for remorse, for a self-reproach that Sara couldn’t feel?

She knew that her mother-in-law blamed her for Harry’s taking his family to Brazil in the first place. Working for the Foreign Office, he could no doubt have requested a posting in London after Kuwait, but the thought of coming back to England after two years spent in the heat of a tropical climate had not appealed to Harry, and it had been his decision to take his family to Rio and prolong their tenure overseas.

‘Besides,’ he’d argued when Sara had felt obliged to make a token plea on behalf of the Reeds, ‘Ben will have to go to school soon, and then we’ll probably settle in England for a while. Let’s enjoy our freedom while we have it. We’ll have years and years of boredom when we get back.’

Sara’s lips trembled, and she determinedly caught the lower one between her teeth and bit it. She didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. She’d handle this in her own way—well, she and Ben together, she thought tenderly. What would she do without her son?

Which prompted the realisation that sooner or later she was going to have to sit down with Ben and explain the situation to him. It was all very well consoling herself with the thought that none of this would really touch him. The fact remained that he had to be made to understand their new circumstances. They weren’t going to have a lot of money, and Ben was going to find living in the small house or apartment that she would be able to afford for them vastly different from the luxurious bungalow that had been his home these last two years.

The sedate journey from St Matthew’s, which lay on the outskirts of the village of Edmundsfield, to Perry Edmunds, the Reeds’ house, only took a few minutes. Without the top-hatted figure of the chief mourner, striding along at the head of the procession of cars, the drivers quickened their pace. Probably as eager as she was, Sara thought ruefully, to leave the churchyard behind.

Was there ever such a contrast as between the heat and colour of South America and Northumberland in the depths of winter? Even the trees were stark and skeletal, the grass a dirty green beneath their feet.

Alex and his father were occupying the seats immediately behind the driver, and despite her best efforts Sara couldn’t help but be aware that Alex was a bare two or three feet in front of her. She’d hoped that she’d never have to see him again, that he’d find the prospect of visiting his brother and his wife boring—and so far he had. And since Harry’s death, she had to admit, she’d wished it had been him…

Ben stared out of the window for most of the journey, and Sara diverted herself by wondering what her son was thinking. Certainly their present surroundings were entirely unfamiliar to a little boy who was used to the overcrowded cities and forever stretching beaches of the southern hemisphere. Yet he hadn’t complained, except for that moment by the graveside when he’d said he was cold. He’d been almost preternaturally obedient, and she could only assume that the gravity of the situation had got to him in some way at least.

She sighed. When they’d boarded the plane to London a few days ago—the plane which had, incidentally, brought his father’s lifeless body home for burial—he had seemed to regard the whole trip as a kind of adventure. He’d been excited about coming to England—a place he didn’t even know. He had been born in the army hospital in Kuwait, Sara remembered tightly. Had Harry sensed how desperate she’d been to get away…?

Now, however, they were back with a vengeance, with no obvious alternative in sight. She really would have to try and explain their situation to Ben. However difficult it might prove, she owed him that at least.

‘You’re very quiet,’ remarked Elizabeth beside her, and Sara realised that Harry’s mother was still waiting for her to say how she was.

‘I’m tired,’ she said, with an involuntary gesture of apology. ‘I haven’t slept very well since we got back.’

‘At least you’re alive,’ remarked Elizabeth in an undertone. ‘How lucky you weren’t with Harry when he was killed.’ The underlying message was clear, and Sara guessed that now that her husband had been buried his mother wouldn’t hesitate to show her claws.

‘Liz!’

Evidently Robert Reed had heard his wife’s comment too, and to Sara’s relief the older woman said no more. But Sara had no doubt that the subject had only been abandoned for the time being. Harry’s mother would probably return to it when they were alone.

The car glided between the gates of Perry Edmunds, and Ben turned round to kneel on the seat. ‘The other cars are following us!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are we going to have a party?’ He drew back to look at his mother. ‘Will Daddy be there?’

‘Your father’s dead, Ben!’ exclaimed his grandmother tautly. She looked at Sara. ‘I thought you’d told him. Where does he think we’ve been?’

‘I don’t imagine he associated this morning’s events with anything, Mother,’ declared Alex impatiently, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know why Sara thought he ought to attend. He’s far too young.’

If Sara had hoped that Mrs Reed might explain that Ben’s attendance had been her idea, she was disappointed. The cars had negotiated the curving drive and were stopping in the courtyard before the house, and Harry’s mother thrust open her door and climbed out. Ben followed her before Sara could prevent him, and she was forced to watch her mother-in-law grasp his hand and lead him indoors.

‘She’s upset.’

Alex’s unwelcome solicitude was almost more than she could take. ‘Aren’t we all?’ she said, hoping Harry’s father would forgive her, and, ignoring any assistance, she stepped out of the car.

Mrs Fraser, the Reeds’ housekeeper, had evidently beaten them back from the church, and was standing at the door of the house now, awaiting the return of the family. She was a middle-aged Scottish woman, dour of appearance but gentle of manner, who had worked for Elizabeth Reed for the past twenty-five years.

Sensitive to the day’s events, she offered Sara a compassionate smile. ‘The little one’s away for some lemonade,’ she declared, referring to Ben’s disappearance. ‘I’ll see that he takes no harm. He can eat his lunch with Alison and myself.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Fraser.’ Sara was grateful, as much to know that her son was not being manipulated by his grandmother as for the housekeeper’s obvious kindness. ‘I expect you’ll find he’s hungry. His appetite hasn’t suffered, thank goodness.’

‘Not like his mother’s,’ observed Mrs Fraser, with rather more outspokenness than was usual. Her lips curved down at her presumption but she didn’t withdraw her statement. It made Sara feel that at least someone at Perry Edmunds cared about her welfare as well.

Once inside the house Sara wished that she could have a few minutes to herself, but the cars that had followed them back from the cemetery were disgorging their passengers, and everyone expected Harry’s widow to be there to accept their condolences.

It didn’t prevent the sense of isolation that enveloped her, however. Despite being surrounded by people, she had never felt more alone. Perhaps she should have kept Ben with her after all, she thought. At least he provided her with the confidence she lacked. But a child couldn’t be expected to understand how she was feeling, and it wasn’t fair to use him in that way.

Blinking back tears which she felt sure must look rather obvious, Sara endeavoured to regain her composure. After all, she’d made it this far; surely she could sustain herself for another couple of hours? This was almost the final ritual. All that was left was dealing with Harry’s will.

