Secrets and Lies (7 page)

He chuckled. ‘I told you Jane had a broken ankle, not a sprain.’

‘You also told me her name was Pamela. Why the deceit?’

He didn’t deny it. ‘I didn’t want any romantic complications from you, or any complications with that friend of yours, especially. And in case we hadn’t worked out as dancing partners, having a fiancée recovering from a broken ankle would have given me an excuse to let you go.’

She laughed. ‘I hadn’t realized you were quite so devious. I’m contracted for the one return journey. I doubt if I’ll fall in love with you in that time,’ she said, imagining she might get over this schoolgirl-ish crush she had on him by the time they got home, for she certainly wasn’t in love. ‘As for dancing . . . are we compatible?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re the best ballroom partner I’ve ever danced with, and you make me look like a better dancer than I am. You can let go of my hands now.’

He released her, and gazing through slightly-hooded blue eyes that reminded her of Meggie’s, said, ‘You’re better than average, and you have good legs. What if I told you I’d like our relationship to go further?’

‘Are you telling me that?’

‘Yes . . . I think I am. I like you a lot, despite your hands-off manner. You’re fire and ice, Esmé. You have a passionate heart beating inside you.’

‘You said you didn’t want any complications.’

‘I was wrong. Since I met you I’ve discovered that I do.’

‘We haven’t known each other for five minutes,’ she said, then admitted, ‘I enjoy dancing with you, and I’m aware of the tension that such close proximity creates. What happened to your last partner? I take it you had one.’

‘She met someone and got married. That’s why I was in Poole, for her wedding, and to audition someone to take her place. I think we can relax a bit when we’re together now. You can call me Liam, if you like.’

‘I’d prefer to keep our partnership a working one. It’s hypocritical of you to question my friend’s morals, while on the other hand, expecting me to loosen my own. I don’t want to become anyone’s lover, however attractive they are.’

He grinned at that. ‘I was referring to your friend’s gambling habits. Wally’s a con man. She’s trying to impress him. He’ll fleece her of everything she’s got, and then ditch her. I hear he’s jumping ship when we get to Australia.’

She sighed, saying practically, ‘Poor Minnie . . . she hasn’t got much of her own so it shouldn’t take long.’

‘As for you becoming my lover . . .’ Laughter spilled from his mouth, but it was uncertain.

‘What’s so funny about it?’ she snapped, her headache forgotten.

‘You know more about me than you think, and you’ve got it all wrong. I have no interest in entering a casual relationship. I’m making plans for my future.’

Another person wanting to run her life, was her first thought, but the sigh she gave was almost inaudible. ‘What are these plans?’

‘I haven’t thought them through properly yet . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, Esmé, I’d rather like you to become my wife in the future . . . I think.’

Arrows darted about in her stomach at this unexpected development, and there was a small, yawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. Was she ready to take such a step? ‘I hardly know you.’

‘We could easily change that.’ In the shadow of the lifeboat he inclined his head and gently kissed her mouth. It was a chaste sort of kiss, as though he’d plucked one from a jar labelled ‘sterile’. But then, she hadn’t had much practice at kissing.

‘I need time to consider,’ she said, surprised beyond measure to think Liam might have deeper feelings for her than he’d let on. So far he’d displayed himself as a pale shadow of George du Maurier’s Svengali
.

Her own feelings were ambivalent. She was certainly attracted to him physically, and had been from the start of their working relationship. But now he was attainable her instinct screamed caution.

‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’

He kissed her again, then he turned and walked away, leaving her bereft of breath and lost for words. Her hand went to her mouth and she gave a little smile, wishing Livia were there to talk to. Her sister would surely have forgiven her by now.

The house was quiet except for the tick of the clock, the occasional hiss and snap as a knob of coal flared in the kitchen stove, and Meggie’s snuffled breathing, for she was recovering from a cold.

Her mother and brothers were out walking Shadow. Meggie had watched the cleaning lady leave and had thought about what she intended to do as she set the kitchen table for tea with buttered buns and some fruit cake. They wouldn’t be back yet.

The argument she had with her conscience didn’t last long, but still she felt guilty as she went through to her stepfather’s study. It was cold in there after the warmth of the kitchen, and a shiver ran through her body.

