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And that was one of the important lessons in life Alistair taught her. How to laugh at adversity—how to smile when you were at your most miserable—how to look at the positives rather than the negatives.
By the time Clarissa was seated once more at her desk, the ormolu clock on her mantelpiece was striking the hour.
The father of Meredith Wentworth was late.
Meredith was a very bright and promising girl, but her family had neglected to pay their bills for the past four months and Clarissa knew she had let things go as long as she dared. Her school needed fees to keep operating, and although she saw much to like in Meredith she couldn’t continue to teach her for free. Surely some arrangement could be made? A small amount paid when possible, or at least the intention to settle the account at some future date.
She’d written to Mr. Wentworth and he had agreed to see her this afternoon at four. Now, in fact. So where was he?
With a sigh she went to the window and peered out. Down in the courtyard there were girls sitting and reading, others sketching, some simply gossiping. Her reflection stared back at her and she saw that her hair had become disarranged and patted it back into place.
At thirty nine she was still a young looking woman; her figure was slender and she was without a grey hair, well perhaps one or two. Her skin was good and any lines on her face were faint; her eyes had the same clear gaze they’d always had. Some days she felt ancient in comparison to the girls she taught, and sometimes she felt lonely, wishing she had a sibling, or a parent, with whom to share anniversaries and birthdays and memories. There was Annie of course, but she had a family of her own. But it did no good to dwell on what could not be, she reminded herself. In so many ways she was extremely fortunate . . .
The tap on her door took her by surprise and she turned, calling, “Come in.”
Annie poked her head in and there was something odd about her expression. As if she had seen a ghost. “Your visitor is here, Miss Debenham,” she said, and her eyes seemed to be trying to convey something.
Puzzled, Clarissa asked Annie to send him in.
When the gentleman came through the doorway she understood why Annie had looked like she’d seen a ghost. Because Clarissa was seeing him too.
The man who came into her room was someone she had thought never to see again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the door opened Clarissa stared in disbelief. It flashed through her mind that all her remembering of the past was playing tricks on her eyes, because the man who came into her room was someone who could not possibly be here.
But he was! He was here!
Joy flooded her, and then washed away again, leaving only confusion.
He was older; his hair was not so long and there were lines on his face that had not been there before, as well as an old scar, but it was him.
Alistair McKay.
Was he Meredith’s father? But no, he couldn’t be. The surname was wrong.
He was standing inside her office, looking at her, but there was no recognition in his face. Why didn’t he recognise her?
Then she realised she was standing against the window and he probably saw little more than a silhouette, and with her heart beating faster than it had for years she stepped forward to her desk.
He saw her now and recognised her. Shock made his brown eyes grow wide and some emotion flickered in them briefly, before he looked down, away from her. When he looked at her again his face was wary and his mouth was tight. He gave a her a polite bow and spoke.
“I am here about Meredith.” His voice sounded the same. Another jump of her heart; her emotions were running wild and she forced herself to rein them in.
“Meredith Wentworth?”
“Yes. I didn’t realise you would be seeing me in person . . .”
Did he mean that if he had known he would not have come at all? Clarissa felt the last of her joy seeping away. She forced herself to smile, although the movement felt stiff and false. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. “I’m sure we can cope with a few fading memories, Mr. McKay. Is Meredith your daughter?”
He shook his head; he looked a little bemused still but he was quickly regaining his wits. “Meredith is my niece. She’s my sister’s child.”
“I see.” She would not admit it to herself, but Clarissa was glad Meredith wasn’t his daughter, although she knew how foolish she was being. Even if Meredith wasn’t his it didn’t mean he didn’t have several children of his own. Dozens, probably. Her own silliness almost made her laugh and it helped to release some of her tension. She sat down and gestured to the chair opposite. “Please, take a seat, Mr. McKay.”
He looked at the chair and seemed to gather himself before he made his way toward it. Clarissa was very glad she was sitting down. After his first few awkward steps she stared down at her ledgers so she didn’t have to look any more. Her hands, clasped beneath the desk, were shaking and there were tears in her eyes, blurring the cold hard fact that Alistair had been injured.
Beneath the plain brown stuff of his trousers he must have a wooden peg instead of flesh and blood. She could tell from the way he moved, fluid enough from practise, but no longer as fluidly as a real leg would move. Clarissa had seen such injuries before; in men who had fought in the wars of twenty and more years ago amputations were far from uncommon. She knew she must speak and act naturally. For his sake. She must not let him see how very saddened she was. The Alistair McKay she remembered would hate to be pitied.