She moved closer to the huge open fire that added warmth and light to the somewhat sombre atmosphere of the hall. For all Perry Edmunds was an imposing house from the outside, inside it was inclined to be gloomy, with dark oak panelling and lofty ceilings that never seemed to garner any heat. It had been built in the last century, and such modifications as had been made were mostly superficial. And although it was supposed to be centrally heated Sara hadn’t felt really warm since she’d arrived from Brazil.

But that wasn’t really so unusual, she reminded herself quickly. Apart from the circumstances of her return, this northernmost county of England was a far cry from the corner of Brazil that she and Harry had called home. Naturally she’d noticed the change of temperature—in the inhabitants as well as in the weather, she thought ruefully.

She was shedding her coat and the fine calfskin gloves that she had worn to the funeral when Mrs Fraser reappeared to check on the extra staff hired for the occasion. After ensuring that everyone had been supplied with either sherry or whisky—Sara noticed that most of the men had chosen the latter—the housekeeper stopped beside Sara and assured her that Ben was quite settled in the kitchen.

‘He’s having lemonade and shortbread,’ she said. ‘I made the shortbread myself this morning. Now, just you take things easy. We don’t want you falling ill now, do we?’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

A tall shadow fell across them, and Sara had no need to turn her head to identify the intruder. Where Alex was concerned she was discovering that she had a sixth sense. She would have liked to walk away, but politeness dictated otherwise.

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said, her words addressed to no one in particular, but she was aware that Alex and Mrs Fraser exchanged a speaking look. Dammit, she thought, she wasn’t a child; she didn’t need anyone to fuss over her. And as for asking Alex for help…Well, actions spoke louder than words.

‘I’d better go and see how Alison’s getting on with the salmon,’ declared Mrs Fraser, evidently deciding that her presence was no longer needed. ‘You can tell your mother the buffet is ready, whenever she decides she wants it serving,’ she added to Alex. ‘I just hope there’ll be enough.’ She glanced around the thickening crowd in the hall and grimaced. ‘I’m sure Mr Reed just told me to cater for eighty, but it looks like there’s over a hundred here already.’

A hundred?

Sara glanced about her, realising that many of the people who had thronged St Matthew’s church had come to pay their respects. Because only some of them had gathered at Harry’s graveside she had imagined that they were the only mourners, but now she realised how mistaken she’d been.

She realised also that one of the reasons why Alex had positioned himself at her side was that eventually they would all drift in her direction. At present Harry’s mother and father were doing the honours, but Sara couldn’t expect to remain aloof for much longer.

All the same, she did not need his support…

‘It’ll soon be over.’

His words irritated her for no good reason, and she tilted her head to give him a studied look. ‘For which I’m sure you’ll be very grateful,’ she remarked, aware that she was being ungracious. ‘Tell me, is this one of your flying visits, or can your parents expect you to stay for forty-eight hours this time?’

Alex’s lips thinned. ‘I shan’t be going back to Kashmir,’ he said obliquely. And then, as one of his father’s tenants came to offer his condolences, he added, ‘I don’t think you know Will Baxter, Sara. He and his son run a small printing works in Corbridge.’

For the next few minutes Sara was obliged to shelve any alarm that Alex’s words might have engendered and accept the sympathy offered by a sequence of well-meaning strangers. So many people came to take her hand and offer some personal glimpse of the man who had been her husband that she lost track of names and faces.

But these were Harry’s friends, Harry relations—aunts and uncles and cousins whom Sara had never even met. She had got to know Harry in London, and had visited Edmundsfield only a couple of times before they were married. Harry had told her little about his life here—a fact which her mother-in-law had soon discovered. She was a stranger to these people, just as they were strangers to her.

Perhaps if they’d been married here…she found herself thinking now, and then dismissed the thought before it was fully formed. There was no way that she could have been married in Edmundsfield. For all her brief acquaintance, this village held only unhappy memories for her.

‘And I don’t live here,’ Alex was informing her evenly, and she realised that once again they were alone. Or as alone as any two people could be in such a gathering, she amended silently. But at least his words reassured her. He’d be going back to London if not to Kashmir.

‘I really think I ought to go and check on my son,’ she declared, avoiding any direct answer as he had himself. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

‘I bought Ragdale,’ he said before she could put enough space between them so that she could pretend not to hear. ‘I’ve left the Press Corps. I decided I needed some security in my old age.’

Sara swallowed, though the effort nearly choked her. ‘How…interesting,’ she said, obliged to say something before she rushed away. But the news was devastating, particularly as the Reeds were bound to want to see their grandson on a regular basis. God, hadn’t fate dealt her enough blows already? Was she now to be expected to treat Alex like a friend? Like a brother-in-law, she thought scornfully. A man she’d grown to hate.

When she returned to the hall a few minutes later it was Robert Reed who captured her attention. ‘We’re about to have something to eat,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want to hear that you’re not hungry. There’s scarcely anything of you as it is. Have you been starving yourself to stay slim?’

Sara managed a faint smile. ‘I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not,’ she teased, relieved to find that she felt no sense of intimidation with him. Harry had been like his father, she thought: competent but easygoing, never letting anyone rile him, never losing his temper out of hand. Or his head, she appended somewhat painfully, wishing desperately that he were still here. He’d been her friend, her lover, her anchor—the only man she’d ever known who’d thought of others before himself…

CHAPTER TWO

DESPITE her best efforts, Sara could only manage to eat one sandwich and the crumbled remains of a piece of Mrs Fraser’s shortbread. Even so, the sugary biscuit stuck in her throat, and she found herself drinking more than was wise to try and dislodge the constriction.

She knew that Harry’s father was concerned about her, which warmed that part of her that his wife had so unfeelingly chilled. And at least Alex hadn’t returned to disturb her, though the sight of him, chatting to a tall, elegant woman in her thirties, wasn’t exactly to her taste either.

She’d recognised the woman earlier, when she and her husband had come to offer their condolences. The Erskines—and Linda Erskine in particular—were old friends of the family. At one time Linda Adams, as she had been then, had been expected to marry one of the brothers, but circumstances had decreed otherwise, and Harry’s mother had informed them in one of her letters that she’d married James Erskine instead.

A great disappointment, no doubt, thought Sara now rather maliciously, remembering the way Linda had hung around Alex when she was here. It had seemed only a matter of time before their engagement was to be announced, and she knew that Harry had been surprised that his brother had ducked the issue. But then, Harry hadn’t known what manner of man his brother was…

Sara pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to think about any of that now—not here, not with Harry dead and Alex playing the grieving sibling. But how could he behave so ingenuously, she wondered, as if Harry’s death had devastated him as much as anyone else? He was the man who had betrayed his brother, yet he was acting as if they’d been the best of friends.