The key to the bureau was in the lock, though her stepfather hadn’t bothered to lock it. The document box itself was on a table. It glowed within the inner fires of the various wood used in its creation, and the intricate design of inserted veneer plums, grapes and pears attached to a twisting vine. Her mother, enthralled by its beauty, had placed the winning bid for it at the church fête, against spirited opposition. She had given it to her stepfather for his birthday.

The box was locked, but the key was kept in the bureau. Finding it, she opened the box and gazed at the papers inside. They were filed in alphabetical order.

She pulled out an envelope marked certificates, and found her birth certificate. She’d been born in Nutting Cottage and named after her two grandmothers. Margaret Eloise Sinclair Sangster. It was a grand name, but she couldn’t remember being called anything but Meggie Elliot.
Mother, Olivia Sangster (Widow). Father. Richard Sangster. (Deceased).

Denton Elliot had adopted her.

There were other certificates, birth, marriage and death. Richard Sangster’s father was Henry Sangster; his mother had been called Margaret Sinclair, before her marriage. They’d lived in Foxglove House on the other side of the village; the big house that was boarded up. Her real father had been born there.

Was Major Henry Sangster, who lived in Nutting Cottage, her grandfather? She wondered about it. He must be, though her mother wouldn’t have anything to do with him. If he was mentioned she changed the subject, or pretended she hadn’t heard.

Aunt Esmé had referred to him as Meggie’s grandfather at the last New Year party. The sisters had been talking in the kitchen, and her mother had told her aunt to mind her own business.

There was a noise out in the hall and she froze. She’d be in trouble if she were caught. Heart thumping in alarm, she quickly replaced the documents, locked the case and replaced the key in the bureau.

It was a cold, grey day and drizzle drifted across the sky. She hoped her mother had taken the umbrella. As she straightened, a glance out the window showed the postman disappearing through the gate. Relieved, she left the study and closed the door behind her. She hadn’t learned anything more than she’d already been aware of. She was curious to know why she had always been discouraged from seeing her own grandfather. But there was always another day.

In the hall the family umbrellas jostled for position with several walking sticks in the vaguely oriental, and very ugly green and orange glazed pot her mother had bought at some jumble sale. The sticks had come with the pot, and her mother said they belonged together. Somehow, the pot and its contents suited the house.

There were letters in the wire basket . . . three of them postcards from Esmé. Meggie’s had tourists in pith helmets riding on donkeys in Suez. There were camels on the two for the boys, with impossibly arched necks and their noses in the air as they gazed at the camera with disdainful expressions.

‘Superior creatures,’ she murmured, and read the messages as she went to the kitchen to put some milk on to warm. She placed the postcards on the dresser. It was the usual tourist stuff designed for a stranger’s eyes to consume.

The letter got a thorough scrutiny from her. It was addressed to Major Sangster at Foxglove House. Her stepfather usually dealt with the mail destined for there. Often, they were bills of some sort. She’d never wondered why he paid Foxglove House bills before. Now she did. The letter had an American stamp and a faint smell of perfume lingering about it. It would give her an excuse to visit him.

Her mother would punish her if she found out, though. The squirm she experienced at the thought was swallowed by her sense of adventure and curiosity. A lecture couldn’t hurt her, she supposed.

Meggie’s thoughts were interrupted when Shadow gave a deep-throated woof from outside. Guiltily she slid the letter for the major in to her pocket. She poured the milk into two glasses and stirred. Boys and dog came rushing through the door, Shadow to slurp noisily at the water bowl, and the boys reaching for their mugs of Ovaltine.

‘Where’s Mummy?’ she said.

They gazed at her, their cheeks glowing from the exercise, their upper lips decorated with milky foam. ‘Mummy got a bit puffed out and is resting on the tree stump. She told us to go on.’

That was a five-minute walk away. ‘I’ll take her an umbrella. Don’t eat all the buns while I’m gone, and be careful Shadow doesn’t steal any. There are some postcards from Aunt Es for you on the dresser.’

‘Wizard!’ Luke said as she left.

Her mother had made progress, and wasn’t too far from the gate. She looked as pale as a sheet, and Meggie’s heart lurched.

‘What is it, Mummy?’

