Читать книгу Modern Romance Collection: March 2018 Books 5 - 8 - Annie West, Robyn Donald - Страница 17

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘MUMMA, LOOK!’

Nicky’s excited voice called to her and Christine finished her chat to Nanny Ruth and paid attention to her son.

They were out in the garden now that spring was here, and Nicky was perched on a bench beside a rangy young man who was showing him photos on his mobile phone.

As Nanny Ruth went off to take her well-earned break Christine went and sat herself down too, lifting Nicky onto her lap. ‘What have you got there, Giles?’ she asked with a smile.

The young man grinned. ‘Juno’s litter,’ he said. ‘They arrived last night. I couldn’t wait to show Nicky.’

‘One of them is going to be mine!’ Nicky piped up excitedly. ‘You said, Mumma, you said!’

‘Yes, I did say,’ Christine agreed.

She’d talked it through with Giles Barcourt and his parents. They were the village’s major landowners from whom Vasilis had bought the former Dower House on the estate. They had always been on very friendly terms, and now, they were recommending to Christine that acquiring a puppy would help Nicky recover from losing his beloved pappou. She was in full agreement, seeing just how excited he was at the prospect.

‘So,’ Giles continued, ‘which one shall it be, do you think? It will be a good few weeks before they’re ready to leave home, but you can come and visit them to make your final choice.’

He grinned cheerfully at Nicky and Christine, and she smiled warmly back. He was a likeable young man—about her own age, she assumed, with a boyish air about him that she suspected would last all his life. He’d studied agriculture at Cirencester, like so many of his peers, and now ran the family estate along with his father. A born countryman.

‘By the way,’ he went on, throwing her a cheerful look again, ‘Mama—’ he always used the old-fashioned moniker in a shamelessly humorous fashion ‘—would love you to come to dinner next Friday. My sister will be there, with her sproglets and the au pair, so Nicky can join the nursery party. The sproglets are promised one of the pups too, so there’ll be a bunfight over choosing. What do you say?’

Christine smiled, knowing the invitation was kindly meant. It would be poignant to be there without Vasilis. But at some point she must start socialising again, and the Barcourts had always been so kind to her. And Nicky would love it.

‘That would be lovely—thank you!’ she exclaimed, and Giles grinned back even more warmly.

She was aware that he was probably sweet on her—as he might have called it, had any such introspection occurred to him—but he never pushed it.

‘Great!’ he said. ‘I’ll let her know.’

He was about to say something else, but at that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the gravel path around the side of the house. She looked up, startled.

A mix of shock and dismay filled her. ‘Anatole...’ she said faintly.

This time there had not even been any warning from her housekeeper. Anatole must have parked his car, heard voices, and come across the gardens. Now he was striding up to them. Unlike last time he was not in a black business suit, nor in a tuxedo as he had been in London. This time he was wearing jeans, a cashmere sweater and casually styled leather jacket.

He looked...

Devastating.

A thousand memories drummed through her head, swooping like butterflies. Like the butterflies now fluttering inside her stomach as he stood, surveying the group. Her grip was lax suddenly, and she felt Nicky wriggle off her lap.

Excitement blazed from Nicky’s face and he rushed up to Anatole. ‘You came—you came!’ he exclaimed. ‘I did that painting! I painted it for Pappou, like you said.’

Anatole hunkered down. ‘Did you?’ He smiled. ‘That’s great. Will you show it to me later?’

There was something about the ecstatic greeting he was receiving that was sending emotion coursing through him. His grin widened. How could he possibly have stayed away so long when a welcome like this was coming his way?

‘Yes!’ cried Nicky. ‘It’s in my playroom.’ Then something even more exciting occurred to him. ‘Come and see my puppy!’

He caught at Anatole’s hand, drew him over to the bench where Giles had got to his feet.

‘Puppy?’ queried Anatole.

He was focussing on Nicky, but at the same time he was burningly conscious of Tia’s presence. Her face was pale, her expression clearly masked. She didn’t want him there—it was blaring from her like a beacon—but he didn’t care. He wasn’t here for her, but for Vasilis’s son. That was his only concern.

Not the way that her long hair was caught back in a simple clip...nor how effortlessly lovely she looked in a lightweight sweater and jeans.

Was her blonde loveliness the reason her current visitor was there? Anatole’s eyes snapped across to the young man who’d stood up, and was now addressing him.

