Читать книгу Relative Sins - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

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.’