Castles of Sand
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Anne Mather
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CHAPTER ONE
THE room was quiet. Even though it was only a stone’s throw from the busy heart of London’s West End, the school buildings seldom allowed more than the steady hum of traffic to invade their thick walls, and Kingsley Square was a sequestered backwater, secure from the noise and confusion scarcely half a mile away. Sitting at her desk, with a pile of crisp new exercise books in front of her, Ashley could not have wished for more private surroundings to bear the shock she had just experienced, and yet it still left her shaking and incapable of coherent thought.
She looked at the register of names in front of her, and ran a trembling finger down the column. Devlin, Fredericks—perhaps she had been mistaken—but no, there it was again, Gauthier, Hussein Gauthier, there was no mistake. And it was not such a common name either. Surely, surely, there could not be two seven-year-old boys called Hussein Gauthier.
She did not often take a drink, but right now Ashley felt she could do with one. Her mouth felt dry, and her head was spinning, and although she knew there were other matters to be taken into consideration, all she could think of was that she was expected to have the boy in her form for a whole year!
It couldn’t be done. Her initial reactions were all negative. She would not—she could not—be expected to teach him; not in the present circumstances. It was too much to ask of anyone, any woman, at least. How could it have happened? What cruel twist of fate had brought the boy to this school, out of all the schools that could have been chosen? It was intolerable, it was unkind, it was inhuman!
Ashley got up jerkily from her desk, pushing back her chair so abruptly, it almost fell over, and rocked dangerously on its back legs. But it steadied itself, as Ashley tried to do, before stepping down from the small dais and walking determinedly towards the door.
Outside, the polished wooden blocks of the floor of the corridor stretched ahead of her, the walls lined with portraits of past headmasters of Brede School. Between the portraits, half glass doors opened into other classrooms and activity rooms, empty until tomorrow when the school re-opened after the summer recess. Ashley herself had only come in that morning to acclimatise herself to her surroundings again, and to run a casual eye over the new pupils she was to have charge of. She had been away, staying with some friends in Yorkshire, enjoying the unaccustomed freedom from books and learning, joining in the work of the farm, where she had spent the last two months. The Armstrongs had always been like her own family to her. She and Lucy Armstrong had met at university, and since then, apart from those disastrous months she had spent with Hassan, she had remained in regular contact with them. As she had no parents of her own, there had been many occasions when she had been grateful for their support, and at this very moment she would have welcomed Mr Armstrong’s practical common sense.
The corridor emerged on to a railed landing, overlooking the entrance hall below. The school had originally been formed in the eighteenth century by linking together two town houses, and although the buildings had been added to since that time, the atmosphere of a close community remained. There were lots of halls and curiously winding staircases, and low beams to catch the unwary, but as the boys it accommodated were only five to thirteen years of age, it seldom troubled them. It was a small school, only a hundred and fifty pupils, but its record was excellent, and its results ensured a permanent register of pupils waiting to receive a place.
As she hurried down the stairs, Ashley wondered how Hussein had been admitted. Had his name been entered since his birth, as many of the boys’ names had, or had someone in authority pulled some strings? She could hardly believe the former, and although the latter seemed more likely, what unknowing chance had prompted Alain to choose this school?
Malcolm Henley, the present headmaster of Brede School, had his study on the ground floor, in a room which had once been used as a reception parlour. It was not a large room, but the ceiling was high, and the bookshelves that lined the walls drew one’s eyes upwards rather than pointing to its limited proportions. It was a comfortable room, a masculine room, with rather austere furnishings and fittings, but Ashley had always felt at ease here, and during the five years she had been working in the school, she and Malcolm had become close friends.
Now, she knocked at the door, and having been bidden to enter, stepped on to the worn brown carpet. Malcolm had been seated at his desk, but at her entrance he rose politely to his feet, and with a warm smile came round the desk to greet her.
‘Well, Ashley,’ he said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘Have you satisfied yourself that everything is as you left it?’
Ashley forced a faint smile. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve done that,’ she answered, withdrawing her hand from his enthusiastic hold. ‘And—and I checked over the new register of pupils.’