All the same, Sara’s eyes lingered on Linda Erskine and her brother-in-law with something less than indifference. The woman’s simple navy blue dress, worn with matching stockings and high-heeled shoes, served to enhance both a graceful neck and the silken ash-blonde hair that Linda wore in a fashionable chignon. There was a brooch at her shoulder which offered some relief from the rather severe outfit, but Sara thought, rather uncharitably, that its expensive setting was a reminder that Linda had married well.

From Sara’s point of view the exquisite emeralds, set in a twisted coil of white gold, were an all too unwelcome reminder of the home she had once had. Beautiful gems like those were freely available in South America, and Harry had offered to buy her an emerald ring for their fifth wedding anniversary.

Sara determinedly put that thought aside and glanced instead at her own appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. The dress she had been forced to wear wasn’t entirely suitable, being too thin for this northern climate. But it was plain and it was black, and she hadn’t exactly had a lot of choice.

The long coat she had worn to the church was infinitely more suitable. She’d bought it in London years ago, and for some reason she’d taken it with her when she moved. Being made of warm charcoal-grey wool, it had hidden the fact that the dress hung rather loosely on her spare frame. She knew she’d lost weight since Harry’s death, and she hadn’t been exactly robust before that. Food had never been that important to her, and since Harry had been killed she’d found it difficult to eat anything.

In consequence she found her comparison to Linda Erskine decidedly unflattering. Despite the fact that her skin was lightly tanned and clear of any blemishes, she was sure that it suffered from a lack of colour. The other woman’s make-up was smooth and immaculate, a distinctive touch of blusher heightening the impression of a perfect English rose.

Sara’s hand crept almost unconsciously to her hair. Unlike Linda’s, Sara’s hair barely brushed her collar at the back. In the heat of Rio de Janeiro it had been more sensible to keep it short, and although its russet strands were thick and shining it lacked the elegance of a longer style. Perhaps now that she was back in England…

But at that point she arrested her thoughts. For heaven’s sake, she thought impatiently, here she was, at Harry’s funeral, and all she could think about was how dowdy she looked when compared with a woman she scarcely knew. What did it matter to her if she looked a frump? She wasn’t here to gather compliments. She was here to bury her husband.

‘Sara? It is Sara, isn’t it?’

The voice at her shoulder was unfamiliar, and she turned almost guiltily to find Linda Erskine’s husband hovering at her side. His appearance caused her to look with some apprehension across the hall, but Linda was still standing with Alex and seemed indifferent to anyone else.

‘I—why, yes,’ she said, forcing herself to concentrate on her companion and not speculate on his wife’s behaviour. Though if she had been James Erskine she wouldn’t have left them, she thought bitterly. Someone should warn him that people weren’t always what they seemed.

‘I should introduce myself,’ he was saying now. ‘I’m James Erskine. Harry’s father and I have been friends for years. I was so sorry to hear what happened. Harry was a fine man and I admired him greatly. You have my sympathy at this most stressful time.’

‘Thank you.’ Sara wasn’t sure whether she should address him as James or Mr Erskine, and as she was having some difficulty in separating him from the rather envious thoughts she had been having about his wife she decided to use neither.

‘It must all be quite bewildering for you,’ James went on, revealing a genuine compassion for her plight. ‘Coming back to Edmundsfield must have been daunting. Not just another country, but a wintry one as well.’

‘Yes.’ Sara managed a faint smile. ‘You forget how cold it can be. I’m afraid I’ve been spoilt for the past five years. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to wear an overcoat.’

James smiled in return. ‘I, on the other hand, know what it feels like only too well. When you get to my age you have to take care of yourself. It wouldn’t do for me to leave my overcoat behind.’

Sara warmed to him. His friendly smile, his obvious willingness to joke about his age, his understanding all commended him to her. When the news of his marriage to Linda had reached them Harry had mentioned that James Erskine must be considerably older than his wife, but at that time Sara had dismissed the fact as being of no concern to her. But now…

‘How’s Ben taking it?’ James asked. ‘I expect he’s finding it a little strange too. Thank heavens he’s so young. He’ll recover so much easier.’

‘I hope so.’ Sara nodded. ‘He and I will have to sort our future out fairly soon. We won’t be going back to Brazil, of course. That goes without saying. But we have to find somewhere to live, and I have to find a job.’

‘Of course.’ A slight frown crossed his face for a moment. ‘Well, if there’s anything I—that is, Linda or I—can do, you must let us know.’

‘Thank you.’ Sara was genuinely sure that he meant it. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘Not at all.’ James patted her hand with gentle warmth. ‘Ah—here comes my wife. I believe you’ve met her. And Alex. I’m sure he must be a tower of strength at this time.’

It wasn’t a description that Sara would have used, but Linda’s intervention forestalled any thoughts of that kind. ‘Darling,’ she said, touching her husband’s hand, ‘we should be going. We don’t want to impose and—Sara!’ Her start of surprise was almost convincing. ‘I do apologise. I hadn’t realised it was you James was speaking with. Let me offer my condolences. It was a terrible thing to happen. You must be quite distraught.’

‘Yes.’ Sara wished that she could respond with as much conviction. ‘I—it was terrible. And so unexpected. Harry thought the men were his friends…’

Her voice was beginning to falter. In spite of herself the strain of the last few hours was getting to her, and the awareness of Alex, standing just behind Linda and listening to every word, was too much. In addition to which there was the unwarranted dislike she still felt for the other woman to cope with, made all the more contemptible because of her husband’s kindness.

‘Well, I’m sure James has told you that if there’s anything either of us can do…’ Linda added, her gracious tone grating on Sara’s nerves. She tucked her arm into her husband’s. ‘Come along, darling. We’ve got the Websters coming at seven, remember?’ She cast a challenging glance behind her. ‘I’m sure we can leave Alex to take care of his sister-in-law.’

‘Naturally.’

Alex’s single word of acknowledgement set the seal on the Erskines’ departure, but Sara was aware that James Erskine cast her another reassuring glance as he allowed his wife to usher him away. And it was some comfort to know that not everyone blamed her for what had happened to Harry. The Erskines were family friends, and could be relied upon to reflect the general mood.

Sara’s concentration abruptly wavered. She wished she could make her departure too. This mannered observation of the required social protocol was beginning to tell on her, and now that Alex had resumed his position at her side she just wanted to be alone.

