The Silent Touch of Shadows (6 page)

Melissa sat up in bed, her heart beating so hard she thought it would surely burst, her nightdress drenched in perspiration and her mind in turmoil. The last misty images of the dream hovered on the periphery of her vision. She blinked, trying to focus on the here and now in order to banish the strange scene in the little church. The leathery smell of the knight’s outstretched gauntlet lingered in her nostrils and she could still hear the clanging of a bell. It was unbearable and she was just about to put her hands up over her ears when she realised the noise had nothing to do with weddings.

She was back in London and someone was ringing her doorbell.

Hurrying out of bed, she stuck her feet into a pair of worn slippers and snatched up her dressing gown. Yawning hugely, she rushed down the hall and peered through the spy hole, sighing when she saw who was outside.

‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered and drew in a steadying breath before opening the door.

‘It’s about bloody time, I haven’t got all day, you know. You deaf or something?’

‘Excuse me?’ Melissa stifled another yawn and tried to focus on her apparently angry landlord, Mr Donne. He glared at her, two red spots highlighting his pasty cheeks, but she pretended not to notice. He had dragged her out of a well-deserved Saturday morning lie-in, and she wasn’t in the mood for his histrionics.

‘I’ve been standing here for ages. A man has better things to do,’ he grumbled.

‘Yes, quite.’ Like sleep, she wanted to add, but didn’t. She was so tired it was an effort just to keep her eyes open. It had been a long, hard week and she desperately needed a rest. Thoughts of Ashleigh and her great-aunt’s kind offer had kept her awake most nights, as had a backlog of genealogical charts and ongoing research projects which had forced her to stay up long past her usual bedtime. The last thing she wanted was a conversation with Mr Donne. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

‘For starters, you can tell that brat of yours to turn the TV down. It’s so loud a person can’t hear themselves think downstairs. I’ve told you before, I won’t stand for it.’

‘It can’t be as bad as all that, I can barely hear it from here.’ Melissa tried not to show the irritation rising rapidly inside her. Jolie did have a tendency to turn the sound up too much, but today it was at a perfectly reasonable level for most people.

‘Then you need your hearing tested, Ms Grantham.’

‘Very well,’ she said curtly, ‘I’ll ask Jolie to turn it down. Perhaps you could do something for me in return? The heating doesn’t seem to be working and as I believe it was supposed to be included in the rent, I’d be grateful if you could fix it as soon as possible.’ She shivered, despite wearing the thick bathrobe and slippers. The little flat was perpetually damp and cold, no matter what the weather was like outside.

The landlord puffed out his chest in indignation, his beetle brows almost meeting in the middle as he fixed her with a malevolent look. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the heating, Ms Grantham, it’s working perfectly downstairs. If you’ve broken any radiators, it’s up to you to have them seen to.’

‘But
 
…’

‘And if you don’t like it here, you’re welcome to leave at any time. In fact, that’s what I came to say. I want you gone by next week because my son needs a place to kip for a while. You’re nothing but trouble anyhow. You and that noisy kid of yours.’

‘What? You can’t do that. The contract said we have rented this flat until the end of this month. If you wanted to change it you’d have to give one month’s notice in writing.’

‘Well maybe I did write to you. Perhaps the letter got lost?’ He smirked, looking pleased with himself for coming up with that little lie. ‘I’ll give you a copy.’

Melissa narrowed her eyes at him, anger finally getting the better of her. ‘Now you listen to me, Mr Donne. I’ll be very happy to leave this disgusting hovel, but I’m not going for another three weeks and if you try anything, I’ll get on to my solicitor.’ She slammed the door in his face, restraining the urge to shove the self-important little man down the stairs.

‘The nerve of the man!’ Righteous indignation sustained her as far as the kitchen, then despair hit her with full force. ‘Shit, shit, shit
 
…’ She banged a fist into the nearest cupboard door, but regretted it the instant pain streaked up her arm. She sank onto one of the two rickety bar stools which served as kitchen chairs and slumped over the counter, her head cradled on top of her arms.
What am I going to do?