‘Giles Barcourt,’ he said in an easy manner, oblivious to what Christine instantly saw was a skewering look from Anatole. ‘I’m a neighbour. Come to show young Nicky Juno’s pups.’ He grinned, and absently ruffled Nicky’s hair.

Christine saw Anatole slowly take Giles’s outstretched hand and shake it briefly.

‘Giles—this is...’ she swallowed ‘...this is Vasilis’s nephew, Anatole Kyrgiakis.’

Immediately Giles’s expression changed. ‘I’m sorry about your uncle,’ he said. ‘We all liked him immensely.’

There was a sincerity in his voice that Christine hoped Anatole would respect. She saw him give a tight nod.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

His glance moved between her and Giles assessingly. She felt her spine stiffen. Then he was speaking again.

‘A puppy sounds like a very good idea,’ he said.

Was he addressing her or Giles? Whichever it was, it was Giles who answered.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Take the little guy’s mind off...well, you know.’ His glance went back to Christine. ‘I’ll take myself off, then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ll see you on Friday week. Come a bit earlier, so the tinies can have some playtime together and inspect the puppies.’

His glance encompassed Anatole.

‘Dinner with my parents,’ he explained, adding without prompting, ‘You’d be most welcome to join us.’ He smiled with his usual unaffected good humour.

Christine waited for Anatole to make some polite but evasive reply. To her shock, he did the exact opposite. ‘Thank you—that’s very good of you.’

‘Great! Well, see you, then. Cheers, you guys!’ He loped off, waving at Nicky, and disappeared.

Anatole watched him go. He’d wondered who the muddy-wheeled four by four in the parking area behind the house belonged to, and now he knew.

He turned back to Christine. ‘An admirer?’ he said silkily. But beneath the silk was another emotion, one he did not care to name.

Anger flashed in her eyes. Raw, vehement. But she did not deign to honour his jibe with a reply. Instead, she said, ‘What are you doing here Anatole?’

Nearly a fortnight had passed since that second encounter with him in London, and she had hoped that he’d taken himself off again, abandoned his declared intention to have anything more to do with her. With Nicky.

But his next words only confirmed that intention. He looked at her. ‘I told you I wanted to see Nicky again.’

All too conscious of her son’s presence, of the fact that he was tugging at Anatole to get his attention, Christine knew she could not do anything other than reply with, ‘Did you not think to ring first?’

‘To ask permission to see Vasilis’s son?’ His voice was back to being silky. Then he turned his attention back to Nicky. ‘OK, so how about showing me your painting, then?’ he asked.

‘Yes—yes!’ Nicky exclaimed.

Christine took a breath. ‘I’ll take you up. Nanny Ruth is having her break now.’

She led the way indoors. She was trying hard to stay composed, though her heart was hammering. Behind her she could hear Anatole’s deep voice, and Nicky’s piping one. She felt her heart clench.

Inside, she headed up the wide staircase and then along the landing to where another flight of stairs led to the nursery floor beneath the dormer windows.

Nicky’s playroom was lavish—Anatole’s glance took in a rocking horse, a train set, a garage and toy cars, plus a large collection of teddy bears and the like. The walls were covered in colourful educational posters, and the plentiful bookshelves were full of books.

A large table was set by the dormer window, and on a nearby wall there was a wide noticeboard which held a painting of a blue train with red wheels. There were some other paintings pinned up too, and in alphabet letters was spelled out the phrase, Paintings for my pappou. A lot of kisses followed.

Anatole felt his throat close, a choke rising. This was clearly the nursery of a much-loved child.

‘There it is!’ Nicky cried out, and ran to the noticeboard, climbing up on a chair and pointing to the painting.

Then he pointed to the others—a red car, a house with chimneys and a green door, and a trio of stick people with huge faces. Smiling faces. Underneath each of the stick people was a name, painstakingly written out in thick pen around dotted guidelines: Pappou, Mumma and Nicky. The stick people were surrounded by kisses.

‘That’s my pappou,’ Nicky said. ‘He lives in heaven. He got sick. We’ll see him later.’ He cast a quivering look at Christine. ‘Won’t we, Mumma?’

It was Anatole who answered. ‘Yes, we will,’ he said decisively. ‘We all will. We’ll have a big, big party when we see him.’

The quivering look vanished from his little cousin’s eyes. Then they widened excitedly. ‘A party? With balloons? And cakes?’

