Liz Fielding: A Family of His Own

‘I could offer you a cup of tea,’ she prompted. Oh, good grief. How English. How predictable. ‘Breakfast?’ she persisted. ‘The eggs are organic. I keep a few hens…’

He didn’t reply. Not by one twitch of his facial muscles did he indicate that he’d heard.

For heaven’s sake, politeness cost nothing.

‘How about a towel to dry your feet?’ she tried, but a little waspishly, rapidly losing any desire to pass on anything, let alone care.

He glanced down and frowned as if only then aware that he was wading through damp grass in his bare feet. That his trousers were soaked through to the knees. Then he turned, without a word, and walked back towards the house.

Kay watched him walk away from her. Stiff-backed, rigid with anger and pride and misery. Probably hating himself for having mistaken another woman for his beloved Sara. Hating himself for having kissed another woman.

Yes, well. She knew her limitations. She wasn’t wise enough, clever enough for this. Amy should be here. She’d know what to do. Exactly the right words to say.

The one thing she wouldn’t do was walk away and leave him like this.

But Amy wasn’t here. She was on her way to the coast with Jake and a car-load of children, so it was down to her and, while common sense suggested that it would be wiser to do as he’d asked and leave, simple humanity demanded a braver, a more compassionate response.

‘Oh…chickweed!’ she muttered. And followed him.

She paused on the threshold of the drawing room. Despite the delicate floral wallpaper, the pale blue silk curtains, the atmosphere was oppressive, musty. Like the garden, it felt abandoned. Out there she itched to tear out the weeds, let in the light so the plants could grow, reach their full potential. Inside, she yearned to rush through the rooms, opening the windows to let in the sun, let in the air so that the house could take a deep breath.

She restrained herself. She’d already done enough damage.

There was no sign of Dominic Ravenscar other than an armchair from which the dust sheet had been pulled and left on the floor where it had fallen, suggesting that he’d slept there in front of the open French window. Hoping for another glimpse of his ‘Sara’.

That, and wet footprints in the dust leaving a trail across the wide oak floorboards. Guilt more than any mission to do good drove her to follow them across the drawing room and into the hall to where they became dusty marks against the stair carpet.

From the floor above came the sound of running water as he took a shower. She found she’d been holding her breath, anticipating disaster, but that at least had the ring of normality about it. She found the kitchen, washed the green plant stains from her hands under the running tap, then filled the kettle and switched it on.

There was a small box of groceries standing on the table containing tea bags, a small loaf, from which a couple of slices had already been taken, and a carton of long-life milk. She put some bread into the toaster and then hunted through the cupboards until she found a plate and a mug.

Everything was covered in a film of dust and, while she ran hot water into the bowl, she looked for some washing-up liquid. There was a bottle, half empty, in a cupboard beneath the draining board. The manufacturer had changed the packaging several years ago and she had the unsettling feeling that Sara Ravenscar had been the last person to touch it.

Pushing aside the thought as ridiculously melodramatic, she swooshed some into the water and began to rinse the dishes.

What had he done? What on earth had he been thinking? Imagining that Sara was waiting for him in the garden. Talking to her. That woman must have thought he was mad when he’d kissed her.

Maybe he was.

Except it was clear that she’d known who he was, had known exactly what he’d been thinking. Was that why she’d let him embrace her? Hadn’t yelled blue murder when he’d kissed her?

Not only had she not struggled, screamed, slapped him, but she’d kissed him back, and for a moment, just a moment, he’d believed that he’d woken up from an endless nightmare. With the soft warmth of a woman’s mouth against his, hot life had raced through his veins and he’d felt like a man again.

‘Fool!’ He smashed his fist against the tiled wall. ‘Idiot!’ Would he never learn?

There was no hope, only despair that he’d mistaken a stranger for the woman he’d loved. Still loved. Beyond the superficial similarity of colouring, height, they were nothing alike. He’d allowed his mind to trick him. This woman, Kay Lovell,—‘Kay Lovell’—he said the name out loud to reinforce the message—was, if anything a little taller, nowhere near as thin. Her eyes were grey rather than blue. Her hair hadn’t had the heavy swing, the bright polish…

And she’d let him kiss her out of pity.

He grabbed for the soap, used it to wash his hair, rid himself of the fresh-air smell of her. Brushed his teeth to rid himself of the taste of her mouth on his.

There was no simple remedy for the pounding in his veins. The shocking response of his body to a total stranger.

That was a betrayal he was going to have to live with.

And he grabbed a towel, wrapped it about his waist. Then, since he’d only brought up his overnight bag, he went downstairs to fetch the rest of his luggage.

Kay made tea in the mug, then began buttering the toast. When she looked up, Dominic Ravenscar was standing in the doorway, watching her, his expression blank, unreadable. As if he’d had years of practising keeping his thoughts, his feelings, to himself.

He’d showered. His dark hair was damp and tousled where he hadn’t bothered to comb it—well, he hadn’t been expecting company—and he was naked but for a towel wrapped about his waist. There was little of him she couldn’t see and it was plain that this was a man who’d lost every bit of softness from his body as well as his heart.

‘You’re still here.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your eyesight,’ she agreed. As the words left her lips she groaned inwardly. Even twenty-twenty vision could be fooled by the heart.

‘Did Greg send you?’ he demanded.

‘Greg?’ She sucked the butter from her thumb, a distraction from the spare, sinewy shoulders, ribs that she’d be able to count with her fingers if she walked them down his chest. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

‘Did he ask you to keep an eye on me?’

‘No one sent me.’

‘You’re just an all-round busybody and do-gooder, is that it?’

What did she expect? Gratitude?

Had she been grateful when Amy had found her, taken her home, found ways to get her to eat—even if it was only chocolate; ways to get Polly into her arms and her to start living again?

No.

She’d just wanted to be left alone. She’d just wanted to die. She thought perhaps they had more in common than he’d ever know. He just wanted her to go, forget he’d ever set eyes on her, forget that he’d kissed her. No doubt he thought that being rude was not only the quickest way to get rid of her, but the most likely way to ensure that she’d stay out of his hair.

She’d tried that approach, too. In fact his response brought her own hateful ingratitude shamefully to mind. She’d been rude, too. Vilely rude. It hadn’t worked. Amy had seen through the anger to the pain and stuck with it.

She dunked the tea bag, added milk to the mug and offered it to him. ‘You haven’t got any sugar, so I assume you don’t take it. You haven’t got any marmalade for the toast, either.’

‘I haven’t got much of anything except you,’ he said, ignoring the mug. ‘You, I have altogether too much of.’

‘That’s how it is with us do-gooders,’ she said, putting the tea down on the table where he could reach it. ‘I’ll bring you a pot of mine. It’s very good. It won best-in-show at the summer fête.’