Anne Mather - Innocent Sins

‘I will.’

Oliver patted the old man’s shoulder in passing, and then, after a regretful thought about the photographs he’d planned to process tomorrow, he picked up his keys and started for the door.

LAURA shivered.

Despite the heat that was still emanating from the old Aga in the corner, the kitchen at Penmadoc was decidedly chilly tonight. The cold struck up through the soles of her mules and she wondered why Stella hadn’t had the stone floor removed and modern tiles installed in their stead. She could guess why, of course. The kitchen was still Aunt Nell’s domain and even Stella baulked at locking horns with her. Besides, she doubted if Stella ever entered the kitchen except to issue orders. Domestic duties and cooking had never appealed to her stepmother.

But it was a relief to find that some things at Penmadoc hadn’t changed when so much else had. Her father was dead. Impossible to believe, but it was true. Stella was the mistress of the house now. Laura was only here on sufferance.

Was it really only six months since she’d seen her father in London? He’d seemed as hale and hearty as ever, if a little more boisterous than usual. She’d put that down to his usual high spirits at seeing her again, but she wondered now if it had been a screen for something else. Stella had said that she’d known nothing about him having any heart trouble, but he could have been hiding it from her, as well.

Her stomach quivered. If only she’d known. If only she’d had some premonition that all was not as it should be. But although her grandmother had been a little fey, as they said around here, and had occasionally been able to see into the future, Laura never had. Whatever powers she’d possessed had not been passed on to her granddaughter.

According to her stepmother’s version of events, her father’s attack had been totally unexpected. He’d apparently been out riding earlier in the day. Although he hadn’t been a member of the local hunt, he’d always enjoyed following the hounds and, despite the fact that snow had been forecast, he’d ridden out that morning as usual.

Then, also according to Stella, he’d arrived home at three o’clock, or thereabouts, and gone straight to his study. She’d found him there a couple of hours later, she said, slumped across his desk, the glass of whisky he’d been imbibing still clutched in his hand.

Laura expelled a trembling breath. She hoped he hadn’t suffered. When she’d spoken to her boss at the publishing house where she worked in New York, he’d said that it was the best way to go. For her father, perhaps, she thought now, but not for the people he’d left behind. Aunt Nell had been devastated. Like Laura herself, she could see the writing on the wall.

She shivered again as tears pricked behind her eyelids, and, dragging the folds of her ratty chenille dressing gown closer about her, she moved nearer to the hearth. Thank heavens they still used an open fire in winter, she thought, hunching her shoulders. There were still a few embers giving out a tenuous warmth.

She sighed and glanced about her. She’d come downstairs to get herself a glass of hot milk because she couldn’t get to sleep. She was still on eastern standard time and, although it was after midnight here, it was still early evening in New York. She’d decided a warm drink might help, but the milk was taking so long to boil. Perhaps she should have looked for a hot-water bottle and filled that. At this rate, she’d be frozen before she got back to bed.

She started suddenly as an ember shifted in the hearth. At least, she thought it was an ember. There had definitely been a sound like something falling either in here or outside. She was feeling particularly edgy this evening and she was very aware of being alone downstairs. With the snow falling heavily outside, Penmadoc had an air of expectancy that was hard to ignore.

The milk came to the boil at the exact moment that someone tried the outer door. The sound was unmistakable, the latch rattling as it had always done when the bolt was still in place. Laura’s breath caught in her throat and she was hardly aware that the pan was boiling over until the hob started sizzling and the acrid smell of burnt milk filled the room.

‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, dragging the pan off the heat. But she was more concerned about who might be trying to get into the house at this time of night. As she listened, she was almost sure a masculine shoulder was applied to the door-frame, and while she stood there, frozen into immobility, an audible curse accompanied another assault on the latch.

Breathing shallowly, Laura left the smoking pan on the Aga and edged towards the long narrow lobby that opened off the kitchen. There was no door between the kitchen and the passage where boots and coats and other outdoor gear occupied a row of pegs. Stella called it the mudroom, but that was just an affectation. It was a lobby, plain and simple, that protected the kitchen from the immediate chill when you opened the outer door.

Breathing shallowly, Laura sneaked a look into the passage. There was definitely someone outside: a man, judging by the muffled oaths she could hear even through the door. But human, she assured herself, despising her timidity. Pushing away from the archway into the kitchen, she stepped nervously into the passage.

‘Who’s there?’ she called sharply, consoling herself with the thought that the door was apparently impregnable.

‘Who the hell do you think it is?’ the man snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear the Jeep?’

‘The Jeep?’ Laura frowned. She hadn’t known anyone was expected tonight. ‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’

‘What?’ His incredulity was audible. ‘Open the door, Ma, and stop f—mucking about.’

Ma!

Laura’s stomach clenched. Oh, no, it couldn’t be. Not tonight, not when she was wearing this old dressing gown that she’d found at the back of the closet upstairs. She’d put it on for comfort, because her father had bought it when she was a teenager. But it wasn’t particularly clean or flattering, and it clashed wildly with her hair.

‘O—Oliver?’ she ventured weakly, realising that she’d have to admit him, and he seemed to become aware that she wasn’t his mother, after all.

‘Laura?’ he exclaimed. Then, evidently reorganising his reaction, he said, ‘For God’s sake, is that you, Laura?’ She heard him blow out a breath. ‘What are you doing? Waiting up for me?’

Laura fumbled with the bolts at the top and bottom of the door and then, turning the heavy key, she pulled it open. ‘Hardly,’ she said, keeping her eyes averted as she stepped back to let him in. ‘Don’t you have a key?’

‘Don’t tell anyone, but they’ve yet to invent a key that can open a bolt,’ he retorted, and she guessed his sarcasm was an attempt to hide his own surprise at seeing her. He shook himself, dislodging snow from the shoulders of his leather jacket on to the floor of the passage. Then, sniffing expressively, he asked, ‘What’s that awful smell?’

‘I burnt some milk,’ said Laura defensively, closing and locking the door again before brushing past him into the kitchen. She knew she must look a sight with her hair mussed and her eyes still puffy from weeping. Not the image she’d wanted to present to the stepbrother who hadn’t seen her since she married Conor. ‘Did your mother know you were coming tonight?’

‘I thought so.’ Oliver followed her into the kitchen. Then he gestured towards the Aga. ‘Oughtn’t you to do something about that before anyone starts to think you’re trying to burn the old place down?’

‘Your mother, you mean?’ she asked tersely, plunging the saucepan into cold water before snatching up a dishcloth to mop the stove. Anything to avoid looking at him, she thought, though she was perfectly aware of how attractive he was.