Watching James and Linda make their way to the door forced her to wonder what kind of relationship theirs was. She had heard of marriages where both partners lived their own lives, only staying together for personal reasons. Was Linda’s interest in Alex only platonic these days, or was she still harbouring regrets of what could and should have been?

‘You seemed to be getting along very well with James,’ Alex observed, and the remark jarred on her already taut nerves.

‘Is that a criticism?’ she countered, her tiredness making her reckless. ‘Don’t judge everybody by your own standards, Alex. James Erskine seems an honourable man.’

Alex’s mouth tightened for a moment. ‘And I’m not?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Sara was quite proud of her look of indifference. ‘I was merely being polite. I liked him. I can see why Linda married him.’

‘Can you?’ Alex was sardonic now. ‘For the same reasons you married Harry, perhaps. Because—life—hadn’t quite worked out as you planned.’

Sara’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You’d like to think so,’ she hissed, and they both knew that they weren’t talking about the Erskines now. ‘Just keep away from me, Alex. I can do without your amateur psychology. Save it for Linda. I’m sure she’s far more interested than me.’

Alex’s fingers closed around her upper arm. ‘Cool it, will you?’ he said in a low, harsh voice. ‘This isn’t the place to have this discussion. I’m sure you don’t want to embarrass the old man.’

‘What old—? Oh, you mean your father.’ Sara made an unsuccessful effort to get free, and then stood motionless in his grasp. ‘Let me go. I have to go and check on Ben again. He’ll be tired. It’s past time for his nap.’

‘He can wait.’ But Alex released her anyway, realising, she was sure, that any possessive moves on his part could be badly misconstrued. ‘Sara, we have to talk, you know. You can’t keep putting it off.’

Sara swung away. ‘I’m not putting anything off,’ she retorted, aware that she was overreacting but unable to do anything about it. ‘I don’t need anything from you, Alex. I never did.’

The kitchen, when she reached it, was blessedly quiet and normal. The mingled smells of newly baked bread and pastry were deliciously familiar, bringing back a score of memories of when she was a child at home.

Unfortunately her childhood had been short-lived. Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was barely ten, and as there had been no convenient relatives to look after her a series of foster homes had followed. At sixteen she had left that kind of protective custody for good and had found herself temporary accommodation in a hostel. With some luck, and a lot of hard work, she had eventually trained as a secretary, and by the time she’d met Harry she had attained the dizzy heights of personal assistant to a rather humble official in the social services.

Which was why Elizabeth Reed hadn’t approved of their association. A fairly ordinary girl from what she regarded as a doubtful background was not what she had had in mind for her son. Linda Erskine had been only one of the contenders. Mrs Reed had paraded a selection of would-be candidates before both Harry and Alex. She’d wanted to ensure the purity of her grandchildren, thought Sara ruefully. Even Ben, enchanting as he was, must give her some doubts.

But now was not the time to worry about that particular bugbear, or about any future bones of contention that she might face about Ben’s education. Both of the Reeds’ sons had gone to boarding-school as soon as they’d been old enough, whereas Harry—and Sara herself—had been adamant that Ben should continue to live at home.

As she shut the kitchen door behind her she realised that her son was not in the room. She had been hoping to see Ben’s cheerful little face, but instead all she saw was Alison, Mrs Fraser’s assistant, wiping down the table where the bread-making had been taking place.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Reed,’ Alison greeted her warmly. ‘I expect you’re wondering where Ben’s gone.’

‘Well…’ Sara arched a questioning eyebrow. ‘I know he can be quite a handful. Particularly when it’s time for his nap.’

‘That’s exactly what Mrs Fraser said,’ declared Alison, straightening from her task and flexing her back tiredly. ‘So she’s put him down for an hour, just to save you the trouble. She’s up there now, as it happens. Reading him a story, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Oh—thanks.’

Sara was relieved. For a moment she had wondered if the two women had let Ben go wandering off on his own. But she should have known better, she reflected. Although Alison was younger than she was, Mrs Fraser had told her that she already had a couple of children of her own, and she was supplementing the rather modest income her husband made as a farm-worker by helping out at Perry Edmunds whenever she could.

‘He’s a nice little boy,’ Alison added now, clearly willing to take a break. ‘Rattles away nineteen to the dozen with us, he does. Been telling us all about where you used to live, and what him and his daddy used to do—’

She broke off abruptly as the realisation of what she had said brought a surge of hot colour to her cheeks. ‘Oh, Mrs Reed!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t mean—that is, I didn’t think.’ She chewed at her lower lip anxiously. ‘What must you think of me?’

‘I think you and Ben must have got along famously,’ said Sara, with a warm smile. ‘And it’s natural that Ben should talk about his father. I don’t want him to feel it’s a forbidden subject.’

‘No, but—’

‘I understand, Alison. I really do. And I hope you won’t feel that you can’t mention Harry’s name to me either. What happened—well, it was—awful. But I have to go on living, and so does my son.’

Alison nodded. ‘All the same, I wouldn’t like you to think…’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Sara reassured her gently. ‘Just go on treating Ben like one of your own children. I’m sure you’re making him feel really at home.’

Leaving the kitchen again—mainly to relieve Alison’s embarrassment—Sara started up the back stairs. She had no desire to rejoin the gathering downstairs, and, although she knew that she would have to sooner or later, for the present she decided that a pretended visit to the bathroom would provide an excuse.

She met Mrs Fraser coming down, and after exchanging a few words about her son with the other woman she continued upstairs. The news that Ben had crashed out didn’t surprise her. She herself was still feeling the effects of the jet lag, and his system was so much more delicate than hers.

She paused on the small landing that overlooked the gardens at the back of the house and gazed somewhat disbelievingly at the view. It had begun to rain a little now; the lawns and the paddock beyond were particularly English in appearance, and it seemed incredible how swiftly her life had changed in such a very short time.

Reaching the main landing, she made her way to the suite of rooms that the Reeds had allocated to her. They had been Harry’s rooms, she knew, when he was alive, and although it was many years since he had lived at home their décor had changed little in the interim. His school sports pictures still adorned the walls of his study, which had been converted into a bedroom for Ben, and the toys he’d once played with had been saved for posterity, though Sara didn’t think they’d interest his son.

The sound of the television was the first thing that Sara heard when she entered her apartments, and she went quickly to the door of Ben’s room. Just as she’d thought, the old black and white set was on, though her son was lying motionless on his bed. She assumed that Mrs Fraser must have left it on for him—for company, perhaps—but as she went to turn off the rather violent cartoon that was playing the boy spoke, startling her.

