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‘Forgot.’ Tommy shuffled his feet uncomfortably and scurried into the cottage.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jamie, his small face equally crestfallen, and hurried after his twin.
Pulling a rueful face, the older woman held out a hand. ‘Mary Harrington. Thanks for bringing them home.’
‘Clemency Adams.’ Clemency shook the outstretched hand. ‘I think there must be a hole in the hedge somewhere.’
‘My son’s in the process of refencing the garden so it shouldn’t happen again. I hope they didn’t trample all over the flower beds.’
‘With the state of my garden at the moment, I wouldn’t notice if a herd of elephants had passed through.’ Clemency grinned. ‘It’s just that there’s an old well right at the bottom. There’s a small protective wall around it and a manhole cover, but...’
‘It might prove irresistible for two curious, unsupervised four-year-olds?’ Mary Harrington smiled back. ‘Look, I’ve just made a pot of tea. Have you time to join me in a cup?’
Not wanting to refuse the friendly invitation but reluctant to be discovered ensconced in his home should Joshua Harrington appear, Clemency hesitated and then accepted, following her hostess down the hall into the kitchen overlooking the rambling back garden. Tommy and Jamie, crouched down on their small haunches, were engrossed in a game involving three plastic flowerpots, two sticks and a length of old hosepipe, the rules of which were completely incomprehensible to their two observers.
‘Do sit down,’ Mary Harrington waved a hand in the general direction of the large refectory table, and poured out two cups of tea. ‘Just push some of that clutter to one side.’ she added cheerfully.
Removing a plastic spade and bucket from a stool, Clemency drew it up to the table, carefully depositing a toy fire engine and packet of crayons on top of a pile of papers. Twice the size of her own immaculate kitchen, the comfortable, untidy, sun-filled room was evidently a focal point of family life. Brightly crayoned drawings adorned one wall.
‘Thank you.’ Clemency took hold of the proffered cup and saucer, her mouth curving as her eyes alighted on one of the drawings. Unlike the others, this had evidently been executed by an adult hand. A small boy, easily recognisable as one of the twins, was surrounded by cartoon cats, their almost-human feline expressions indicating their individual characteristics. Lazy, curious, supercilious, artful.
‘Joshua drew it for Tommy.’ The older woman smiled as she followed Clemency’s gaze. Positioning her chair so that she could keep a vigilant eye on her grandsons, she sat down.
‘It’s very good.’ Clemency’s eyebrows furrowed together as she continued to study the cartoon. More than good. Professional. There was something familiar in the style. ‘My daddy doesn’t go to work’. ‘He just draws’. A small suspicion beginning to unfurl in her head, her eyes dropped to the pile of papers on her right, editions of the same national daily she had delivered to her cottage. And each morning the first thing she glanced at was the gently satirical topical cartoon on the front page. Josh. She’d always assumed it was a pseudonym—‘josh,’ as in to tease good-naturedly. But it could equally be the diminutive for Joshua. No. It was all just coincidence. She was adding two and two and making five.
Aware of Mary Harrington watching her, she glanced up and read the confirmation of her unspoken question on the gentle face.
‘I always buy The Best of Josh every Christmas.’ Clemency instantly regretted the unthinking admission, hoping it wouldn’t be relayed to the author of the books that usually dominated the bestseller lists each festive season.
‘I inundate friends and relatives with copies. And always leave one in the waiting room of my husband’s dental practice,’ Mary Harrington confessed conspiratorially, and smiled. ‘Unbeknown to my son.’
Clemency laughed, liking the warm, unpretentious woman more and more by the second, her laughter suddenly dying in her throat as she heard the key in the door. Simultaneously the twins, having evidently heard a car draw up in the drive, hurtled into the kitchen.
‘Daddy’s back...’
As the lean figure loomed in the doorway, they launched themselves joyfully towards him like small, exuberant puppies.
‘Had a good afternoon?’