‘Definitely,’ said Anatole. He sat himself down at the table on the other chair. ‘Now,’ he said to Nicky, ‘how about if we do some more painting. Do you know...’ he looked at Nicky ‘...there isn’t a picture of me here yet, is there?’

‘I’ll do one now,’ Nicky said immediately, and grabbed at the box of paints and some of the drawing paper piled on the table. He looked at Anatole. ‘You do one of me,’ he instructed, and gave some paper and a brush to his big cousin, who took them smilingly.

‘You’ll need some water,’ Christine said.

She went into the bathroom leading off the playroom, which linked through to Nicky’s bedroom next to Nanny Ruth’s quarters. As she filled the jar she swallowed, blinking. But she soon went back, set the filled jar down on the table.

‘Thank you, Mumma,’ said Nicky dutifully.

Nanny Ruth was very keen on manners.

‘You have fun, munchkin,’ she said.

She left the room. She had to get out of there—had to stop seeing her son and Anatole, poring over their labours, their heads bent together—both so dark-haired, dark-eyed. So alike...

She clattered down the stairs to the main landing. How long would Anatole be here? Did he expect to stay the night?

He can’t stay here—he can’t!

Panic rose in her throat, then subsided. No, of course he would not want to stay here. It would not be comme il faut for her to have such a guest, even if he was her late husband’s nephew. Even without anyone knowing their past relationship.

But if he wasn’t heading back to town tonight he’d have to stay at the White Hart in the nearby market town. It was upmarket enough, in this well-heeled part of England, not to repel him, and they should have vacancies this time of year. She realised her mind was rambling, busying itself with practical thoughts so that she didn’t have to let in the thought she most desperately wanted to keep at bay.

Anatole and Nicky...heads together...so alike...so very, very alike.

No! Don’t go there! Just don’t go there! That was a past that never happened. Anatole did not want a child...did not want a child by me...did not want me for a wife...

Emotion rose up inside her in a billowing wave of pain. Pain for the idiot she’d been, her head stuffed full of silly fairytales!

With a cutting breath, she headed downstairs into her sitting room to phone the White Hart, and then let Mrs Hughes know they might have an unexpected guest for dinner. Her thoughts ran on—hectic, agitated.

She rubbed at her head. If only Anatole would go away. He’d kept away while Vasilis was alive. As if she were poison...contaminated. But if he was set on seeing Nicky—who seemed so thrilled that he’d come, so animated and delighted...

How can I stop Anatole from visiting, from getting to know Nicky? How can I possibly stop him?

She couldn’t think about it—not now, not here.

With a smothered cry she made her phone call, put her housekeeper on warning, then got out the file on Vasilis’s foundation and busied herself in the paperwork.

It was close on an hour later when the house phone went. It was Nanny Ruth, back on duty for the evening, wanting a decision about Nicky’s teatime.

‘Well, why not let him stay up this evening?’ Christine said. That way, if Anatole was assuming he would dine here, she would have the shield of her son present. Surely that would help, wouldn’t it?

Some twenty minutes later her housekeeper put her head round the door.

‘Nicky and Mr Kyrgiakis are coming downstairs,’ she said, ‘and dinner’s waiting to be served.’

Christine thanked her and got up. She would not bother to change. Her clothes were fine. Anatole would still be in his jeans and sweater, and Nicky would be in his dressing gown.

She went into the dining room, saw them already there. Anatole was talking to Nicky about one of the pictures on the wall. It was of skaters on a frozen canal.

‘Brrr! It looks freezing!’ Anatole was shivering exaggeratedly.

‘It’s Christmas,’ explained Nicky. ‘That’s why it’s snowy.’

‘Do you have snowy Christmases here?’ Anatole asked.

Nicky shook his head, looking cross. ‘No,’ he said disgustedly.

Anatole looked across at Christine, paused in the doorway. ‘Your mother and I had a snowy Christmas together once—long before you were born, Nicky. Do you remember?’

If he’d thrown a brick at her she could not have been more horrified. She was stunned into silence, immobility.

With not a flicker of acknowledgement of her appalled reaction, he went on, addressing her directly. ‘Switzerland? That chalet at the ski resort I took you to? We went tobogganing—you couldn’t ski—and I did a black run. We took the cable car up, I skied down and you came down by cable car. You told me you were terrified for me.’