‘Can’t I have it on?’

Sara swung round. ‘I thought you were asleep. Mrs Fraser said…’

‘I was—for a bit,’ admitted the little boy, hauling himself into a sitting position. ‘But I heard cars moving outside, and I went to see who was leaving, and then I just thought I’d see what was on.’

There was a certain diffidence in this statement, and Sara felt a sense of compassion for the child. He knew better than anyone that his father hadn’t liked him to spend his time glued to the box, and generally he’d been outdoors, either in the swimming pool or in the garden, playing with the children of other members of the mission staff.

But he couldn’t play outdoors here—not right now, at least. It was too cold for one thing, and for another he didn’t know any of the children in the area. In addition to which there was no pool, no tropical gardens, no toys of his own to play with. Their personal belongings were coming by sea and were probably still in the middle of the Atlantic.

Deciding that the rules had to be changed here, along with everything else, Sara’s lips tipped into a rueful smile and she left the television on. It was going to be hard enough for Ben to adjust without her stifling any independence he showed.

She nodded now, grimacing at the images on the screen but not making the mistake of switching channels and expecting him not to notice. Ben was fairly shrewd, and there was no way that she could alter the programme without his approval—not unless she used a heavy hand, which was something she hoped to avoid.

‘Don’t you like the Slime Monster, Mum?’ he asked, wriggling round to look at her, and Sara pulled a wry face.

‘Does anyone?’ she asked. And then, sitting on the end of the bed, she went on, ‘I want to talk to you. Do you think we could turn it off for a while? There’s something I want to say.’

Ben grimaced. ‘I s’pose so.’

‘Good.’ Sara leant across and did just that. ‘It’s difficult to think with that racket going on.’

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s just a cartoon, Mum.’

‘I know.’

‘But you don’t think Dad would like it, hmm?’

Sara hesitated. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. And…’ She paused. ‘It’s about Daddy that I want to talk to you—’ She broke off again. ‘This was his study, you know. When he was a boy. He used to do his homework here.’

‘But Daddy said he went away to school.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Did he have homework in the holidays?’

‘I’m not sure.’ There were times when Sara wished that her son weren’t quite so bright. ‘In any event he kept his toys here. And those are his pictures on the walls.’

‘Mmm.’ Ben looked about him. ‘They’re very old, aren’t they? Sort of yellow at the edges.’

‘Not that old,’ declared Sara painfully. ‘Your father was still a young man when he—’ She broke off once again and swallowed. ‘Ben, can we talk about now? About why we’re here?’

Ben frowned. ‘This used to be where Daddy lived, isn’t it? Before he went to live in Br-Bra—zil? When will we be going back to see him? Didn’t he mind that we came such a long way?’

‘No, he didn’t mind,’ said Sara, wondering how she could possibly tell the little boy that his father had flown back with them. How did she tell him about the shooting? Or convey the finality of Harry’s death? She licked her lips. ‘And…we won’t be going back.’ She chickened out at the sight of the dismay on his small face. ‘Well…not for…not for a while anyway.’

‘We’re staying here?’

Ben was evidently trying to come to terms with what his mother was saying and Sara bit her lip.

‘For a few days, maybe,’ she conceded gently. ‘Then—then you and I are going to find a home of our own.’

‘Without Daddy?’

Sara sighed. ‘Daddy’s gone, Ben.’ She paused again. ‘Grandmama told you that.’

‘Did she?’ Sara didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that Elizabeth Reed’s harsh words had made so little impression on her son. ‘Where’s he gone? Why can’t we go with him? He promised to get me a bicycle for my birthday.’

Sara almost smiled. It would have amused Harry too, she knew, and that made it harder to cope with—that his death should have been reduced to the loss of a bicycle. Yes, that was the real tragedy—that Ben had depended on him for the little things in his life as well as the big ones.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’ll have to see about that. And no, we couldn’t go with him. Daddy’s gone to heaven, with my mummy and daddy. They’re probably watching us at this moment, and saying what a good boy Ben has been.’

‘Are they?’ Ben’s face brightened up. ‘Why didn’t I see your mummy and daddy?’

‘Because they went to heaven before you were born,’ replied Sara with more confidence. ‘Now, why don’t you settle down for a nap? Then you can come and see Grandmama and Grandpapa before supper.’

‘And Uncle Alex?’

Sara stiffened. ‘Maybe.’

‘He didn’t get here until we went to that church thing,’ declared Ben importantly. ‘Grandmama said he’s Daddy’s brother.’ He frowned. ‘He hasn’t gone to heaven too?’

‘No.’ Though Sara thought rather uncharitably that it would have been fairer if he had. Harry had never betrayed anyone. Yet he had been the one to die. She bit back the urge to tell her son not to depend on Alex—for anything—and forced a thin smile. ‘So…we’ll talk some more later. Let me take off your sweater. You don’t need that on under the quilt.’

‘Can I have the television on again? It might help me to go to sleep,’ suggested Ben appealingly, and because it was the lesser of the two evils Sara agreed. She’d rather he was thinking of slimy monsters than his uncle Alex, though, come to think of it, she appended grimly, they had a lot in common.

She pulled his door to behind her and then spent a few minutes attending to her own appearance. Perhaps if she’d worn a brighter lipstick she wouldn’t have looked so colourless, she mused doubtfully. But what did it matter anyway? She didn’t care what anyone but Harry thought.

The room was cool, even though a check on the heavy old iron radiator elicited the information that it was working. But in a room of this size two or more radiators were needed, and she was almost glad to seek the comparative warmth of the hall outside.

Going down the main staircase this time, she was aware of the draught of cooler air from the open doors. The guest—mourners—were leaving, and the dampness from outside was spreading into the house.

‘Oh, there you are, Sara!’ exclaimed Elizabeth Reed, making her way towards her, her expression mirroring the disapproval that was evident in her voice. ‘I think you might have stayed around a little longer. We all appreciate your position, but it would have been more polite.’

‘I went to check on Ben,’ said Sara stiffly, trying not to resent the older woman’s attempts to put her in her place. Mrs Reed was suffering; that was obvious. Harry had been their older son, and it always hurt to lose one’s child—of any age.

‘Even so…’

The presence of remaining friends and neighbours prevented a prolonged protest, and Elizabeth’s face resumed its gracious expression as she bid them goodbye. When remarks were addressed to Sara she offered her daughter-in-law regretful sympathy, and only she and Sara were aware of how insincere it was.

