upset her for days.
And yet…
It was odd how clearly she remembered the eager, anxious face bending over her as child, hoping she would like the doll she had brought her. She remembered too, the tears hurriedly blinked back by her mother and her own guilt at wanting it so very much that she had pushed the strange woman away and run to her mother’s arms.
How had she looked, Mary Graham, lying on her hospital bed, begging Joshua Kent to make sure that she came to her funeral? An over-vivid imagination supplied the answer.
If she went with him, it wouldn’t be because he demanded that she should. It would be because...She shook the water from her brushes and stuck them, too fiercely, in a pot to dry. It toppled and fell to the hard quarry-tile floor and smashed in a thousand pieces.
‘Oh, drat!’ Joshua Kent’s visit had unsettled her more than she had been prepared to admit. The memory of Mary’s visit was deepburied — her mother had never spoken of it again — and the doll had been put away.
She cleared up the mess, taking excessive care to hunt for every last shard of glass, wrapping it carefully in newspaper before putting it in the bin. She found another pot for her brushes, tidied her paints, straightened her easel…stalled endlessly.
It was only when there was nothing left to stay the moment that she climbed the stairs to the little room that had been hers for as long as she could remember.
It hadn’t changed much. The wallpaper was still the same daisy-pattern that her father had put up the year before he died. It was scuffed now, bumped by furniture and marked by drawing pins from teenage posters. She should redecorate, but there were so many other expenses in an old house.
The decision to let one of her spare bedrooms had been made six months earlier in an effort to defray some of the costs. She had been putting off the evil moment, but she was going to have to face the prospect of letting the other spare bedroom. The only alternative was working extra hours, but the talk in the common room was all of cut-backs, not expansion. Still, she would leave the final decision until after her holiday.
She opened the cupboard door. There was a neat stack of favourite childhood books that she couldn’t bear to part with, a collection of shells. The costume dolls that her father had brought her back from his trips abroad filled the centre shelf.
But the doll she had come to find wasn’t there. It was at the bottom, buried under a sleeping bag and rucksack, but after a moment’s search she found it, picked it up and held it at arm’s length.
It was a very superior sort of rag doll from a big London store. The material still had that new starchy smell; the lace edges of the dress and bonnet were still crisp. Little fingers had never disturbed her pristine condition or loved her to a state of tattiness. Only, very occasionally, had she taken her from her hiding place and held her for a moment, to show the doll that she did love her, but couldn’t ever let her mother see.
Now Joshua Kent had come stirring up memories she would rather forget. Disturbing her with his arrogance, his dictatorial manner, his irritation that she hadn’t immediately agreed to his demand. But it had been far more than that. He hadn’t wanted to come at all, she thought. Despite his determination that she comply with Mary’s wishes, she was almost certain that he didn’t want her anywhere near Ashbrooke. And that fact alone might be enough to take her there.
CHAPTER TWO
DESPITE the luxury of the car, it was an uncomfortable journey. Holly had been prepared to make the best of things, try to get along, but from the moment she opened the door to Joshua Kent’s summons on the bell at precisely ten o’clock it was apparent that the antagonism was as fierce as ever.
She stood perfectly still while he ran an assessing eye over her long, narrow grey coat and the soft-brimmed black velvet hat she wore pulled down over
And yet…
It was odd how clearly she remembered the eager, anxious face bending over her as child, hoping she would like the doll she had brought her. She remembered too, the tears hurriedly blinked back by her mother and her own guilt at wanting it so very much that she had pushed the strange woman away and run to her mother’s arms.
How had she looked, Mary Graham, lying on her hospital bed, begging Joshua Kent to make sure that she came to her funeral? An over-vivid imagination supplied the answer.
If she went with him, it wouldn’t be because he demanded that she should. It would be because...She shook the water from her brushes and stuck them, too fiercely, in a pot to dry. It toppled and fell to the hard quarry-tile floor and smashed in a thousand pieces.
‘Oh, drat!’ Joshua Kent’s visit had unsettled her more than she had been prepared to admit. The memory of Mary’s visit was deepburied — her mother had never spoken of it again — and the doll had been put away.
She cleared up the mess, taking excessive care to hunt for every last shard of glass, wrapping it carefully in newspaper before putting it in the bin. She found another pot for her brushes, tidied her paints, straightened her easel…stalled endlessly.
It was only when there was nothing left to stay the moment that she climbed the stairs to the little room that had been hers for as long as she could remember.
It hadn’t changed much. The wallpaper was still the same daisy-pattern that her father had put up the year before he died. It was scuffed now, bumped by furniture and marked by drawing pins from teenage posters. She should redecorate, but there were so many other expenses in an old house.
The decision to let one of her spare bedrooms had been made six months earlier in an effort to defray some of the costs. She had been putting off the evil moment, but she was going to have to face the prospect of letting the other spare bedroom. The only alternative was working extra hours, but the talk in the common room was all of cut-backs, not expansion. Still, she would leave the final decision until after her holiday.
She opened the cupboard door. There was a neat stack of favourite childhood books that she couldn’t bear to part with, a collection of shells. The costume dolls that her father had brought her back from his trips abroad filled the centre shelf.
But the doll she had come to find wasn’t there. It was at the bottom, buried under a sleeping bag and rucksack, but after a moment’s search she found it, picked it up and held it at arm’s length.
It was a very superior sort of rag doll from a big London store. The material still had that new starchy smell; the lace edges of the dress and bonnet were still crisp. Little fingers had never disturbed her pristine condition or loved her to a state of tattiness. Only, very occasionally, had she taken her from her hiding place and held her for a moment, to show the doll that she did love her, but couldn’t ever let her mother see.
Now Joshua Kent had come stirring up memories she would rather forget. Disturbing her with his arrogance, his dictatorial manner, his irritation that she hadn’t immediately agreed to his demand. But it had been far more than that. He hadn’t wanted to come at all, she thought. Despite his determination that she comply with Mary’s wishes, she was almost certain that he didn’t want her anywhere near Ashbrooke. And that fact alone might be enough to take her there.
CHAPTER TWO
DESPITE the luxury of the car, it was an uncomfortable journey. Holly had been prepared to make the best of things, try to get along, but from the moment she opened the door to Joshua Kent’s summons on the bell at precisely ten o’clock it was apparent that the antagonism was as fierce as ever.
She stood perfectly still while he ran an assessing eye over her long, narrow grey coat and the soft-brimmed black velvet hat she wore pulled down over
Similar Books
Worlds Enough and Time
Joe Haldeman
Say Yes
Mellie George
The Unexpected Guest
Agatha Christie
The Devil—With Wings
L. Ron Hubbard
Acrobat
Mary Calmes
The Wheel of Darkness
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
Secrets of a Summer Night
Lisa Kleypas
Life on the Preservation, US Edition
Jack Skillingstead