Malcolm nodded, pulling his pipe out of his pocket, and examining the bowl with a knowing eye. ‘You’ll see you’ve got fifteen boys this year,’ he remarked, searching his pockets for some matches. ‘I’ve agreed to take on an extra pupil, one who is slightly older than we usually take them, but an intelligent boy for all that, or so I believe.’
‘Hussein Gauthier,’ put in Ashley tightly, and Malcolm acknowledged this as he struck a match.
‘Gauthier, yes, that is the boy’s name,’ he agreed, smiling as he dropped the spent match into the already overflowing ashtray. Then a look of mild concern crossed his lined, yet still handsome, face. ‘Is something wrong, Ashley? You look—disturbed.’
Ashley indicated the chair at the opposite side of the desk. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm walked to resume his seat. ‘Need you ask?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Physically, you mean?’ suggested Ashley, a vaguely hysterical note lurking in her voice. ‘No. No, Malcolm, I’m not ill. At least, not in any way that you can see.’
Malcolm rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her thoughtfully across its littered width. ‘You are upset, aren’t you? What is it? Is there anything I can do?’
Ashley lay back in the worn leather armchair and wished desperately that there was. But she didn’t see what anyone could do—except herself. She and Malcolm had never discussed her past. Oh, he knew she had been married, and that her husband had died within a few days of that marriage, but that was all. She had never discussed his identity, or their relationship, and as she had reverted to her maiden name of Gilbert, the rest of the staff were no wiser.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Malcolm indicated the decanter on the filing cabinet by the window, but Ashley shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ she protested, and Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.
‘Perhaps you need one,’ he suggested, and remembering her own thoughts of only a few minutes ago, Ashley acquiesced. Maybe it would be easier to say what she had to say with a little dutch courage inside her. She didn’t honestly know what she was going to say, but something had to be said, that was certain.
With a glass containing a measure of Scotch whisky in her hand, Ashley strove to find a way to explain herself. ‘I—I have to offer you my resignation,’ she said, clearing her throat as Malcolm stared at her aghast. ‘I—I’m sorry. I know it’s an awkward time for you, the beginning of term and everything, but—I—I’m sorry.’
She buried her nose in the glass as Malcolm digested what she had just told him. Characteristically, he did not immediately deny her claim, but sat there quietly smoking his pipe, watching her with the same assessing intentness, with which he appraised the boys.
‘I assume you do intend to tell me why you’ve come to this decision,’ he said at last, when Ashley had choked over the raw alcohol and set her eyes streaming. ‘You do realise that I care about you, and am concerned about you, and that whatever it is that’s troubling you is better shared?’
Ashley expelled her breath shakily. ‘You’re very kind, Malcolm, but—’
‘I’m not kind!’ he retorted briefly. ‘I’m concerned. That’s a completely different thing.’
Ashley sighed. Malcom was kind, whatever he said. Kind, and understanding, and had she never known another kind of loving she might easily have succumbed to his affectionate attentions. But when she first came to Brede School to work, she had still been raw from her experiences with the Gauthiers, and she had made it plain that so far as men were concerned she preferred them to keep their distance. In consequence, the association which had developed over the years between her and Malcolm was compounded of a mutual liking and respect, and if, as a bachelor of almost forty years, Malcolm still hoped for a closer relationship, Ashley was not to blame. Nevertheless she did not want to hurt him, and she was loath to destroy what she had built up without due cause.
‘I have to leave,’ she said now, choosing her words with care. ‘Something—something’s happened. I—I can’t stay on.’
Malcolm tapped out his pipe in the ashtray, spilling smouldering shreds of tobacco over the scarred surface of his desk, so that he had to rescue several papers from ignition. Then, turning an unusually taut gaze on Ashley, he said:
‘Why? Why can’t you? You seemed perfectly all right when you arrived this morning. Why, we waved to one another across the quadrangle. For heaven’s sake, if you were thinking of leaving, why didn’t you warn me then?’
Ashley shook her head, looking down into her glass, and with sudden perception Malcolm brought his fist down hard upon the desk. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving then, were you? It’s something else. Something that’s happened this morning. Something to do with this new form you’re taking—’
‘No—’ began Ashley, realising he was closing on the truth, but Malcolm wasn’t listening to her.