Alex was standing with his father, and for a brief moment Sara glimpsed the sorrow in his face. For all her own resentment towards him, she couldn’t help but be aware of his feelings, and despite the animosity she felt towards him she couldn’t deny a certain sympathy for his grief. Harry had been his brother, after all, and during the early years of their life they had spent a lot of time together.

Ironically enough, for all that he had been the elder, Harry used to say that it had been Alex who had defended him in times of schoolboy rivalry, which wasn’t so surprising when you considered that Alex was probably two or three inches taller than his brother had been, and infinitely more muscular.

Feeling suddenly weary, Sara waited until the last guest had departed and then said carefully, ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to have a rest before supper too.’ She moistened her lips. ‘I suppose it’s partly the jet lag, but right now I feel really…exhausted.’

Robert Reed came to her support. ‘Of course we don’t mind, Sara,’ he said, forestalling whatever comment his wife had been about to make. ‘It’s been a hard day for all of us. I’m sure we’d all appreciate a little time on our own.’

‘Is Ben all right?’

Alex’s unexpected question disconcerted her, and Sara turned to look at him with guarded eyes. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t he be? I’m hoping most of this has gone over his head.’

‘Is that why you let him attend the funeral service?’ enquired Alex coolly, and this time there was no way that Sara was going to take the blame.

‘That wasn’t my idea. It was your mother’s,’ she replied stiffly, ignoring Elizabeth Reed’s reproving glare. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room. As your father says, I would appreciate some time to myself.’

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN Sara opened her eyes again it was daylight—and not the grey, rain-washed twilight of a winter’s afternoon but, if she wasn’t mistaken, the brightness of a crisp November morning. Although she could hardly believe it, it seemed that she—and possibly Ben too—had slept for almost sixteen hours, and a glance at her watch confirmed as fact what an unfamiliar sense of optimism was telling her.

And she did feel rested, wonderfully so. Despite the fact that she had slept in her clothes, with just the fluffy feather duvet pulled over her, she felt thoroughly revitalised. More than ready to face whatever was in front of her, she thought. And infinitely more equipped to take control of her life.

And her son’s, she appended vigorously, thrusting back the duvet and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Last night she hadn’t even felt the hard springs of the mattress, which she’d blamed for the poor rest she’d had thus far.

But when she thrust open the door to her son’s bedroom his bed was empty. There was the imprint of his head upon the pillow, and when she hurried to touch the mattress it still felt warm, but of Ben there was no sign, and her heart accelerated uneasily. Dear heaven, it was barely half past seven. Where on earth could he be?

Telling herself not to panic, she went back into the larger room and struggled to find the shoes she had discarded the previous afternoon. She could hardly go looking for her son in her stockinged feet, even if her racing pulse was telling her to do exactly that.

She was running a hasty comb through her hair when someone tapped at the door. ‘Come in,’ she called at once, hardly daring to believe that it might be Ben playing a game. And it wasn’t; it was Mrs Fraser, carrying a tray of morning tea and looking decidedly surprised to find Sara out of bed.

‘Och, the little one said you were still asleep!’ she exclaimed, and Sara saw the faintly puzzled glance she cast over her attire. She was probably wondering whether Sara intended to wear the black dress until it dropped off her, the younger woman thought ruefully. But her mention of Ben was reassuring, and Sara hurriedly put down the comb.

‘You’ve seen Ben?’

‘Well, yes.’ Mrs Fraser put the tray down on the bedside table and turned to nod consideringly. ‘He was up and about half an hour ago. He came down to the kitchen to tell me he’d had enough sleeping time and he was hungry.’

Sara relaxed. ‘Thank heavens.’ She glanced down at the creased black dress and grimaced. ‘I was coming to look for him, actually. I was afraid he might have ventured outside on his own.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Fraser’s response was understanding. ‘Well, you’ve no need to worry. The little one’s in safe hands. His uncle Alex was up at the crack of dawn himself, and he’s taken the youngster down to the stables.’

‘Alex?’

Sara’s reaction was only belatedly controlled, but she thought Mrs Fraser hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

‘Yes. The two of them settled for a bowl of my porridge and a mug of coffee, and then hied themselves off to see Dragonfly’s filly.’

Sara swallowed. ‘Dragonfly’s a horse, right?’

‘A mare,’ agreed Mrs Fraser comfortably. ‘The filly’s sire is Dream Maker—young Alex’s stallion. He was telling the lad about it and Ben fairly begged to see it.’ She chuckled. ‘He reminds me of his uncle, he does. Wants things yesterday, if not sooner.’

Sara endeavoured to speak calmly. ‘Wasn’t…wasn’t Harry like that too? When he was younger?’

Mrs Fraser sensed that she had been a little insensitive, and offered Sara a rueful look. ‘Bless you, no,’ she said. ‘Harry was always the patient one. The nicestnatured boy I ever met. That was your young man.’

Another thought struck Sara. ‘Last night—that is…Ben didn’t get up again either, did he?’

‘No.’ Mrs Fraser rested her hands on her hips. ‘Both of you were sleeping as sound as tops when Alison looked in on you. That would have been about a quarter to eight last evening. When Mrs Reed was anxious to get supper over.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Sara could imagine that that was another black mark against her, but it was too late to worry about it now. She had more immediate worries to deal with—not least her son’s apparent attachment to his uncle. Why couldn’t he have attached himself to his grandfather—or even his grandmother, if he had to?

‘Not to worry,’ declared the Scots housekeeper staunchly. ‘There’s worse things than missing a meal, particularly when…Well, least said, soonest mended—that’s what I always say. But you must be hungry yourself now. How’d you like a couple of nice poached eggs on toast, with some of Alison’s jam to follow?’

‘Well…’

‘I could bring it up for you, of course,’ went on the housekeeper. ‘And maybe you’d prefer a pot of coffee as well. Something warming to start the day. You’ll cope with everything so much better if you have some food inside you.’

Sara hesitated. Despite what she’d like to do, there was no way that she could go rushing after Ben and Alex without creating something of a fuss. Besides, where was the harm, for heaven’s sake? Alex was the boy’s uncle. Maybe he was beginning to regret that he hadn’t married too.

And the idea of shedding her clothes and taking a hot shower while Mrs Fraser prepared her breakfast was appealing. Even the food sounded almost palatable. Good old British eggs that didn’t swim in water on your plate.

