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‘Then my father should have made proper arrangements for him to do so,’ Lucy told her crisply, suddenly tired of the demands that were made on her in the name of duty. Her father had never really loved her, not as he loved Oliver, and why should she sacrifice herself in order to virtually bring up his son? She would go mad if she had to stay here much longer, haunted day and night by the memory of the way Saul had looked at her, tormented by memories of how he had touched her… seduced her into believing he loved her. She shuddered now, fighting to break free of the powerful mental images.
‘It’s all decided, Fanny,’ she went on firmly. ‘I’m leaving at the end of the week.’
As though she realised that she couldn’t be swayed Fanny went silent.
She would miss the children, Lucy acknowledged later in the week, surveying the growing pile of boxes stacked on the study floor. But she couldn’t stay here. So far she had been lucky—she had seen no sign of Saul. Only she knew how, during those first awful days, she had hoped to hear his car outside, his footsteps across the floor, hope slowly withering and then dying as the hours went by without any indication from him that it had all been some terrible mistake and that he loved her after all.
She could only presume now that he was deliberately keeping out of sight and her pride would not allow her to stay somewhere where she was so obviously unwanted—and so vulnerable.
He had been so willing to believe the worst of her—had wanted to believe it, she was convinced now. Perhaps he had engineered the whole situation simply to get back at her, had deliberately and callously set out to make her fall in love with him, while not caring the least about her at all. And then, when he had discovered he was her first lover, he had been too shocked to conceal his true feelings: his lack of desire to have any sort of permanent relationship with her. She would probably never know the whole truth—nor did she want to, she told herself firmly. It was over—for good.
* * *
She had to make several journeys to London with her things, her car being too small to transport them all in one go. If and when she sold the Dower House she would have to find somewhere to store her furniture—or get rid of it. Perhaps her uncle might agree to store some of it for her; he and her aunt had a massive Victorian riverside house with plenty of storage space.
Thinking of her uncle reminded Lucy that it was some time since she had seen him, and also that he had no idea of her new address.
Now that he was semi-retired he worked from home, so on the first day of her new life in London she set out to see him.
As always her aunt and uncle were delighted to see her, her aunt kissing her warmly and chiding her for leaving it so long between visits as she drew her into the house.
Margaret Summers clucked anxiously over Lucy’s pale face as she ushered her into the sunny room where her husband worked.
‘Look who’s here, Leo,’ she exclaimed as she opened the door.
‘Lucy—my dear.’
Leo Summers hugged his niece warmly, noticing as his wife had done that she looked far too fine-drawn and pale.
He had never truly taken to the man his beloved sister had married and it was his private opinion that as a father he had left much to be desired. Mind you, love and caring did not always produce a happy child, as he knew. Their own son Neville was a bitter disappointment to him; to both of them really, although Margaret always remained tremendously loyal to their only child. Perhaps if they had been able to have more as they had planned… As always when he thought about his son, his eyes clouded a little.
‘Come and tell us what you’re doing with yourself,’ Margaret insisted, correctly reading the look in her husband’s eyes.
‘Well I’ve left the Dower House and I’m working in London.’ As Lucy had anticipated this bombshell provoked an avalanche of questions.
‘I never agreed with the way your father expected you to take on the responsibility of Fanny and the children,’ Leo said when she had finished. ‘But Lucy, you’ve always loved the country so much. Why didn’t you come to us instead of finding a flat? You know we’d have loved to have you.’
‘I’m twenty-five years old,’ she reminded him wryly, ‘and it’s time I stood on my own two feet.’
‘Umm… Well at least I hope we’ll see a little more of you now. How about the book; how is it going?’
They talked about her work for half an hour while Margaret went to make some coffee. When she came back there were four cups on the tray instead of three and she looked slightly apprehensive.
‘It must be our day for visitors,’ she told her husband. ‘Neville has just arrived.’