She paled, opening her mouth, then closing it again. He was doing it deliberately—he had to be. He was referring to that unforgettable Christmas she’d spent with him and the unforgettable months she’d spent with him—

‘What’s tobogganinning?’ Nicky asked, to her abject relief.

Anatole answered him. He was glad to do so. Had he gone mad, reminding Tia—reminding himself—of that Christmas they’d spent in Switzerland?

I’m not here to stir up the past—evoke memories. It’s the future that is important now—the future of Vasilis’s son. Only that.

He answered the little boy cheerfully. ‘Like a sledge—you sit on it, and it slides down the hill on the snow. I’ll take you one day. And you can learn to ski, too. And skate—like in the picture.’

‘I like that picture,’ Nicky said.

‘It’s worth liking,’ Anatole said dryly, his eyes flickering to Christine. ‘It’s a minor Dutch Master.’

‘Claes van der Geld,’ Christine said, for something to say—something to claw her mind out of the crevasse it had fallen into with the memory of that Christmas with Anatole.

They’d made love on Christmas Eve, on a huge sheepskin rug, by the blazing log fire...

Anatole’s eyes were on her, with that same look of surprise in them, she realised, as when she’d mentioned Vasilis discussing Aeschylus and Pindar with the vicar.

She gave a thin smile, and then turned her attention to Nicky, getting him settled on his chair, then taking her own place at the foot of the table. Anatole’s place had been set opposite Nicky. The head of the table was empty.

As she sat down she felt a knifing pang in her heart at Vasilis’s absence, and her eyes lingered on the chair her husband had used to sit in.

‘Do you miss him?’

The words came from Anatole, and she twisted her head towards him. There was a different expression on his face now. Not sceptical. Not ironic. Not taunting. Almost...quizzical.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you think?’ she retaliated, snatching at her glass, and then realising it had no water in it.

He reached for the jug of water on the table, filled her glass and then his own. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. His mouth tightened. ‘There’s a lot I don’t know, it seems. For example...’ his tone of voice changed again ‘... I didn’t know that you knew about Dutch Old Masters. Or anything about Hellenistic sculpture. Or classical Greece literature. And yet it seems you do.’

She levelled a look at him. There was no emotion in it. ‘Your uncle was a good teacher,’ she said. ‘I had nearly five years of personal tuition from him. He was patient, and kind, infinitely knowledgeable, and—’

She couldn’t continue. Her voice was breaking, her throat choking. Her eyes misted and she blinked rapidly.

‘Mumma...?’

She heard Nicky’s voice, thin and anxious, and shook her unshed tears away, making herself smile and reach for her son, leaning forward to drop a kiss on his little head.

‘It’s all right, darling, Mumma’s fine now.’ She made her face brighter. ‘Do you think Mrs H has made pasta?’ she asked. It was no guess—Mrs Hughes always did pasta for Nicky when he ate downstairs.

‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I love pasta!’ he informed his cousin.

Anatole was grinning, all his attention on Nicky too. ‘So do I,’ he said. ‘And so,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘does your mumma!’

His gaze slid sideways. He was speaking to her again before he could stop himself. Why, he didn’t know. He only knew that words were coming from him anyway.

‘We always ate it when you cooked. Don’t you remember?’

Again, she reeled. Of course she remembered!

I remember everything—everything about the time we spent together. It’s carved into my memory, each and every day!

She reached for her water, gulping it down. Then the door opened and Mrs Hughes came in, pushing a trolley.

‘Pasta!’ exclaimed Nicky in glee as Christine got to her feet to help her housekeeper serve up.

Nicky did indeed have pasta, but for herself and Anatole there was more sophisticated fare: a subtly flavoured and exquisitely cooked ragout of lamb, with grilled polenta and French beans.

There was no first course—Nicky wouldn’t last through a three-course meal and he was eager to start eating straight away—but, again, Nanny Ruth’s training held fast.

Christine put a few French beans on a side plate, arranging them carefully into a tower to make them more palatable.

‘How many beans can you eat?’ she asked Nicky, and smiled. ‘Can you eat ten? Count them while you eat them,’ she said, draping his napkin around his neck—she knew Mrs Hughes’s pasta came with tomato sauce.

She turned back to put more dishes on the table, only to see Mrs Hughes lift two bottles of red wine and place them in front of Anatole.

‘I’ve taken the liberty,’ she announced, ‘of bringing these. But of course there is all of Mr K’s cellar if you think these won’t do—that’s why I haven’t opened them to breathe. I hope that’s all right with you?’