‘It must have to do with the boy,’ he finished at last. ‘What was his name? Gauthier—Hussein Gauthier! Of course,’ this as Ashley turned a stricken face towards him. ‘Why didn’t I realise it before? You identified him immediately, as soon as I mentioned a new boy. I should have connected the two things sooner, only I was more concerned about you.’
Ashley set down her scarcely-touched glass with a weary hand. What was the point of denying it any longer? she thought. Malcolm was no fool. He could demand a satisfactory explanation, he deserved a satisfactory explanation. So why pretend she could just leave here without arousing his suspicions?
‘Well?’ he was asking now. ‘I am right, aren’t I? It’s the boy Gauthier who’s upset you. Why? What’s he to you? Do you know him? Do you know his family? Ashley, I mean to find out, so you might as well be honest with me.’
Ashley inclined her head. ‘He’s my son,’ she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Hussein—Andrew—Gauthier is my son.’
Malcolm’s astonishment was not contrived. A look of stunned disbelief crossed his features and remained there. He was evidently shaken, and who could blame him? she thought bleakly. She had never, at any time, mentioned that she had had a child.
‘Don’t you think that statement deserves some explanation?’ he ventured at last, thrusting his pipe back into his pocket with somewhat unsteady haste. ‘You told me you’d been married, that your husband was dead. But—but not that—that there were children!’
‘There were no children,’ retorted Ashley wearily. ‘Only one child. And—and as I never saw him, I never felt as if he was mine.’
‘But you must have done!’ Malcolm stared at her. ‘Ashley, a woman always cares about her children.’
‘Not all women,’ corrected Ashley tautly, controlling her emotions with great difficulty. ‘But you’re right about me, as it happens. I did care. At least, in the beginning.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve never even seen this boy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But how—why? How did it happen?’
Ashley sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Malcolm—’
‘And don’t you think I deserve to hear it?’
Ashley pressed her lips together. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps you do—I don’t know. Oh, Malcolm, what am I going to do?’
Malcolm got up from his chair and came round to her, perching on the side of his desk and looking down at her with compassionate eyes. ‘I meant what I said, you know. A trouble shared can help one to see it in its right perspective. Perhaps if you talked to me—’
‘I can’t teach my own son!’ declared Ashley emotively. ‘I can’t, Malcolm. I can’t!’
‘I see there’s a problem,’ said Malcolm levelly, but as she would have protested again, he held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is something we have to talk about.’
Ashley made a helpless gesture. ‘What is there to say? It’s an impossible situation.’
‘First of all, I want you to tell me why you haven’t seen—Hussein—all these years.’ He frowned. ‘And why you added the name Andrew. I don’t recall the boy having that name.’
‘He doesn’t.’ Ashley moved her shoulders wearily. ‘That was my name for him. I called him Andrew. I—I refused to have a son of mine with only an Arab name.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, I understand that. But I had no idea your husband was an Arab. I imagined he was someone you’d met in England.’
‘I did meet him in England,’ said Ashley flatly. ‘I—I met his brother at—at the home of a girl I got to know at university. And—and through him, I got to know Hassan.’
‘I see.’ Malcolm digested this. ‘So you know his family?’
‘I—knew his brother,’ Ashley corrected tightly.
Malcolm sighed. ‘Yet you were married. You had a child!’
‘I lived in London,’ Ashley explained. ‘Hassan had been working here before we got married.’
‘Of course.’ Malcolm slapped his hand to his knee. ‘The Gauthiers are in oil and shipping, aren’t they?’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Ashley, did you realise what a wealthy family you were marrying into?’
Ashley’s long lashes veiled her expression. ‘Yes, I realised it,’ she replied dully. ‘You might say—that was why I married Hassan.’
‘Ashley!’
‘Well—’ she tilted her gaze up to him, her green eyes dark and haunted, ‘I wouldn’t be the first girl to admit that. It’s true. I was pregnant, you see.’
‘Oh, my dear!’ Malcolm made a sound of sympathy. ‘And you were—how old?’
‘Eighteen,’ she answered blankly. ‘In my first year at the college.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I was very naïve.’
Malcolm hesitated. ‘But he did marry you. Some men—well, you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ashley assented, ‘I know what you mean. But Hassan—always got what he wanted, and he wanted me.’