This was the third flat she’d rented in two years and something always seemed to go wrong. It was difficult to find properties within walking distance of Jolie’s school. She didn’t have much hope of finding another, especially at such short notice. In fact, it would be downright impossible. If they were staying in London, they needed to be close enough so that Jolie could walk back on her own on the days Melissa worked away from home.

But were they staying in London? Melissa still couldn’t make up her mind.

Heaving a sigh, she stared out of the grimy window, which overlooked a railway track and the back of a windowless building. Filthy bricks, covered with graffiti, stretched as far as the eye could see; a thoroughly depressing sight and one she definitely wouldn’t miss. She thought she must be mad to hesitate for even a fraction of a second, but she still felt there was something strange about her great-aunt’s sudden offer. Not to mention her timely appearance in Melissa’s life. It was simply too good to be true.

A train rumbled by, causing the house to shake as if in an earthquake, but she barely noticed any longer. Instead she wondered idly how the graffiti-artists managed to get up so high to do their paintings. Surely it wasn’t possible to bring a ladder onto a busy railway and paint away without anyone noticing?

Trying her best to put all thoughts of her problems firmly out of her mind for the moment, she thought that now she was awake, she might as well stay up and get on with some work. She’d had a breakthrough on one of the family trees yesterday and needed to write up her notes. First things first, though. She went to ask Jolie what she’d like for breakfast.

‘Shh, I’ll miss the end of the programme,’ was the reply.

Melissa opened her mouth to tell Jolie off for being so rude, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She didn’t want to start the weekend on bad terms and lately Jolie had become very difficult and moody, even more so since the visit to Ashleigh. Melissa supposed it was the onset of puberty, but it was definitely another thing she could do without right now. ‘Fine, get your own breakfast then,’ was all she said.

She headed back towards the kitchen and wished that she could start the day all over again. She barely made it as far as the hall before the doorbell rang once more, however. As she reached for the handle, she realised she’d forgotten to tell Jolie to turn the sound down. This made her even more cross and she yanked the door open.

‘Yes, I was just about to tell her,’ she started to say in a belligerent voice, only to stop mid-sentence. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Steve was the last person she’d expected to see and the impact was therefore doubly devastating. Although her brain had accepted the fact that he’d left her for someone else, her body had not. It was always a struggle not to show him that a part of her still wanted him back. Normally, when she knew a meeting was inevitable, she had time to steel herself beforehand and retreat behind a carefully constructed shell of indifference. Not so this morning. His rugged good looks had the sort of effect they’d always had on her and she fought hard to regain her composure. Clenching her fist inside the pocket of her bathrobe, she felt the nails digging into the palm of her hand. She concentrated on the pain it caused rather than the wave of longing that swept through her.

‘Nice to see you, too.’ Steve looked almost as irritated as she herself had been only a moment before. ‘Is she ready?’

‘Who?’

‘Jolie, of course. Who d’you think?’

‘Ready?’

‘What’s the matter with you? Had a heavy night last night or something? I said I was coming to pick her up at ten and you said that was fine.’

‘Oh, for your mother’s birthday lunch.’ Melissa’s brain, which had temporarily stopped working, crunched into gear. She frowned. ‘But you said Sunday. Surely, her birthday is tomorrow?’

‘Yes, yes, but I said we were having lunch today, Saturday, because I’ve got something else on tomorrow. Don’t tell me she isn’t ready? We’re going to be late as it is.’ He groaned and ran a hand through the silky dark hair Melissa remembered so well. It brought back memories she didn’t want to dwell on and she shivered with the effort to keep them suppressed.

‘I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. Just give me ten minutes and she’ll be ready, okay?’

‘Ten minutes, not a second more.’ Without so much as a ‘goodbye’, he stomped off down the stairs and slammed the door to the street, making Melissa wince. She expected Mr Donne to come charging out to complain yet again, and shut her own door hurriedly.