Christine said nothing, but bitter resentment welled up in her. Mrs Hughes was treating Anatole as if he were the man of the house. Taking her husband’s place. But she said nothing, not wanting to upset her.

Nor, it seemed, did Anatole. ‘Both are splendid,’ he said approvingly, examining the labels, ‘but I think this one will be perfect.’ He selected one, handed back the other. ‘Thank you!’

He cast her his familiar dazzling smile, and Christine could see its effect on her housekeeper.

Mrs Hughes beamed. ‘Good,’ she said. Then she looked at Christine. ‘Will Mr Kyrgiakis be staying tonight? I can make up the Blue Room if so—’

Instantly Christine shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. My husband’s nephew has a room reserved at the White Hart in Mallow.’

‘Very well,’ said Mrs Hughes, and took her leave.

Christine felt Anatole’s eyes upon her. ‘Have I?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ she said tightly. ‘I reserved it for you. Unless you’re driving back to town tonight, of course.’

‘The White Hart will do very well, I’m sure,’ replied Anatole.

His voice was dry, but there was something in it that disturbed Christine. Disturbed her a lot.

She turned to Nicky. ‘Darling, will you say Grace for us?’

Dutifully, Nicky put his hands together in a cherubic pose. ‘Thank you, God, for all this lovely food,’ he intoned. Then, in a sing-song voice he added, ‘And if we’re good, God gives us pud.’ He beamed at Anatole. ‘That’s what Giles says.’

Anatole reached for the foil cutter and corkscrew, which Mrs Hughes had set out for him, and busied himself opening the wine, pouring some for Christine and himself. Nicky, he could see, had diluted orange juice.

‘Does he, now?’ he responded. Wine poured, he reached for his knife and fork, turning towards Christine, who had started eating, as had Nicky—with gusto. ‘This dinner party next Friday...tell me more.’

‘There isn’t much to tell,’ she replied, keeping her voice cool.

She hadn’t missed the dry note in Anatole’s voice. But she didn’t care. Let him think what he would about her friendship with Giles Barcourt. He would, anyway, whatever she said. She was condemned in his eyes and always would be.

‘Don’t expect a gourmet meal—but do expect hospitality. The Barcourts are very much of their type—landed, doggy and horsy. Very good-natured, easy-going. Vasilis liked them, even though they are completely oblivious to the fact that their very fine Gainsborough portraits of a pair of their ancestors need a thorough cleaning. He offered to undertake it for them, but they said that the sitters were an ugly crew and they didn’t want to see them any better. Their Stubbs, however,’ she finished, deadpan, ‘is in superb condition. And they still have hunters in their stable that are descended from the one in the painting.’

Anatole laughed.

It was a sound Christine had not heard for five long years, and it made a wave of emotion go through her. So, too, did catching sight of the way lines indented around his sculpted mouth, the edges of his dark, gold-flecked eyes crinkled.

She felt her stomach clench and her grip on her knife and fork tighten. She felt colour flare out along her cheeks. Memory, like a sudden kaleidoscope of butterflies, soared through her mind. Then sank as if they’d been shot down with machine gun fire.

‘I look forward to meeting them.’ His eyes rested on Christine. His tone of voice changed. Hardened. ‘Giles Barcourt would not do for you,’ he said. ‘As a second husband.’

She stared. Another jibe—coming hard at her. Dear God, how was she to get through this evening if this was what he was going to do? Take pot-shots at her over everything? Wasn’t that what she’d feared? That his blatant animosity towards her would start to poison her son?

‘I am well aware of that,’ she said tightly. She took a mouthful of wine, needing it. Then she set it back, stared straight at Anatole. ‘I am also well aware, Anatole...’ she kept her voice low, and was grateful that Nicky was still enthusiastically polishing off his plate of pasta, paying no attention to anything but that ‘...that I am not fit to be the wife of a man whose family have owned a sizeable chunk of the county since the sixteenth century!’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ Anatole’s voice was harsh, as if he were angry.

His expression changed, and Christine saw him take a mouthful of wine, then set the glass down with a click on the mahogany table. ‘I meant,’ he said, ‘that your years with Vasilis have...have changed you, Tia—Christine,’ he amended. He frowned, then his expression cleared. ‘You’ve changed almost beyond recognition,’ he said.