She said it without conceit, and Malcolm watched her closely. ‘You’re still bitter.’
Ashley’s smile was self-derisive. ‘Yes.’
‘Your husband dying so soon after the wedding—that must have been a great shock to you.’
Ashley’s expression hardened. ‘Yes.’
‘They—his family—they wouldn’t let you keep the boy?’
Ashley bent her head. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’
‘Which means I’m right, doesn’t it?’
‘Malcolm, you don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
Ashley sighed. ‘Hassan died the day after the wedding—’
‘So?’
‘—and his family blamed me!’
Malcolm stared at her. ‘Why?’
Ashley turned her head away. ‘Oh, Malcolm, don’t make me go into all the details. Let it be enough that they thought they had grounds for thinking that.’
‘But it wasn’t true?’
Ashley looked at him with tortured eyes. ‘No, it wasn’t true.’
‘And later, when they found out you were pregnant?’
Ashley hunched her shoulders. ‘We were estranged. I’d gone back to college. When—when—Hassan’s brother found out, he gave me a choice of alternatives.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Either I handed over the child when he was born, and allowed them to bring him up in the way he deserved, or he would wait until the child was older and then fight for him through the courts.’ She expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I wanted to do that, to keep him, and care for him, but how could I? I had no money of my own, and I wanted nothing from the Gauthiers. And—and I knew Alain meant what he said. He would have taken Andrew from me, by one means or another.’ She bit hard on her lips to prevent them from trembling, then added tautly: ‘You read about these things every day. Babies, children—snatched from this country, and taken to live with their fathers in some foreign place. Alain could have done that, he would have done that, I know. And how much harder it would have been for me to lose him after I’d learned to love him…’
She avoided Malcolm’s eyes as she said this. There were other reasons why she had let the boy go, but she had no intention of revealing them. She had told him too much already, more that she had told anyone, except the Armstrongs, without whom she might never have recovered from that traumatic experience. But it had been over. There had even been days when she had not thought about him at all. And now to find she was not to be allowed to forget it was the cruellest blow of all.
‘Alain?’ said Malcolm now. ‘This, I assume, is Hassan’s brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘But their names are dissimilar. And Gauthier—that’s not an Arab name.
‘No.’ Ashley cleared her throat again. ‘There’s—there’s French ancestry somewhere in their history, and—and Alain’s mother was French, actually. She—she was his father’s second wife.’
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean your husband and his brother had different mothers?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hassan—your husband—his mother died?’
‘No.’ Ashley spoke tautly. ‘So far as I know, she’s still alive. Prince—Prince Ahmed is a Moslem.’
Malcolm was amazed. ‘I see.’
Ashley had had enough of this. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, moving away from Malcolm and stiffening her spine. ‘So you see,’ she said, endeavouring to speak calmly, ‘my remaining here is—is quite out of the question. I shall look—’
‘Wait. Wait!’ Malcolm slid off the desk and stood facing her impotently, balling his hand into a fist, and pressing it into his palm. ‘Ashley, there must be something I can do, some way I can persuade you to change your mind.’ He paced restlessly across the floor. ‘If I were to transfer him to another class—transfer you to another class—’
Ashley shook her head. ‘You couldn’t do that, Malcolm. He’s—seven. He should be with seven-year-olds.’
‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take another form,’ Malcolm pointed out recklessly. ‘If I speak to Harry Rogers—’
Ashley turned away. ‘He’d still be in the school.’
‘But—’ Malcolm made a sound of frustration, ‘you wouldn’t know him. You need never see him. He would be just another boy—’
‘You’re asking a lot,’ Ashley exclaimed, glancing at him over her shoulder. ‘Could you do it? Could you work here, knowing your son was in the school and didn’t know you?’
Malcolm had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you could,’ said Ashley steadily. ‘I don’t think anyone could.’
‘Well, you must give me time to think, to make arrangements,’ Malcolm exhorted desperately. ‘Tomorrow the boarders return, and the day after that school re-opens. You can’t abandon me without notice, Ashley.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘How much notice do you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A month is usual. A term would be better.’
‘And in my case?’
Malcolm sighed. ‘Two weeks?’ he ventured tentatively.