The gentleness in Joshua Harrington’s voice made Clemency’s heart miss an unsteady beat, her eyes leaping to his face. Mesmerised she watched the uncompromisingly male features warm, soften as he rumpled the two small, dark heads, the cynicism temporarily eradicated from his face.
‘Yes, Daddy,’ the twins chorused enthusiastically, and scampered back out into the garden.
‘Mrs Adams.’
Caught completely off-balance, Clemency flushed slightly as Joshua Harrington acknowledged her presence in his home and turned towards his mother. ‘Dad’ll be back in about an hour,’ he relayed, but the dark, slanted eyebrow clearly enquired, What’s she doing here?
Or perhaps she was merely being super-sensitive, Clemency acknowledged. She was twenty-seven, had been brought up with three elder brothers, been married, her colleagues were predominantly male—and yet this man unnerved her completely. Even during her adolescence she’d never felt this self-conscious in a man’s presence.
‘The twins went AWOL and Clemency brought them home,’ Mary Harrington said peacefully. ‘Tea in the pot. Oh, Lord, the cake!’ Springing to her feet, she moved across the kitchen to the stove at the far end.
‘Thank you.’ The blue gaze flicked to Clemency.
‘I considered simply tossing them back over the hedge,’ she couldn’t resist murmuring with an impish grin, recalling his earlier remark about the football, and instantly regretted it as she saw him frown. She was only joking, for heaven’s sake. Being deliberately flip to conceal her fast-fading composure. Then with an uncomfortable jolt she realised that the flippant remark hadn’t even registered with him; his whole concentration was focused on her face. He was inspecting each delicate feature, her high, fragile cheekbones, wide-spaced eyes, straight freckle-dusted nose with a clinical thoroughness that she was too keyed up to resent.
There was no acknowledgement of her fragile feminine attraction in the shadowed blue depths, no trace of the appreciation she was accustomed to witnessing—and rebuffing—in male eyes, but something else... But before she could analyse it, before she could be a hundred per cent sure, he had turned away.
Swallowing hard to ease the dryness in her throat, she watched him pour out a mug of tea and carry it across to the table. Removing a cricket bat from a chair, he sat down, stretching his long, lean legs out in front of him.
‘How long have you lived in the village, Mrs Adams?’ he enquired quietly.
Clemency hesitated. It was a perfectly innocuous question and yet there was something in the astute blue eyes that reflected more than just polite, idle curiosity.
‘I moved down here over four years ago.’
‘From London?’
Her spine stiffened. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged.
‘An unusual career move,’ he observed slowly.
For a second Clemency wondered if he was baiting her, but there was no hint of mockery in the pensive eyes.
‘Relocation,’ she said shortly. Relocation of her life.
She focused her attention firmly on Mary Harrington as she rejoined them at the table but it was impossible to distance herself from the formidable male presence on her left. Contributing little to the casual conversation, he nevertheless seemed to dominate the room, emanated a masculine force that was almost tangible.
He wasn’t even in her direct line of vision, but she was alert to his slightest movement, her senses tuned into him as if she’d suddenly developed a set of ultra-sensitive antennae.
The kitchen which had seemed so warm and welcoming when she’d first entered seemed to have undergone some subtle change. There was an underlying tension which wasn’t solely contributable to her own growing unease. Unable to resist any longer, she flicked the silent man a sideways glance.
Dark eyebrows drawn together, he was frowning at the opposite wall. Unobserved, her eyes swept over the strong planes of his face, and dropped to the firm line of his chiselled mouth.
Unsteadily she picked up her cup and drained the contents, setting it down on the saucer with a clatter that seemed deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen.
‘Thanks for the tea.’ She forced herself to smile across the table.
‘You’re more than welcome.’ Mary Harrington smiled back.
‘I’ll see you out.’ Her son rose to his feet in a swift, controlled movement.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured evenly, overwhelmingly conscious of his height and breadth as he ushered her down the hall. Opening the front door, he stood back to enable her to step through, and for an imperceptible second her eyes locked with his, saw the hard certainty in their depths as they raked her oval face. The pretence was over for both of them.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Joshua Harrington said quietly.
The colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she said simply, and saw a muscle clench along the hard line of his jaw.
‘I think I recognised you almost straight away,’ he conceded slowly.
‘But you hoped you’d made a mistake?’ she said levelly.
‘Yes,’ he admitted shortly.
That swift pinprick of hurt was completely irrational. Hadn’t she been equally reluctant to acknowledge his identity? Exhibited no more warmth or pleasure at seeing him again than he had her?
‘Your hair was longer then,’ he said abruptly.
Five years ago her waist-length red hair had been the most striking, most immediately noticeable thing about her.
‘I had it cut.’ She stated the obvious, wondering why it should matter that he made no immediate comment on the shorter gamine style. His own physical appearance had altered, too, but the change was more subtle. His dark hair was as thick and rich as she remembered. His eyes were the same intense blue—but the guarded detachment in their depths was as alien to her as the cynicism.
Clemency surveyed him with large, wary eyes, the constrained silence that had fallen between them unbearable. It seemed impossible that she had once, for a short time, felt closer to this man than any other living creature. But she was at a total loss how to even try to bridge the chasm that existed between them now. Wasn’t even sure that she wanted to.
‘I’d better be getting home.’ With amazement Clemency registered her calm, collected voice. But then over the past five years she’d become an expert at concealing her emotions. What happened to your wife? Knowing just how tenuous her composure was, terrified that the faade might crack at any minute and she would give utterance to the question pounding in her head, Clemency turned away quickly.
‘Mind the step.’
Instinctively he stretched out a hand to steady her as she missed her footing. His touch was brief and impersonal but her bare skin felt as if it had been scorched. That she could still react to his slightest touch like this was ultimately the biggest shock of all.
‘Goodbye, Clemency,’ he said quietly. It was the first time he had ever used her given name.
‘Goodbye.’ she returned, registering the finality in his voice that told her as clearly as words that he had neither the desire nor the intention of furthering their acquaintance.
But then, what had she expected? Clemency wondered, her legs swinging with uncharacteristic jerkiness down the drive. An invitation to come over for coffee that evening when the twins were in bed to have a cosy chat about old times?
To Joshua Harrington she would always be a reminder of a past that, like her, he wanted to forget. A reminder to that strong, proud, private man of a rare moment of weakness. Moving on autopilot, Clemency made her way around to the back of her cottage. Reaching the far end of her garden without any real recollection of how she’d arrived there, she sat down on the grass beneath the shade of an old gnarled apple tree.
Joshua Harrington. A man she had never expected to see again. The only person to whom she’d ever told the truth about Simon. Her anonymous confidant. The stranger on a train.
Except that she hadn’t met Joshua Harrington on a train but on a London bench by the Thames on a dark New Year’s Eve, five years ago.
CHAPTER TWO
DRAWING up her long legs to her chest, Clemency rested her chin on her knees and stared unseeingly at the daisy-strewn lawn. Married to Simon for eighteen months, she’d been so happy at the start of the evening, so totally unprepared for the bombshell that was to wreck her secure world. Her eyes closed. They had been celebrating the end of the year at a party in her eldest brother’s flat by the river in Chelsea.
Her hair swinging over her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the heat generating from the swirling, gyrating dancers packed into the small room, Clemency tried unsuccessfully to match the flamboyant steps of her extrovert partner.
As the music slowed, somewhat to her relief, the russet-headed young man took hold of her hand and swung her in front of him.
‘I think you’re the most beautiful woman here tonight, Clemency Adams,’ he proclaimed loudly.
Clemency laughed up into his open, good-natured face.
‘And I think you’re extremely drunk,’ she reproved him affectionately. Best man at their wedding and, like Simon, a school friend of her youngest brother, she’d known David Mason almost all her life.
‘Run away with me to my South Sea island home,’ he implored her theatrically.
‘To your bedsit in Clapham?’ she teased gently.
‘Oh, Clem, you’re a hard woman.’
