Season Of Mists. Anne Mather
as Rosemount to provide space for all the odds and ends its inmates have collected over the years.’
‘You make it sound like a prison, Aunt Hannah!’
‘It would be, to me. Abby, can’t you see? Can’t you understand? I’ve lived in this cottage almost all my life. I don’t want to leave it now.’
‘Then you’ll have to have a nurse—or a housekeeper. Someone who could take care of you——’
‘I don’t want some strange woman in my kitchen,’ the old lady interrupted her crisply. ‘I don’t want any female telling me what to do in my own home!’
‘But, Aunt Hannah——’
‘It’s no good, Abby. My mind’s made up. And if you’ve come up here to try and change it, you’re wasting your time.’
Abby shook her head. ‘Dr Willis says you shouldn’t be alone.’
‘Then you come home,’ said Hannah flatly. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, not now you and Piers are getting a divorce. Come back to Rothside. I’d employ you. And it would give Matthew the chance to get to know his real background.’
‘I couldn’t!’ Abby was appalled.
‘Why couldn’t you? Oh, I know—because of your job in London. Well, I daresay I’d see you didn’t lose by it.’
‘It’s not that.’ Abby shook her head.
‘No?’ Hannah frowned. ‘You’re tired of working in London?’
‘No.’ Abby hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, Bourne Electronics is going out of business.’
‘It is?’ Hannah looked delighted. ‘There you are, then. Your problems are solved.’
‘No, Aunt Hannah.’
‘Why not?’
Abby bent her head. ‘The Roths wouldn’t like it, you know they wouldn’t.’
Hannah snorted. ‘So what? Since when do I care what the Roths think?’
‘Oh, Aunt Hannah!’ Abby gazed at the old lady helplessly. ‘I couldn’t do that to Piers.’
‘Do what?’ Hannah looked impatient. ‘Living in the south has made you soft, girl! Have you forgotten what Piers did to you? Is Matthew Piers’ son or isn’t he?’
‘You know he is.’
‘There you are, then.’ Hannah’s gnarled fingers clenched. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time he faced the truth? He’s got away with it long enough.’
‘I want nothing from him, Aunt Hannah,’ said Abby quickly.
‘All right.’ Hannah shrugged. ‘I’d be the last person to try and persuade you. But you’re letting him have it all his own way, can’t you see that? Where’s your fighting spirit, girl? What have you got to lose?’
‘I couldn’t do it.’ Abby got up from the table and moved to the window, looking out on the patch of garden at the back of the house. It was sadly neglected now. Where once she remembered a vegetable and flower garden, now there was only grass and weeds, choking the struggling rose bushes, that had survived in spite of everything. Obviously, Aunt Hannah was too old to bend her back to the soil, and Abby, who had badly missed having a garden when she first moved into the flat, wished she had more time.
Hannah, too, got up from the table now, and evidently abandoning her efforts to persuade her, said: ‘What will that young man upstairs want for breakfast? I’ve got eggs, and some home-cured bacon, and there’s plenty of bread and butter.’
‘Oh,’ Abby turned, ‘I’m sure some toast and marmalade would be fine.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’d better go and get dressed.’
Hannah nodded. ‘Very well. And what about you? Don’t tell me you don’t eat breakfast.’
‘Well, I don’t, usually,’ Abby admitted, and then, seeing Aunt Hannah’s impatient expression, she added: ‘But I will have some toast, too. If that’s all right.’
‘Toast!’ snorted the old lady, fetching a loaf of crusty bread from the larder. ‘A plate of ham and eggs would put a bit of flesh on you. You’re nothing but skin and bone, do you know that?’
Abby shook her head goodnaturedly and started up the stairs. The winding cottage stairs opened off the kitchen, with a door set squarely at the bottom to keep out draughts. The cottage had once boasted three bedrooms, but when Abby first came to live with Aunt Hannah, she had had one of the larger bedrooms converted into a tiny bathroom and a boxroom, and it was the boxroom that Matthew was occupying now.
Matthew was still asleep when she peeped into his room, his head buried half under the covers. Obviously the trauma of meeting his father the night before did not weigh as heavily on his mind as it did on his mother’s, and Abby closed the door again and left him.
The water was still cold in the tank, and she had to be satisfied with a chilly wash, before dressing in a cream shirt, made of a synthetic fibre that felt like silk, and a pair of jeans. She brushed her shoulder-length straight hair until it shone, and curved into her nape, and then went downstairs again, without troubling to put on any make-up.
Aunt Hannah had lit the fire in the kitchen grate now. ‘To heat the water,’ she explained, as Abby flicked a glance at the promising blue sky beyond the windows. ‘Now are you sure I can’t persuade you to have a nice boiled egg?’
Abby smiled. ‘You’ve twisted my arm,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ll have a boiled egg. Providing you’ll join me.’
‘Good.’
But as Hannah turned to take a pan from its hook beside the stove, a sudden knocking arrested her. Someone was at the back door, and Abby raised her brows enquiringly as Hannah wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Probably the boy from the farm, wanting to know if I need any more eggs,’ Hannah declared, crossing the room, and then fell back in surprise at the sight of her visitor. ‘Piers!’ she exclaimed, causing every inch of Abby’s skin to prickle alarmingly. ‘Why, come in, come in! You’re an early riser.’
‘When I have to be,’ Piers remarked, stepping into the small kitchen and immediately dwarfing its size. ‘Good morning, Abby. I see you’re an early riser, too.’
Abby remained where she was, sitting by the table. She didn’t altogether trust her legs if she was to try and rise, but that didn’t prevent her from looking at Piers, and renewing the memories awakened the night before.
He seemed to have changed little, except, as she had thought, his shoulders were a little broader. Yet, for all that, his lean athletic frame seemed to show no trace of superfluous flesh, his clothes fitting him as well as they had ever done, and with a closeness that accentuated the powerful muscles beneath the cloth. His hair was shorter than it used to be, though it still brushed his collar at the back, flat and smooth, and as dark as a raven’s wing. His face was harder, his eyes deeper set but just as unusual, their tawny brilliance guarding his expression. His nose was strong and prominent, his cheekbones high and narrow, his mouth at present straight and uncompromising, revealing nothing of the sensuality, he had once shown her. At thirty-seven, Piers Roth was, if anything, more attractive than he had been at twenty-three when Abby had first gone to work for him, and it crossed her mind how unfair it was that he should have evaded his responsibilities for so long.
When Abby did not answer him, Piers turned to Hannah, who was closing the door, and gave her one of his polite smiles.
‘As you’ve probably guessed, Miss Caldwell, I’ve come to see Abby. Would you mind if I had a few words with her—alone?’
‘Not at all.’ Hannah looked to Abby for confirmation. ‘You can use the parlour. You’ll be private enough in there.’
Abby