‘I’ve grown up,’ she answered. Her voice was quiet, intent. ‘And I am a mother.’ Her gaze went to Nicky. ‘He gives my life meaning. I exist for him.’

She could feel Anatole’s eyes resting on her. Feel them like a weight, a pressure. She saw him ready himself to speak.

But then, with an exaggerated sigh of pleasure, Nicky set down his miniature knife and fork and announced, ‘I’m finished!’ He looked hopefully at his mother. ‘Can I have my pudding now? Is it ice cream?’

‘May I,’ corrected Christine automatically, her voice mild. ‘And, yes, I expect so. But you’ll have to wait a bit, your...your cousin and I are still eating.’

Had she hesitated too much on the word cousin? She hoped not.

‘It’s odd to think of myself as Nicky’s cousin,’ Anatole commented. ‘When I’m old enough to be his—’

He stopped abruptly. Between them the unspoken word hung like a bullet in mid-air. He reached for his wine, drank deeply, poured himself another glass. Emotion clenched in him, but he would not give it room.

Yet his eyes went back to Vasilis’s son.

The son who could have been his if—

No, don’t go there. It didn’t happen. Accept it. And the fact that it did not was what you wanted.

His mouth tightened, eyes hardening. But by the same token it was what Tia had wanted. And because she hadn’t been able to get it from him—well, she’d gone and got it from his uncle.

In his head, he heard Christine’s words.

You may not have wanted to marry me, to have a child with me—but your uncle did! It was his choice to marry me—

He felt his mind twist. Could it possibly be true? Could his lifelong bachelor uncle actually have wanted a child? A son?

But even if that were true, why take someone like Tia for a wife—of all women! His own nephew’s ex-lover—thirty years his junior! If he’d wanted a wife there would have been any number of women in their own social circle, of their own nationality, far closer to him in age, and yet still young enough for child-bearing.

His eyes went to Christine.

She’d trapped him. It was the only explanation. She’d played on his good nature, his kindness—evoked his pity for my spurning of her, of what she wanted from me.

His mind twisted again, coming full circle. What did it matter now how Tia had got his uncle to marry her? All that was important to him now was the little boy sitting there, who was going to have to grow up without a father. Without the father he should have had.

A loving, protective father who would have devoted himself to his son, made him centre stage of his life, the kind of father that every boy deserved...

Thoughts moved in his head, stirred by emotions that welled up from deep within. He lifted his wine glass, slowly swirled the rich, ruby liquid as if he could see something in those depths. Find answers to questions he did not even know he was asking—knew only that he could not answer them. Not yet.

His eyes lifted, went to the woman at the foot of the table. Her attention was not on him, but on her son, and Anatole felt emotion suddenly kick through him. Gone was the strained, stiff expression she always had on her face when he himself was talking to her, as if every moment in his company was an unbearable ordeal. Now, oblivious of him, she was talking to her little boy, and her expression was soft, her eyes alight with tender devotion.

Once, it was me she looked at like that—

His gaze moved over her, registering afresh her beauty, her youthful loveliness now matured. A beauty that would be wasted unless she remarried.

Instantly the thought was anathema to him. Urgently he sought reasons for his overwhelming rejection of Tia remarrying—or even having any future love-life at all. Sought them and found them—the obvious ones.

I won’t have Vasilis’s fatherless son enduring a stranger for a stepfather. Worse, a succession of ‘uncles’—Tia’s lovers!—parading in and out of his life. Let alone any who crave to share in the wealthy lifestyle that Nicky will have as he grows up—that a stepfather could have too, courtesy of Tia. And Tia could take up with anyone! Anyone at all!

Even if it was some upper-class sprig like Giles Barcourt—there was no harm in a man like that—he’d never make a good husband for Tia...not for the woman she’d become. And besides—another thought darkened his mind,—any man she married would want children of his own, children who would displace Nicky. Yet it was impossible to think she could live in lonely widowhood for ever. She was not yet thirty!

His eyes went to her again, drawn to rest on her as she talked to her son. Thee mou, how beautiful she was! How exquisitely lovely—

Emotion kicked again. Something was forming in his mind, taking shape, taking hold. Yes, she would marry again. It was inevitable. Unavoidable. But no stranger that she married could be the father that Nicky needed. No man could be the father that Nicky needed.

Unless...

From deep within, emotion welled. In the flickering synapses of his brain currents flowed, framing the thought that was becoming real, forcing its way into his consciousness. There was only one man who could be the father Nicky needed. One obvious man...