‘Something’s wrong . . . I’m bleeding, and I felt a bit dizzy. I didn’t want to scare the boys.’

‘Bleeding . . . have you cut yourself?’

‘No, love . . . it’s coming from inside me. I think I’m losing the baby.’

Panic flickered at her, but she managed to control it for her mother’s sake. ‘I see . . . are you sure it’s not one of those monthly period things you told me about?’ She’d not experienced one yet herself, but her friend Susan had, and it had sounded horridly messy.

‘Yes, I’m sure. They stop coming when you are expecting a baby. That’s how you know you’re having one, you see.’

Meggie didn’t really see. She knew nothing about babies except they grew inside a woman’s tummy and made her look rather an odd shape. How inconvenient having that big bulge at the front must be. She had no idea of how babies got out. Her friend at school said they came out through the mother’s belly button, to which Meggie had scorned, ‘That’s silly. Boys have got belly buttons, and they don’t have babies.’

Come to think of it, she didn’t know how babies got in there in the first place. It was all so intriguing, but now was not the time to ask her mother, who had a small trickle of watery blood running down her leg into her shoe.

‘As soon as we’re indoors I’m going to lie down on the couch. Fetch me some towels, a flannel and a bowl of warm water. Then go upstairs and get me those sanitary napkins I showed you. They’re in my dressing table drawer. But first, I want you to phone your grandfather. Tell him what’s happened and ask him to come out.’

‘What about Daddy?’

‘We’ll let his father call him, if need be. They understand each other’s language.’ Her mother’s fingers brushed against her cheek. ‘Don’t you worry, Meggie Moo. Everything will be all right. I just wish Esmé were here. She was always so calm and capable, even when she was your age. She helped me give birth to you when she was only twelve.’

There was a twinge of resentment at her mother’s use of the pet name. That was her aunt’s name for her. Meggie had overheard her mother telling her father of the argument they’d had before her aunt left. Her mother said she’d been angry and upset, and had driven Aunt Esmé away. Maggie hoped she’d come back because she missed her.

The drama surrounding her own birth was something Meggie was well aware of, and because of it she had a strong sense of kinship with her aunt. It was closer than the bond she had with her mother. Sometimes, she caught her mother looking at her as if she were a stranger to her, and wondered what she was thinking. Now, her thoughtless words made Meggie feel as if she wasn’t capable. After all, any fool could use a telephone.

Knowing this was not the time to upset her mother, she did what she was directed to do. Summoning the doctor, she fetched the bits and pieces her mother needed to clean herself up with. She didn’t like seeing the blood; it made her feel queasy. She didn’t think she’d like to be a nurse when she grew up, like her aunt.

She thought that she’d rather like to be a famous writer, like Agatha Christie. Her mind went to a summer house in a cottage garden. The air was balmy and dandelion seeds floated through the air. In her imagination, Meggie inserted a piece of paper into the typewriter and picked out on the keys,
Death by Dandelion Wine
. Speeding up, the machine clacked words at a fast rate on to the page and paper began to fly from it. Two seconds later she wrote:
The End
. She ripped the paper from the machine, placed it on top of the manuscript, and then smiled. Imagination was a wonderful thing. Perhaps she’d write a letter to Agatha Christie and ask her what came next.

‘Stop daydreaming and empty the water on the garden, please, Meggie, and then put that towel and flannel to soak in cold water while we’re waiting.’

The dandelion seeds dispersed, along with the typewriter and manuscript. Perhaps it would be better if she learned how to type before she tackled a novel.

When she came back from her task, she asked her mother, ‘Would you like some tea and a buttered bun . . .? That’s if the boys haven’t eaten them all. They were as ravenous as wolverines in winter.’

Her mother gave a bit of a high-pitched giggle and bit her lip. ‘I’d better not. Have you packed my bag in case I need it?’

‘I’ll do that when the doctor arrives. He shouldn’t be long now.’

The doctor arrived within ten minutes. His wife, Helen, came with him. Suddenly superfluous, Meggie was sent from the room to keep her brothers amused.

They were amusing themselves, oblivious of the drama taking place downstairs, and playing marbles accompanied by various boy noises and protests of, ‘That’s not fair, it was my turn.’