‘Two weeks!’ Ashley sucked in her breath. ‘Malcolm—’
‘I’ll transfer you. I’ll let Rogers take your form. Who knows, you may change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Ashley was very definite about that. But she managed to maintain a semblance of composure as she added: ‘I’ll submit my written resignation this afternoon. And I’ll transfer my things to Room 1A.’
Malcolm made a baffled gesture. ‘Won’t you at least think about this, Ashley? You’ve been here five years!’
‘I know.’ Ashley moved towards the door. ‘And they’ve been good years. But you must see, I have to do this.’
Eventually he let her go, but she knew he was not entirely satisfied that she was determined. He still held out hopes that she might change her mind, while Ashley knew that nothing he said or did could alter her decision. She would be sad to leave Brede School. She had been happy here, or at least, she had been content. Now she was lost and uncertain, with the unwelcome knowledge that it was not going to be easy to find another post. It was the wrong time of the year, and she could only hope that there was someone else, like her, who suddenly found her present position intolerable.
But even as these thoughts occurred to her, they were superseded by others. Andrew was going to be living in England, in London, and unless she took a post out of the capital, he would always be only a few miles away. Her small flat in Kilburn was only a bus ride from the school. She could make it there in less than half an hour. Could she bear to go on living within breathing distance of her son?
She hurried along the corridor from Malcolm’s study with a feeling of impending disaster weighing down on her. Why, oh, why had Alain chosen to send the boy back to England to be educated? She would never have expected it of him. The United States, perhaps, but not England. Not after everything that had happened.
And then again, she argued, why not? Both Alain and Hassan had been educated in England. Why should she have imagined anything less would be good enough for Andrew? He was a Gauthier. And unless Alain had married and produced a son, the only heir to his grandfather’s fortune.
Ashley’s stomach churned. Alain could have married, she acknowledged, but the thought still had the power to leave her weak. It was not fair, she thought, that one man should wield so much power over her, particularly when he regarded her as an inferior being, a nonentity, something to be trampled on. And it was ironic that history should have appeared to have reversed itself. Prince Ahmed had married Alain’s mother after his first wife, Princess Izmay, had produced a series of daughters. But, within a year of Alain being born, she had borne him a son, Hassan, thus ensuring the line of succession. Now Alain’s brother had succeeded in marrying before him, and the son Ashley had had was heir to Prince Ahmed.
In the entrance hall she paused, looking about her almost with a sense of bereavement. This school had come to mean a lot to her. She knew many of the boys, as they had passed through her form on their way to the middle school. She was popular with them, and being young herself could understand their problems better than some of the older masters. She and the biology mistress were the only female tutors on the staff, and she had begun to regard it less like a job and more like a vocation. She had never thought of marrying again, and these boys had become her family. Brought up by an elderly aunt, without either brothers or sisters of her own, she had welcomed their friendship and their confidences, and she dreaded the thought of beginning again with strangers.
The doorbell rang behind her, and she turned automatically, going to open it without hesitation. She guessed it might be the launderers or the caterers, or even the firm of contractors who had been redecorating the dormitories, and making minor repairs, and she flung the door wide, glad of the diversion. But the man and the boy who stood outside the door were not tradespeople at all, and Ashley’s jaw sagged in horror as she perceived their identity.
The man, too, looked taken aback at her appearance, but with the assurance that came from his position he recovered more quickly, hiding his real feelings behind a mask of courtesy. As she struggled to evade the encroaching wave of blackness that threatened to engulf her, he gathered his composure and assumed a polite expression, and she was left to gaze at the boy, as if she was afraid he might disappear in a cloud of smoke.
She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, she simply couldn’t believe it, and her knees shook abominably as she hung desperately on to the door handle. The amazing thing was, he even looked like her, although he had his father’s dark hair and skin. But the green eyes were hers, and so too was the straight nose, and the generous mouth was parted slightly, as if aware of some irregularity here.
‘Miss—Miss Gilbert, is it not?’ Just by the momentary hesitation did Alain betray his agitation, and Ashley dragged her gaze from the boy’s tall slim figure to the man’s tautly controlled features.
‘P-Prince Alain,’ she acknowledged, bowing her head. ‘Wh-what can I do for you?’