‘Jolie, come on, quickly, you’ve got to get dressed,’ she shouted, springing into action.

They managed it, but only just. Melissa thanked her lucky stars she had at least bought and wrapped her former mother-in-law’s present, a silk scarf in the exact shade of green that was Beatrice’s favourite colour. She shoved the parcel into Jolie’s hands, gave her a quick hug and waved her off. ‘Behave yourself now, you know what your gran is like.’

She wasn’t really worried, however. Beatrice was strict, but Melissa also knew that Steve’s mother had a soft spot for Jolie and the two of them had always enjoyed each other’s company. Once you got to know her, Beatrice wasn’t half as scary as she seemed on first acquaintance and Melissa still had a good relationship with her, despite the divorce.

She stood for a moment by the window, watching as the car sped away down the street with an angry roar. Apart from Jolie and her father, it also contained Daisy, the woman who had lured Steve away, and a toddler who was apparently Jolie’s half-sister. The thought of that child, conceived while Melissa and Steve were still married, was like a knife-edge of pain slicing through her and Melissa quickly pulled away from the window.

She stood in the silent flat, battling the feelings of resentment, depression and heartache that always followed a meeting with Steve.

‘… to have and to hold, till death do us part
 
…’

The words from her dream echoed through her mind once more, but she shook her head to free herself from its cloying tentacles. Steve had spoken those vows once, but he hadn’t meant them in real life, any more than in the dream. Or if he had, he’d quickly forgotten.

No, there was no happy-ever-after for Melissa.

Chapter Five

Although servants scurried around putting up trestle tables for the main meal of the day, Roger was happy to see they were out of earshot. What he was about to discuss with the lord of Idenhurst was no one’s business but his own. He preferred to be without an audience.

They chatted about the weather and the state of the roads at first while they sipped their wine. At the same time, Roger surveyed the hall with curiosity. It was impressive, with a series of windows facing the courtyard and a huge oriel window in the middle of the opposite wall. On either side of this were two enormous fireplaces with carved stone surrounds. They looked newly built and must have replaced the customary open fire in the middle of the room. They struggled to heat the vast chamber, belching puffs of smoke into it from time to time, which made the air heavy. Fresh rushes were being strewn on the floor, and Roger guessed that Lady Presseille ran her household in a well-ordered and cleanly fashion. There were no dogs looking for scraps, so he assumed they’d been banned.

When the ladies had disappeared, a little of Sir Gilbert’s bonhomie had gone with them. ‘So, you wished to speak to me,’ he said now, raising his eyebrows.

‘Yes. It’s with regard to a matter that concerns my late mother, Lady Emma of Langford,’ Roger began, unconsciously lowering his voice a little. He thought he saw a flicker of surprise in the older man’s eyes, but it was quickly masked and he couldn’t be certain.

Sir Gilbert said only, ‘Oh, yes?’

Roger tried to see through the polite façade. He needed to judge what manner of man Sir Gilbert might be. His lordship had, at first glance, looked affable enough. Usually skilled at weighing up his opponents, in Sir Gilbert he perceived hidden depths. Judging him proved more difficult than he had anticipated. Roger already knew about the death of Roland Presseille, Sir Gilbert’s only son, because he’d actually been present when it occurred, but he wasn’t about to mention that. Although obviously tired and drawn by grief, the older man appeared calm and collected, with an innate courtesy not always present in a person of his high standing. Roger decided he was probably fair and honest, as Sibell had said.

‘I’m a bastard,’ he continued matter-of-factly, ‘and have never felt the lack of a father. However, I have to admit to a certain curiosity as to who my sire might be. My mother assured me that my father was nobly born, but she always refused to tell me his name. On her deathbed, however, she relented and told me to seek you out.’

The older man’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but he held his tongue.

Roger went on, ‘She claimed my father was a member of the Presseille family, and said that if you were as honest as she remembered, you would help me to find him.’ He held out his hand and removed a ring from the smallest finger. ‘She said this might help nudge someone’s memory.’