Last Chance Marriage. Rosemary Gibson
Clemency’s lips twitched. Somehow she didn’t quite share his optimism. ‘No.’
‘Anna has two cats,’ he informed her, adding grandly, ‘When I’m big, I’m going to have ten cats.’
Who was Anna? ‘Are you?’ Clemency murmured, looking suitably impressed as she guided the two small boys down her front path and up the drive of the adjacent cottage. Originally a farm labourer’s dwelling, like her own, it had been extended by a previous owner but still retained its simple charm.
‘Have you got a dog?’ Jamie took over the interrogation.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be fair to leave it on its own all day while I go to work.’
‘My daddy doesn’t go to work.’
‘He just draws,’ Tommy contributed vaguely.
‘Does he?’ Clemency said casually, determinedly masking her curiosity as she pressed the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door matched the voice she’d heard earlier to perfection. Slight, her dark hair sprinkled with grey, her gentle, serene face evinced momentary surprise and concern.
‘What have you two scamps been up to?’
‘We’ve been next door to see Clemency,’ Tommy announced innocently.
His grandmother frowned. ‘That was very naughty of you both,’ she said quietly. ‘You know very well you’re never to leave the garden on your own.’
‘Forgot.’ Tommy shuffled his feet uncomfortably and scurried into the cottage.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jamie, his small face equally crestfallen, and hurried after his twin.
Pulling a rueful face, the older woman held out a hand. ‘Mary Harrington. Thanks for bringing them home.’
‘Clemency Adams.’ Clemency shook the outstretched hand. ‘I think there must be a hole in the hedge somewhere.’
‘My son’s in the process of refencing the garden so it shouldn’t happen again. I hope they didn’t trample all over the flower beds.’
‘With the state of my garden at the moment, I wouldn’t notice if a herd of elephants had passed through.’ Clemency grinned. ‘It’s just that there’s an old well right at the bottom. There’s a small protective wall around it and a manhole cover, but...’
‘It might prove irresistible for two curious, unsupervised four-year-olds?’ Mary Harrington smiled back. ‘Look, I’ve just made a pot of tea. Have you time to join me in a cup?’
Not wanting to refuse the friendly invitation but reluctant to be discovered ensconced in his home should Joshua Harrington appear, Clemency hesitated and then accepted, following her hostess down the hall into the kitchen overlooking the rambling back garden. Tommy and Jamie, crouched down on their small haunches, were engrossed in a game involving three plastic flowerpots, two sticks and a length of old hosepipe, the rules of which were completely incomprehensible to their two observers.
‘Do sit down,’ Mary Harrington waved a hand in the general direction of the large refectory table, and poured out two cups of tea. ‘Just push some of that clutter to one side.’ she added cheerfully.
Removing a plastic spade and bucket from a stool, Clemency drew it up to the table, carefully depositing a toy fire engine and packet of crayons on top of a pile of papers. Twice the size of her own immaculate kitchen, the comfortable, untidy, sun-filled room was evidently a focal point of family life. Brightly crayoned drawings adorned one wall.
‘Thank you.’ Clemency took hold of the proffered cup and saucer, her mouth curving as her eyes alighted on one of the drawings. Unlike the others, this had evidently been executed by an adult hand. A small boy, easily recognisable as one of the twins, was surrounded by cartoon cats, their almost-human feline expressions indicating their individual characteristics. Lazy, curious, supercilious, artful.
‘Joshua drew it for Tommy.’ The older woman smiled as she followed Clemency’s gaze. Positioning her chair so that she could keep a vigilant eye on her grandsons, she sat down.
‘It’s very good.’ Clemency’s eyebrows furrowed together as she continued to study the cartoon. More than good. Professional. There was something familiar in the style. ‘My daddy doesn’t go to work’. ‘He just draws’. A small suspicion beginning to unfurl in her head, her eyes dropped to the pile of papers on her right, editions of the same national daily she had delivered to her cottage. And each morning the first thing she glanced at was the gently satirical topical cartoon on the front page. Josh. She’d always assumed it was a pseudonym—‘josh,’ as in to tease good-naturedly. But it could equally be the diminutive for Joshua. No. It was all just coincidence. She was adding two and two and making five.
Aware of Mary Harrington watching her, she glanced up and read the confirmation of her unspoken question on the gentle face.
‘I always buy The Best of Josh every Christmas.’ Clemency instantly regretted the unthinking admission, hoping it wouldn’t be relayed to the author of the books that usually dominated the bestseller lists each festive season.
‘I inundate friends and relatives with copies. And always leave one in the waiting room of my husband’s dental practice,’ Mary Harrington confessed conspiratorially, and smiled. ‘Unbeknown to my son.’
Clemency laughed, liking the warm, unpretentious woman more and more by the second, her laughter suddenly dying in her throat as she heard the key in the door. Simultaneously the twins, having evidently heard a car draw up in the drive, hurtled into the kitchen.
‘Daddy’s back...’
As the lean figure loomed in the doorway, they launched themselves joyfully towards him like small, exuberant puppies.
‘Had a good afternoon?’
The gentleness in Joshua Harrington’s voice made Clemency’s heart miss an unsteady beat, her eyes leaping to his face. Mesmerised she watched the uncompromisingly male features warm, soften as he rumpled the two small, dark heads, the cynicism temporarily eradicated from his face.
‘Yes, Daddy,’ the twins chorused enthusiastically, and scampered back out into the garden.
‘Mrs Adams.’
Caught completely off-balance, Clemency flushed slightly as Joshua Harrington acknowledged her presence in his home and turned towards his mother. ‘Dad’ll be back in about an hour,’ he relayed, but the dark, slanted eyebrow clearly enquired, What’s she doing here?
Or perhaps she was merely being super-sensitive, Clemency acknowledged. She was twenty-seven, had been brought up with three elder brothers, been married, her colleagues were predominantly male—and yet this man unnerved her completely. Even during her adolescence she’d never felt this self-conscious in a man’s presence.
‘The twins went AWOL and Clemency brought them home,’ Mary Harrington said peacefully. ‘Tea in the pot. Oh, Lord, the cake!’ Springing to her feet, she moved across the kitchen to the stove at the far end.
‘Thank you.’ The blue gaze flicked to Clemency.
‘I considered simply tossing them back over the hedge,’ she couldn’t resist murmuring with an impish grin, recalling his earlier remark about the football, and instantly regretted it as she saw him frown. She was only joking, for heaven’s sake. Being deliberately flip to conceal her fast-fading composure. Then with an uncomfortable jolt she realised that the flippant remark hadn’t even registered with him; his whole concentration was focused on her face. He was inspecting each delicate feature, her high, fragile cheekbones, wide-spaced eyes, straight freckle-dusted nose with a clinical thoroughness that she was too keyed up to resent.
There was no acknowledgement of her fragile feminine attraction in the shadowed blue depths,