Penny Jordan - Mistaken Adversary

‘What would you know about it?’ Georgia challenged him, driven to give in to the impulse to defend herself even while her mind screamed at her that she must get rid of him and get on her way to the hospice.

‘A good deal. My father had a succession of mistresses before he finally divorced my mother to marry one of them. I saw the hell he put her through, and us. I grew up hating those other women for taking him away from us, until I realised that my father was the one I should really hate, and that they were just as much his victims as we were.’

His quiet admission left Georgia too astounded to make any kind of response—and then he was gone, walking round the corner of the cottage, heading for the front gate and his car.

‘YOU’RE very quiet, Georgy. You’re not still worrying about me, are you?’

Georgia focused on her aunt’s pale face, forcing herself to try to smile. She had in fact been thinking about Mitch Fletcher and his extraordinarily intimate disclosure just as he was leaving the cottage. She really would have to tell him that he was mistaken about her, to explain—if not everything, then at least enough for him to understand that it was her aunt who took up so much of her time and not some non-existent married lover.

She frowned a little, acknowledging how hard it must have been for him to witness the disintegration of his parents’ relationship, to have his own love for and trust in his father destroyed, as it obviously had been destroyed. Poor little boy... She caught herself up, shaking her head angrily. What on earth was she doing, feeling sympathy for someone who had suggested that she...? She bit her lip in vexation, unwillingly acknowledging that if he had misjudged her it was at least partly her own fault.

She wasn’t really sure why she was so reluctant for him—for anyone—to know the truth. Was it because in facing their concern and sympathy she would be forced to make herself confront the reality of how seriously ill her aunt was? No...no! Her thoughts scattered, frantically fleeing from what she could still not bring herself to face—fleeing from the enormity of that realisation... Her aunt was getting better... Only this morning she herself had said how well she felt, and yet as Georgia looked at the tiny figure in the bed, her fear was like cold, cold fingers tightening around her heart.

Unwillingly she looked into her aunt’s face and saw the tiredness there. She was holding her hand and it felt so frail, so cold.

‘Georgy—’ her aunt smiled at her through her tiredness ‘—you mustn’t...you mustn’t—’

She stopped speaking and, before her aunt could finish what she had been about to say, Georgia began to tell her about the garden, describing for her the new flowers that were opening, her voice high with denial of her terrible fear. ‘But you’ll be seeing them for yourself soon. Just as soon as you get well enough to come home...’ She thought she heard her aunt sigh. Certainly the pressure of those frail fingers holding her own tightened a little. She could feel herself starting to tremble, as fear and love rolled through her.

As always, the precious time she was allowed to spend at her aunt’s bedside was gone all too quickly, and it was time for her to leave. The sister in charge came towards her as she was going. Georgia smiled at her, saying eagerly, ‘Aunt May seems so much better since she came here. I’ve been telling her about the garden. She’s always wanted a proper garden of her own. The roses will be out soon. We bought them last year—scented ones. Perhaps she’ll be home in time to enjoy them and—’

‘Georgia, your aunt is doing very well,’ the sister interrupted her. ‘But you must realise—’ She had to break off as one of the nurses came quickly towards her, excusing herself to Georgia as she turned aside to listen to what she had to say. ‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, but...’

As she watched her hurry away, Georgia fought to ignore the tension and fear she was feeling. Sometimes when she talked to her aunt about the garden, about the future, Aunt May looked at her with such a compassionate, concerned expression that Georgia felt as though... As though what? As though Aunt May knew and accepted something which she herself did not know—or did not want to know?

She was trembling when she got into her car, cold with fear.

* * *

As always when she suffered like this, Georgia found the only way to hold the terror and the pressure of her own despairing thoughts at bay was to work as hard as she could, so that all her mental energy was exhausted, making it impossible for her to dwell on the truth that her intelligence told her existed but which her heart refused to acknowledge.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning before she admitted that she was so tired that if she didn’t stop working she would probably fall asleep where she was.

She had, she confessed to Louise Mather, been lucky to find an agency with enough work to enable her to temp from home, but Louise had corrected her, telling her frankly, ‘No, I’m the one who’s lucky to have such a highly qualified and hard-working person on my books, and if you ever do want something more permanent, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

Louise knew what had prompted her move from London, but she was one of the very small circle of people who did. The doctor was another, plus the staff at the hospice, and the farmer’s wife—who was their closest neighbour and who, in the days before Aunt May had gone into the hospice, had been a regular visitor, bringing them fresh eggs and vegetables, and shared with Aunt May her own countrywoman’s lore. Aunt May was a very private person, and she had brought Georgia herself up the same way, and besides... Georgia leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes to relieve the strain of staring at the screen, and acknowledged that one of the reasons she was so reluctant to discuss her aunt’s illness with others was because somehow in doing so it was as though she was physically holding it at bay, refusing to allow it to tighten its grip on their lives. It was as though, by refusing to admit its existence, she could somehow pretend that it did not exist. Was that what she was doing? she asked herself. Was that why she preferred to allow someone like Mitch Fletcher to believe that she was having an affair with a married man rather than admit the truth?

Mind you, if she had a psychological problem, then so too did he. How on earth had he managed to leap to the conclusions he had about her on such flimsy evidence? It hadn’t been so much a leap as an impossible connecting together of facts which surely even a fool could see could not possibly amount to what he had seen in them. It was obvious that the trauma of his childhood had left a very deep impression on him—just as hers had left her with a fear of being alone, without someone she could call her own. Was that why she was so desperately afraid of losing her aunt? Not so much for her aunt’s sake, but more selfishly for her own?

Georgia shivered, hugging her arms around her body as though trying physically to ward off the darkness of the thoughts passing through her mind. It was because it was so late...because she was so tired...because she was alone... Because she was still even now suffering the after-effects of the emotions churned up by Mitch Fletcher...

Mitch Fletcher. She stood up unsteadily, smothering a yawn. She should never have allowed him to give her that cheque. She should have stood her ground and told him that she had changed her mind, that she no longer wanted a lodger. But then that would not have been true: she did not want a lodger, but she needed a lodger because she desperately needed the income having one would bring in. What she did not want was a lodger in the form of Mitch Fletcher, and what was more she suspected he was perfectly well aware of her feelings. Despite the easy charm, the warmth she had seen so clearly exhibited earlier in the day when he had responded with humour to their small confrontation, there was quite obviously another man beneath that easygoing surface, a tough, determined man whose relaxed outward pose cloaked a will of steel. She shivered, acknowledging that it wasn’t the cool night air coming in through her bedroom which was responsible for the lifting of the tiny hairs on her skin.