‘Why not?’ she conceded at last, approaching the tea-tray with some affection. ‘You’re spoiling me, Mrs Fraser. I’m going to have to get used to managing on my own.’

Mrs Fraser hesitated herself now, then went to the door. But then, as if compelled to say something, she paused. ‘Now, I don’t imagine Mr and Mrs Reed will let that happen,’ she declared, unaware of how disturbing her words were to Sara. ‘That little boy’s their grandson. They won’t want to let him out of their sight.’

A cup of tea and a revitalising shower later, Sara was more prepared to view the Scotswoman’s words without distress. Goodness, Mrs Fraser had no idea how the Reeds felt, or their daughter-in-law either. If Sara chose to move away there was nothing anyone could do about it.

In consequence she made a fairly creditable attempt at the poached eggs she found waiting for her, warm beneath a silver dome. Because she didn’t want the food to get cold she merely pulled a Paisley-patterned wrapper about her before tackling her breakfast, and she was enjoying her second cup of coffee when Ben burst through the door.

‘Mum! Mum!’ For all that she had warned him a dozen times at home in Rio not to run about the villa, when he was excited he still forgot to control his feet. He bounded into the room, an excited bundle of cold air and enthusiasm, coming to a halt abruptly when he saw that she was sitting on the bed. ‘Mum, can I go out with Uncle Alex on a horse?’

Sara’s brief sense of sanguinity dispersed. ‘How many times—?’ she began, choosing the least controversial response she knew of, and then caught her breath abruptly at the sight of the man who had paused by the open door.

‘A pony, actually,’ said Alex evenly, propping one broad shoulder against the frame. ‘Good morning, Sara. You look…rested. Mrs Fraser said you were awake.’

Sara’s lips tightened. ‘But not prepared for visitors,’ she said through teeth that threatened to split her tongue. ‘Close the door, if you don’t mind. I’m sure we can discuss this later. And Ben, your shoes are dirty. Get off the bed.’

Alex looked as if he might say something rather unpleasant, but courtesy—or merely iron control—won the day. With a faint smile he reached into the room and swung the door towards him, stepping out of its way as it thudded against the jamb.

‘Oh, Mum!’ Ben’s reaction was much less restrained, his eyes sparkling instantly with unshed tears. ‘Mum, I want to go now. Uncle Alex said I can if you’ll let me.’ He sniffed. ‘Now you’ve gone and spoiled everything. I ‘spect he’s gone away.’

‘He’s gone downstairs, Ben, that’s all,’ said Sara, with rather less tolerance than she usually showed for her son’s distress. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t expect to burst in here and get your own way, all without even wishing me good morning. You shouldn’t have left these rooms without my permission. I told you that when we first arrived.’

‘You were asleep,’ said Ben sulkily, scuffing what looked suspiciously like a smear of manure against the cinnamon-coloured pile of the carpet.

‘Don’t do that!’ exclaimed Sara shortly. ‘And have you had a wash this morning?’ She frowned. ‘I bet you haven’t even cleaned your teeth, have you? What would your grandmother think?’

‘I don’t care,’ mumbled Ben, pushing himself away from the bed and dragging his feet across the floor. ‘Uncle Alex didn’t care if I’d had a wash or not. And nor did Dragonfly or her foal.’

Sara sighed. ‘All the same…’

Ben paused by the window. Drawing the curtain aside, he hunched one shoulder against the wall. Just like Alex, thought Sara helplessly. God, the sooner they left the better.

‘Anyway,’ she said, feeling obliged to try and rectify whatever damage Alex had done, ‘I thought you and I might go shopping this morning. You haven’t been to Newcastle. You never know, Father Christmas may have arrived.’

‘Father Christmas?’ Ben turned, trying to sound indifferent but not quite succeeding. ‘Where?’

‘At one of the stores in Newcastle,’ declared Sara, hoping that she wasn’t being premature. ‘I know he used to turn up in London about this time. I don’t see why it should be any different here.’

Ben frowned. ‘But how can he be in London and Newcastle?’ he exclaimed. ‘You said London’s a long way from here.’

‘It is.’ Sara finished her coffee, put the cup back on the tray and got to her feet. ‘But Father Christmas is magic, isn’t he? He can be everywhere, not just in one place.’

‘Like God?’

Ben could be painfully logical when he chose, and Sara half wished she hadn’t started this. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not like God. God lives in heaven. Father Christmas lives at the North Pole. With all the fairies and elves.’

Ben trudged back to the bed. ‘Is Daddy with God?’ he asked, and Sara realised that in explaining one problem she had created another. ‘Uncle Alex says that Daddy won’t be coming back. That he and Grandmama and Grandpapa are our family now.’

Sara expelled an uneven breath. ‘Did he?’ she said, wishing that Alex would just leave them alone. ‘Well, of course they are. But not like Daddy and me and you. We—’ she pointed a finger at the little boy’s jersey and then at herself ‘—have to stick together. You’d like us to have a home of our own, wouldn’t you? Just like we had before?’

Ben looked at her with solemn eyes. ‘But it’s not like it was before, is it?’ he said, as if it were she who didn’t understand. Then, with a sudden switch, he begged wheedlingly, ‘Can’t I go riding with Uncle Alex? I don’t like shopping. I’d rather stay at home.’

The words This isn’t your home! trembled on Sara’s tongue, but she managed to restrain them. It was going to be hard enough dealing with Elizabeth Reed with Ben on her side. It would be impossible if she alienated him as well.

‘We’ll see,’ she managed at last, as if there were all the time in the world to decide—and with that Ben had to be content. But he fussed about her as she was changing, evidently eager to resume his budding friendship with his uncle.

Using the tray as an excuse, Sara chose to use the back stairs to reach the kitchen, with Ben fretting at her heels. With a bit of luck Alex would have got tired of waiting and departed. She remembered Harry telling her that his brother was keen on horses, though these days he was seldom at home.

Which reminded her of something Alex had said the day before, and which until now had remained dormant. He’d said he’d bought Ragdale! What was she supposed to think of that?

As she had expected, there was no sign of Alex in the kitchen, and when Ben demanded to know where he’d gone Mrs Fraser couldn’t tell him. ‘He may have gone over to the Erskines’,’ she said thoughtfully. And to Sara she added, ‘He sometimes goes for a swim in their pool. Mrs Erskine—she’s always glad of the company. That husband of hers works every hour God sends.’

Ben’s face dropped. ‘But he was going to take me for a ride,’ he protested loudly, tears again not far from being shed. He turned to his mother as if it was her fault—which, strictly speaking, Sara supposed it was—and sniffed dejectedly. ‘Now what am I going to do? You should have let me go.’