Alain glanced about him half impatiently, as if seeking deliverance. A tall lean man, with straight dark hair, and just the slightest crook in his nose, where it had once been broken in a boyish fight, he had changed little over the years, she thought. He was, she knew, in his early thirties now, and although the lines in his face were more deeply carved than they had been, he was still the most disturbing man she had ever encountered. In an immaculately-cut European suit, he looked cool and businesslike, but she also knew he looked equally well in a loose flowing burnous or the tunic-like djellaba he had worn about his apartment. The apartment! Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. Why did she have to think of that now?
Alain fixed her with a steely gaze, and then spoke, almost with reluctance. ‘I wish to speak with a Monsieur Henley,’ he declared, his deep voice harsher than she remembered. ‘He is the headmaster here, is he not? Will you please tell him I am here?’
Just like that, thought Ashley bitterly. Within the space of a few moments, he had accepted her presence in the school and dismissed it, and was already issuing his orders. He did not ask how she was; he did not ask what she was doing here; he did not care how she might be feeling, having just seen her son for the first, and possibly only, time in her life. Without sensitivity or emotion, he expected her to do his bidding, and ignore the deeper ravages of time and circumstance.
Her eyes moved to the boy again, searching his face eagerly, hungrily, seeking some recognition from him, even though she knew such a thing was impossible. The boy did not know her. He had probably not been told of her existence. And of a certainty, his uncle would never reveal her identity.
Yet, as if aware of the intentness of her gaze, Andrew responded, his mouth tilting at the corners to form a smile, a smile that entered his eyes and caused them to twinkle with evident humour. He smiled at her, shyly but warmly, and her heart palpitated wildly at this evidence of his amusement. Ashley could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes, she could sense the unspoken communication between them; and she knew an almost uncontrollable impulse to put her arms around him and hold him close…
‘Mr Henley, mademoiselle?’ Alain did not move, but the barrier his words erected was an almost physical thing. ‘He is here, is he not?’
‘What? Oh! Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’
Foolishly, Ashley stepped backward, her eyes still on the boy, still shaking with the emotions he had aroused in her. He was so handsome, she thought, so beautiful! And he was hers! Her son! Hers and—
‘Will you give Mr Henley my message?’
Alain’s voice had hardened, and as she dragged her eyes to him once again she flinched beneath the withering contempt of his gaze. Of course, she thought bitterly, he must know how she was feeling, but what satisfaction was he getting from torturing her in this way?
Shaking her head, she tried to recover some perspective. He was here—they were here—to see Malcolm, and somehow she had to accept that this encounter was an accident, nothing more, a cruel accident, for which none of them was to blame. It was not a deliberate attempt to wound her, to crucify her with images of what might have been. Alain must be as shocked as she was, but she knew well his capacity to hide his true feelings.
‘I—er—I’ll get someone to take you to Mr Henley,’ she said huskily, knowing she could not do it herself. Not now. Not when Malcolm knew! It would be just too much for her to bear.
As they stepped into the hall she looked about her desperately, praying for a friendly face, and was rewarded when Mr Norris, the elderly caretaker, came trudging down the stairs.
‘Oh, Mr Norris,’ she exclaimed in relief. ‘Mr—er—this gentleman wishes to see Mr Henley. Do you think you could show him the way to Miss Langley’s office? She—she’ll see if Mr Henley is free.’
‘Very well, Miss Gilbert.’ Mr Norris smiled. He liked the young English mistress. She was quiet and unassuming, and she wasn’t always complaining when the lights fused or the radiators persistently remained cold. ‘If you’ll follow me, Mr—er—?
‘Gauthier,’ inserted Alain without expression, shunning his title. ‘Thank you.’
His thanks encompassed both of them, but Ashley was scarcely paying attention. She was looking at Andrew again, imprinting his likeness in her mind, creating an image for all the empty years ahead of her, holding it there with a persistence born of desperation. If only, she thought, as he started obediently after Mr Norris, if only…
‘Do not even think of it,’ Alain’s harsh voice decreed, in a tone low enough for only her to hear. ‘He is not your son. He is Hassan’s. He will never be told that his mother caused his father to take his own life!’