* * *

Nicky was all but falling asleep as he polished off his ice cream, and Christine abandoned her slice of tarte au citron to go and lift him up, carry him to bed. But Anatole was been there before her, effortlessly hefting Nicky into his arms.

Christine followed them upstairs, her face set. It was hard—very hard—to see Anatole carry Nicky so tenderly, so naturally.

Into her head sounded those bleak words he’d spoken to her that final harrowing morning.

‘I don’t want to marry and I don’t want children.’

Her face twisted. Well, maybe a young cousin was different. Maybe that was OK for Anatole.

Something rose in her throat, choking her. An emotion so strong she could not bear it.

As she settled her son into bed, kissed him goodnight, Anatole stepped forward, murmuring something to him in Greek. Christine recognised it as a night-time blessing, and felt her throat tighten with memory. It was what Vasilis had said to bless his son’s sleep.

And his son had recognised it too. ‘That’s what my pappou says,’ Nicky said drowsily. His little face buckled suddenly. ‘I want my pappou,’ he cried, his voice plaintive.

Instinctively Christine stepped forward, but Anatole was already sitting himself down beside Nicky, taking his hand.

Anatole thought how strange it was to feel the feather-light weight of this cousin of his, to feel the warmth of his little body, to feel so protective of him.

It isn’t his fault that he is now bereft, he thought. Or that his mother inveigled Vasilis into marrying her. None of that is his fault. And if it was truly Vasilis’s choice—however bizarre, however unlikely that seems—to marry Tia, then my responsibility to my uncle’s child is paramount!

But was it just a case of responsibility? That sounded cold, distant. What he felt for this little boy was not cold or distant at all—it welled up in him...an emotion he’d never felt before. Never known before. Strong and powerful. Insistent.

‘How about if you had me instead, Nicky?’ he said, carefully choosing his words, knowing he absolutely must get this right. ‘How about,’ he went on, ‘if your pappou had asked me to look after you for him? Would that do?’

Dark, wide, long-lashed eyes stared up at Anatole. He felt his heart clench. He didn’t know why, but it did. He stroked the little boy’s hair, feeling his throat tighten unbearably.

‘Yes, please,’ Nicky whispered. He gazed up at Anatole. ‘Promise?’

‘Promise,’ Anatole echoed gravely. And it was more than a word. It had come from deep within him.

Yet even as the word echoed he wondered if it could really be true, after his own miserable childhood, that he could make such a promise? All his life he’d resolved never to tread this path—but here he was, dedicating himself to this boy who seemed to be calling to something inside him he had not known he possessed. Had always thought was absent from him.

He watched Nicky’s face relax, saw sleep rushing upon him. ‘Don’t forget...’ were his slurring last words.

‘No,’ Anatole said gravely, stroking the fine silky hair. ‘I won’t.’

He felt his heart clench once more. What was this emotion coursing through him that he had never known he could feel?

A sharp movement behind him made him turn his head. Christine was turning down the night light so that it would give a soft glow, but not be so bright as to disturb. But her eyes were fixed on Anatole.

Anatole was sitting on Nicky’s bed, stroking his hair. And she saw an expression on his face that put barbed wire around her throat.

I can’t bear this—I can’t... I can’t—

She walked out of the room, went downstairs to the hall, pacing restlessly until Anatole drew level with her. She opened her mouth to tell him that he should go, but he spoke pre-emptively.

‘Come back into the dining room—I need to talk to you.’ His voice was clipped, yet it had an abstracted tone to it.

‘Anatole, I want you to go now—’

He ignored her, striding back into the dining room. Christine could only follow. He sat himself down at his dinner place, indicating that she should sit down too.

As if it’s his house, his dining room—

Protest rose in her throat, but she sat down all the same.

‘Well?’ she demanded. Her heart-rate was up, emotions tearing at her. Anatole was looking at her, his gaze veiled, but there was something in it that made her go completely still.

‘You heard Nicky,’ Anatole said. His voice was taut, but purposeful. ‘You heard his answer to my question about taking over from his pappou. You heard it, Christine—heard him say, “Yes, please.” Well...’

He took a breath, and she saw lines of tension around his mouth.

‘That is what I am going to do.’ His eyes flared suddenly, unveiled. ‘I am going to take Vasilis’s place in his life. I am going to marry you.’