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Immediately Hugo’s eyebrows rose, the look he was givin
g her every bit as disdainful as the one she had just given him.
‘That rather depends. You see—’ He broke off as the telephone in the kitchen started to ring, excusing himself to Dee as he went to answer it.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she heard him saying to whoever was calling. ‘No, that’s no problem. I shall be staying here anyway, so you can contact me here... No, that’s not a problem; there’s no time limit... My work means that I can base myself virtually anywhere just so long as I have access to the conveniences of modern technology.... No...I haven’t told her yet, but I intend to do so...’
Dee hadn’t deliberately eavesdropped on his conversation, but it was impossible for her not to have overheard it, even though she had walked into the hall. As she heard Hugo replacing the receiver, Dee walked back towards the kitchen.
‘Since I can’t see or speak with Peter, there isn’t much point in my staying. When he does wake up please give him my love. I’ve brought some food and—’
She stopped as Hugo cut her off abruptly, telling her brusquely, ‘You can’t go yet. There’s something I have to tell you.’
Something he had to tell her? Whatever it was she could tell from his expression that it wasn’t anything pleasant. Her heart started to thump. Had Peter said something to him about her father...about the past? But, no, Peter didn’t know. She had never... But he could have guessed, had his own suspicions...and...
‘What is it? Tell me...’
Dee could hear the anxiety crackling in her own voice, making it sound harsh.
‘We’ll go into the other room,’ Hugo suggested. ‘We’re right under Peter’s bedroom here, and I don’t want to disturb him.’
Her heart pounding in heavy sledgehammer blows, Dee followed him into the parlour.
The air in the room was stale and stuffy, and automatically she walked towards the window, skirting past Hugo and the large pieces of Victorian furniture which dominated the room.
‘What is it? What do you want to say to me?’ Dee repeated tensely.
Hugo was frowning, looking away from her as though... Surely he...?
‘Peter and I had a long chat after you’d gone last night...’
Dee could feel the violence of the heavy hammer-blows of her heart shaking her chest. Here it was: the blow she had always dreaded. Peter had spoken to Hugo, shared with him his doubts and fears about her father. Doubts and fears which he had never voiced to her, but which, like her, had obviously haunted him.
‘He was telling me that your father...’
Dee closed her eyes, willing herself not to give in to the creeping remorseless tide of fear rising up through her body in an icy-cold wave.
‘My father is dead, Hugo,’ she cried out passionately. ‘All he ever wanted to do was to help other people. That was all he ever wanted. He never...’
She stopped, unable to go on.
And then she took a deep breath, straightening her spine, forcing herself to look Hugo in the eye as she demanded huskily, ‘What did Peter tell you?’
‘He said that he was concerned about your plans to alter the focus of your father’s charity. He told me that he was afraid that you were allowing yourself to be swayed by your emotion, and he said, as well, that he was afraid that you would try to pressure him into supporting you.’
Dee stared at him uncomprehendingly. Peter had talked to Hugo about her father’s charity and not about his death. He had confided to him his fear of her desire to change things, his fear that...
The relief made her feel weakly light-headed. So much so that she actually started to laugh a little shakily.
‘It’s all very well for you to laugh, Dee,’ Hugo chided her. ‘It’s obvious to me what you’re trying to do. You want to steamroller Peter into supporting these changes you want to make, even if that means forcing him to act against his conscience.’
Dee fought to gather her thoughts. In the initial relief of discovering that Peter had not discussed her father’s death with Hugo she had overlooked the gravity of what he was telling her. Now she was becoming sharply aware of it.
‘Peter had no right to discuss the charity’s business with you,’ she reprimanded sharply. ‘The charity is a private organisation run by the main committee of which I am the Chairperson. How that committee operates is the business of ourselves and ourselves alone—’
‘Not quite,’ Hugo interrupted her quietly, ‘as I’m sure the Charity Commissioners would be the first to remind you...’
At this mention of the government body responsible for overseeing the proper management and control of charities Dee’s eyes widened in indignation.
