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Charles suddenly jumped to his feet. He shook his head, breathing heavily. ‘Why would you say such a thing? Are you so desperate to save a dilapidated house?’
‘This has nothing to do with Driftwood House,’ said Rosie, blood pounding in her ears.
‘Your father is David Merchant.’ Charles sounded so arrogant, so sure. What had her mother ever seen in this man?
‘Do you know the date of my birthday?’
‘Obviously not. Why would I?’
‘It’s the eighth of June, 1989. That’s seven months after my mum and David were married, and apparently I wasn’t a honeymoon baby.’
Charles blanched, his face as pale as the chalk-white vase behind him. ‘You must have been premature.’
‘That’s what my mum implied. But I’ve spoken recently to the midwife who delivered me and I was full-term.’
‘That can’t be.’
‘And Mum told the midwife that—’
‘What can’t be?’ Cecilia had slipped into the room unnoticed. She stood by the door, tapping her foot on the polished parquet. ‘What the hell is she doing here?’
Charles got to his feet, colour flooding his cheeks. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be back so early, Cecilia.’
‘I said, what the hell is she doing here? I left instructions that you weren’t to be disturbed.’
Cecilia almost spat out the words and Rosie stood up to go. Now that she’d confronted Charles and found out the truth about his relationship with her mother, what was the point in carrying on? She wasn’t going to beg him to admit they were related, or waste her time persuading him she was telling the truth. But Charles spoke, his voice now low and calm.
‘Miss Merchant is claiming that I’m her father.’
‘That’s preposterous! This gold-digging ploy won’t save your home, Miss Merchant.’
‘Gold-digging?’ Rosie stood in front of the fireplace, drawing in shallow breaths. ‘I don’t want your money and if you’re determined to destroy Driftwood House, so be it. I thought your husband might want to know that he might have a daughter, but I was wrong.’
‘Charles?’ barked Cecilia. But Charles said nothing. He was looking at Rosie as though he’d seen a ghost. He sank back slowly onto the sofa, his hand on his chest. Oh God, he’d have a heart attack if this continued. Pushing past Cecilia, Rosie hurried through the hall to the front door.
‘Your ploy will come to nothing,’ shouted Cecilia after her. ‘There will be no DNA tests, no more meetings, and no rumours about parentage or you’ll be hearing from our solicitor. Fly back to where you came from and leave us all in peace.’
Rosie fumbled opening the door, almost fell through it and rushed to the Mini, her feet crunching on the gravel. Dark clouds had blotted out the sun and drops of rain were splattering on her dusty car. What had she done? Sharp stones pinged against the Mercedes as she slammed the Mini into reverse, did the worst three-point turn of her life and zoomed between the stone pillars that marked the entrance to High Tor House.
The long track back to the road was pitted with potholes but she didn’t slow down. The car bounced and scraped while she put distance between herself and Charles. The man had broken her mother’s heart in a cavalier fashion so what had she been expecting – a touching reunion?
‘Stupid! Stupid!’ she spat out, hitting the steering wheel and trying to see the road through her tears. She’d lost her mother and Driftwood House, and the man she felt more certain than ever was her father was cold and heartless. She would never see him or have anything to do with him again. Cecilia was right. It was time for her to go back to Spain because, even though Matt had betrayed her too, there were no more secrets or lies waiting for her there.