‘I’m also a very married one.’ She grinned back, her eyes moving around the densely packed room, searching for one particular fair head. There he was. Standing over by the corner talking animatedly to Lisa.
That was an encouraging sign, she thought with satisfaction. Why her husband and her closest friend, two of the people she cared most about in the world, should have developed such an aversion to each other’s company over the past few months, after years of friendship, had both baffled and upset her. Hopefully tonight they’d finally decided to call a truce, stop the ridiculous bickering. She felt a wash of sadness as her gaze rested on the small brunette by her husband’s side. She was going to miss Lisa when she moved to New York, was still surprised at her sudden decision to apply for the overseas post.
She lost sight of her husband and friend as the tempo of the music increased, dancing with renewed energy until she finally pleaded for mercy from her inexhaustible partner.
‘No staying power, these married women,’ David teased her, planting a brotherly kiss on her cheek as he released her hand. ‘And, if you’re looking for your lucky swine of a husband, I just saw him heading towards the kitchen.’
No doubt to replenish his empty glass. Edging her way towards the door, Clemency watched with amusement as David threaded purposefully across the room towards a solitary, attractive blonde. She’d spent the early part of the night circulating, catching up with friends, and now, she thought contentedly as she made her way towards the kitchen, she just wanted to spend what was left of the old year with Simon.
Later she was never quite sure why she had paused in the doorway, had not simply walked straight in the moment she’d seen Simon and Lisa in the otherwise empty kitchen. But she had paused, had seen that expression of utter desolation on Simon’s face as he gazed longingly across the room at the dark-haired girl standing with her back to him staring out of the window into the darkness.
‘Please don’t go to New York, Lissy.’
Clemency froze, unable to move, the anguished desperation in Simon’s voice numbing her completely.
‘I have to, Simon. You know that.’ Lisa’s voice was low and muffled, her back rigid. ‘If I stay...I don’t want an affair with you...I couldn’t do that to Clemmy.’
‘I don’t want an affair with you, Lissy. I love you...’
She couldn’t be hearing this. Would wake up any moment and find it was a nightmare. The numbness had eased, the first wash of agonising pain tearing through Clemency. This could not be happening, not to her. She wanted to cry out her protest, her denial as she watched her husband cross the floor and take her best friend in his arms but her throat was too raw.
‘Lissy, please.’
‘No, Simon...’ Pushing him away, Lisa swung back to the window. ‘I love you, but I love Clemmy too. I’ve known her since I was five, even longer than you have. She’s like a sister.’ Her voice was so low, Clemency could barely distinguish the words. ‘I couldn’t ruin her life, and nor could you, Simon.’
They already had...
Her eyes flicking open, Clemency stretched out her stiffening legs and leant back against the tree. Perhaps if she’d tackled Simon and Lisa right then it might have been easier, less painful in the long run. But she hadn’t. She’d turned and crept away like a wounded animal, grabbed her coat and escaped silently out of the flat into the December night.
Oblivious to the squeal of taxi brakes, moving like a sleepwalker, Clemency crossed the road to the river embankment. For a moment she stared down into the dark, cold water and then began walking along its edge, her pace increasing until she was almost running. Head bowed, her eyes blurred with unshed tears, she didn’t see the group of young men approaching until it was too late to take evasive action and almost cannoned straight into them.
‘Happy New Year, beautiful.’
‘What’s a woman like you doing on her own tonight?’
‘Fancy coming to a party with us, gorgeous?’
Their bantering was good-humoured—if puerile—rather than threatening, and normally Clemency wouldn’t have had any trouble in dealing with the group of intoxicated but harmless young men. But tonight she simply stared dazedly at the group forming a half-circle around her.
‘Scram!’
The deep, educated voice came from behind her. Quiet and controlled, it held an authority that was immediately recognised and acted upon. Macho bravado evaporating, the young men dissolved into sheepish small boys, murmuring apologies to Clemency before hastening on their way.
‘Are you all right?’
Tilting her head, Clemency looked up at the tall, quietly spoken man.