Mrs Fraser arched an enquiring brow, but Sara was beginning to feel besieged and she had no intention of explaining herself to the housekeeper. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘You haven’t said good morning to your grandmother. Is she in the morning room, Mrs Fraser?’

‘No, Mrs Reed. She’s not up yet, I’m afraid. These days Mrs Elizabeth tends to take things more easily. She’s almost sixty, you know, though she wouldn’t like me to say so.’

Almost sixty! Of course; Sara supposed she must be. Yet when she had first come here Harry’s mother had seemed so much younger than fifty-four. But time, and Harry’s death, had to have taken their toll of his parents as much as anyone, and she decided that she must try to be more charitable when dealing with her mother-in-law.

Ben hunched his shoulders. ‘I’d have liked to go swimming too,’ he muttered, drawn again to his own grievances. ‘Where do the Erskines live?’ He looked up at his mother. ‘Couldn’t we go and find him? I bet he wouldn’t mind. He said he wished he had had a boy like me.’

Sara’s mouth dried at these words, but it was easier to address his earlier complaint. ‘I don’t think Mrs Erskine would be terribly pleased to see us, Ben,’ she declared crisply. And, at Mrs Fraser’s questioning look, she went on, ‘She doesn’t have any children of her own, does she?’

‘Did Alex tell you that?’ Mrs Fraser folded her arms, as she was inclined to do when she had some pearl of wisdom to impart. ‘No, the Erskines don’t have any family. But I hear it was a definite decision on their part.’

Sara’s lips parted. The temptation to ask what the other woman meant by that remark was appealing, but she had no wish for her curiosity to be passed on. She could just imagine Elizabeth Reed’s indignation if she learned that her daughter-in-law had been gossiping with the servants, and although Mrs Fraser was trustworthy her opinions weren’t always discreet.

‘Oh, well,’ Sara said now, grasping Ben’s hand firmly and heading towards the hall door. ‘We’ll just have to go shopping, as I suggested. Are there any buses to Newcastle, Mrs Fraser?’

‘There are.’ But Mrs Fraser looked doubtful about this. ‘Perhaps you should see what Mrs Elizabeth says. I don’t think she’d expect you to use the buses. If you’re set on going shopping, someone should take you in the car.’

‘I can drive, Mrs Fraser.’ Sara was trying hard not to feel resentful. Was she really expected to clear all her movements with Harry’s mother? She could feel her bid for independence slipping away. ‘Perhaps I could borrow a car instead?’

Mrs Fraser was looking increasingly anxious, and, realising that she couldn’t expect any satisfaction from this source, Sara made some remark about going to find Mr Reed and left the room. Surely Robert Reed didn’t stay in bed until mid-morning? Harry had told her that even though he was semi-retired Robert played an active role in the administration of the estate.

She was crossing the hall and reminding herself that she must remember to wear a sweater over her shirt when the front door opened. Ben’s accompanying tirade was immediately cut off as the object of his recriminations came casually into the house. Still wearing the black jeans and leather jacket that he had worn to her room earlier, Alex brought with him the sharp air of the morning and a not unpleasant scent of the outdoors.

‘Uncle Alex, Uncle Alex!’ Dragging his hand out of his mother’s grasp, Ben darted to meet him, looking up at the man delightedly, as if he were some kind of god. It was obvious that the boy was missing his father, but did he have to treat Alex so affectionately? wondered Sara with a sense of gloom. It made her feel like the wicked stepmother in some silly Victorian melodrama.

‘Now, then.’ Alex greeted his nephew with an equal amount of affection, swinging the child up into his arms and grinning into his excited face. ‘Does this mean we can go riding? Have you got your mother’s permission at last?’

‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Sara tersely, the sight of the boy and man together doing unpleasant things to her insides. ‘I—Ben and I are going shopping. We need warmer clothes than those we’ve got at present.’

Ben’s cry of outrage only narrowly missed being echoed by his uncle. ‘Shopping?’ he exclaimed. ‘Can’t you go shopping tomorrow? It’s a beautiful morning. It’s a shame to waste it going into town.’

Sara’s lips tightened. ‘Nevertheless—’

‘Nevertheless—what?’ Alex’s expression had hardened somewhat. ‘Is it really necessary to punish the child because you’re angry with me? I’ve said we need to talk, and I mean it. So don’t make me say something now we’ll both regret.’ He paused. ‘I’ll ask again; may I take Ben out for an hour or so this morning? I’m sure you can find other things to do.’

Sara’s resentment was crippling, but there was no mistaking the threat in Alex’s voice. She didn’t know exactly what he meant—what he knew—but she couldn’t risk him saying anything controversial in front of her son. ‘I…Oh, very well.’ She gave in ungraciously. ‘But I shall hold you personally responsible for his safety; is that understood?’

‘Of course.’ Alex’s dark eyes were vaguely sardonic.

‘And…and how come you’ve got a pony for him to ride? I thought your father only bred hunters.’

‘He does.’ Alex set Ben on his feet and then regarded her steadily. ‘We’re boarding it while the bailiff’s son and his family are away. Don’t worry. I’ll see Ben comes to no harm. He is the parents’ only grandchild, after all.’

Sara turned away. She didn’t need a reminder that, for all that she had longed desperately for another child, there had been no more pregnancies after Ben. Not that Harry had ever reproached her, she remembered. On the contrary, he had always assured her that he was content with the child they had. But then, Harry had always been there for her, in whatever way she needed him…

‘He’ll need to wear something warm.’

Alex’s voice followed her as she moved across the polished floor, and she glanced round, beckoning Ben to come to her side. ‘He doesn’t have a hat,’ she said, her voice clipped and flat. ‘I thought that was essential before you got on a horse.’

‘It’s a pony, Mum!’ exclaimed Ben, but Alex’s reply overrode him.

‘He can borrow Robin’s. I’m pretty sure it will fit. Robin’s only eight, you see. And rather small at that.’

‘Come on, Mum!’

Ben’s impatience was showing, and despite her reluctance she allowed him to tug her towards the stairs. ‘You—you will look after him, won’t you?’ she demanded at last. She twisted her hands together. ‘He’s never been on a horse before. Harry—Harry was never very interested in—in animals.’

‘I know.’ Alex’s eyes were guarded. ‘He was my brother for twenty-eight years before he was your husband. I knew everything there was to know about him. Including his weaknesses…but I don’t suppose you want to hear about them.’

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