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Abigail chewed her bottom lip. She understood. Clarissa didn’t want her talking to Peter or Joyce about this.
‘Besides, what if it was wrong?’
‘What do you mean, Clarissa?’
‘The tests. They could have been wrong.’
Abigail stared at her for a long moment, debating whether to let her carry on believing that. It was obviously something she’d been telling herself since he died. If the test was wrong, then her mother hadn’t lied to them all these years, by omission, not telling either Toby, Clarissa or her husband, Peter, that she’d adopted Toby.
Clarissa stared at Abigail. ‘You know something, don’t you?’
Abigail shook her head. Why bother telling her what she’d found out? At least this way Clarissa could believe the tests were wrong and Toby really was her brother.
Clarissa turned to face her. ‘Abigail …’ she started. She sighed, before continuing, matter-of-factly, ‘The tests aren’t wrong – are they?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘Gerald, my stepdad, told me something. All these years we were holidaying in that cottage, but when we visited my parents, when we came down, it was something that never came up in conversation. I wish it had.’
Clarissa eyed her. ‘What are you talking about?’
Abigail took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I think Toby was a foundling. In fact, after you told me the results of the DNA test, I know for sure.’
‘What?’
‘The night of the Great Storm, the night we were both born …’ – she knew Clarissa was aware that she and Toby shared a birthday – ‘a baby was left in the storm porch of that cottage.’
‘The cottage he was given?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gerald told me that the woman who was living there at the time adopted the baby. It was common knowledge in the local community, but then she moved away.’
‘To London.’
Abigail nodded. ‘Yes, to London, where she met …’
‘My father.’
They stared at each other; the silence interrupted by the sound of children’s voices on the beach. They both turned around.
‘Mummy!’
Clarissa waved.
Abigail saw a girl and a boy, Clarissa’s children, running down the beach towards them. They were with a man Abigail recognised too – Clarissa’s father, Peter.
Donut raised his head, stood up and started running to meet the children.
Abigail turned to Clarissa, adding. ‘There’s something else. The cottage was put into a trust for Toby when he was five years old.’
The look on Clarissa’s face said that Toby hadn’t told her this.
‘I believe it coincided with your mum, Joyce, moving out of the cottage and taking him to London. There were three trustees. Daphne, and two others. I think your mum was one of the other trustees.’
Abigail noticed the children had stopped before reaching them to greet the dog.
‘Are you saying she knew about the cottage?’
‘Yes.’
