Born Out Of Love. Anne Mather
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delighted to have a son, and those early years were happier than even Charlotte could have imagined. But as Robert got older, things changed. Perhaps it was his obvious lack of resemblance to Matthew, or the fact that he got more pleasure out of outdoor pursuits than showing an interest in his father’s stores. Or maybe it was simply that like fatigue eating into metal, his brother and sister-in-law’s maliciousness got through to him. Whatever it was, Matthew began picking on the boy, chastising him at every opportunity, until Robert himself rebelled and turned on his father.
Until then, Robert had accepted Matthew as his father without inquiry, but suddenly came a spate of questions about how Charlotte came to marry a man so much older than she was, and why when all the other boys at school had young, athletic fathers, his was already an old man.
She parried his questions as best she could, not wanting to make him any more insecure than he already was, but once again it was Matthew who precipitated disaster, throwing his mother’s wanton behaviour at him, insinuating that she didn’t really know who his father was, destroying for ever any lingering trace of affection Robert might have felt for him.
Whether the bitterness which had corroded his soul was responsible, Charlotte did not know, but two days later Matthew had a heart attack from which he never fully recovered, and six months later he was dead.
Even so she would not have believed he could be so vindictive. The house, the property he owned, all his securities and the interest he had in the Derby stores went to his brother and his family, while Charlotte was left with a little over three hundred pounds in cash, and the small amount of jewellery she possessed.
Naturally, Malcolm and Elizabeth were jubilant. It was nothing less than she deserved, they said, and Charlotte had suffered their taunts in silence. Mr Lewis, Matthew’s solicitor, was obviously more sensitive, however, and a few days after the funeral he had come to her with this offer of employment as nursemaid to the small son and daughter of a Madame Fabergé, whose husband was living and working on San Cristobal in the Virgin Islands.
Charlotte had her doubts at first. It was a tremendous step to take, leaving the country to live on a remote Caribbean island with people she had not even met. But Mr Lewis’s persuasions and Robert’s enthusiasm, allied to her own desire to put both of them out of reach of the influence of Matthew’s relatives, eventually swayed the balance. So far, Robert had not questioned her about his real father, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he would want to know. To tell him his father had been a student was not enough, and perhaps, away from England, she could think of some acceptable substitute.
The terms of her employment seemed reasonable: she was to travel out to San Cristobal for a month’s trial, at the end of which time both parties would have the option to terminate the contract. Hours of work would be agreed between her employer and herself, and she and Robert would live independently in their own bungalow, a few yards from the Fabergé house. Charlotte had had to admit it sounded ideal, except that Robert would not receive the standard of schooling to which he was accustomed. Before Matthew’s death he had been attending a small preparatory school, not far from their home in Richmond, but Charlotte had known that sooner or later she would have to remove him from there. She didn’t think Robert would object. He was an easy-going boy, and had the capacity to adapt to circumstances. Which was just as well, she thought wryly.
‘Do you think there are sharks out there?’
Robert’s eager question diverted Charlotte, and she determined to put all thoughts of Matthew, and the Derbys, out of her mind.
‘Well, I expect there are sharks,’ she conceded doubtfully, realising this was something else she had not considered. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s dangerous to swim or anything like that.’
‘Mmm. Pity,’ her son remarked disappointedly, and she gasped. ‘Robert!’
‘Well…’ His grin was rueful, and the memories she had succeeded in stifling moments before came flooding back. Robert’s resemblance to his father might not be too obvious yet, but his sense of humour was purely Logan’s—that, and his darkness, the sallow cast of his skin after spending too long in northern climes, and the angular leanness of his body which would later acquire the muscular hardness of his father’s. ‘That would be really something,’ he added. ‘Seeing a shark!’
‘It’s something I can do well without,’ retorted Charlotte, her tone sharpened by emotion.
‘Oh, Mum!’
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘if—and I emphasise the word if—you do get the opportunity to go swimming, I shall expect you to remain within your depth.’
‘Seventy per cent of shark attacks on bathers occur in two to three feet of water,’ Robert observed casually.
‘My God!’ Charlotte stared at him aghast.
Robert shrugged. ‘It’s true.’
‘Did you have to tell me that?’
His eyes teased hers. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Where did you get this information?’
‘From an encyclopaedia. When that film faws was showing, we did this project—–’
‘Yes, well, I’d rather not know.’
‘All right.’
‘Oh no—no, that’s not true.’ Charlotte felt frustrated. How could she explain to her independent son that he meant more to her than anyone else in the world? How could she describe the need she felt to protect him when she knew that Robert would regard her anxiety with typical male impatience of feminine weakness? ‘I mean—if that’s so, then—you’ll have to take care, won’t you …’ her voice trailed away.
‘I will, Mum. Don’t worry.’ Robert turned to look out of the window again. ‘I say, do you think this is our driver coming now? Gosh, have you ever seen anyone so fat?’
‘Robert!’ Charlotte reproved quietly, although she had to admit he was right. The man approaching the bus must be easily sixteen stones. ‘Don’t make personal comments.’
But as the man caught hold of the handrail to haul himself aboard, the station wagon Charlotte had noticed earlier, making its descent to the harbour, swung sharply across the sun-bleached stones of the quay and ground to a halt beside him.
Immediately the fat man turned, a broad grin splitting the deeply pigmented lips, and he nodded his head in greeting as the driver of the station wagon thrust open his door and got out. Tall, lean almost to the point of thinness, in close-fitting denim jeans, with roughly cut dark hair overlapping the collar of a faded denim shirt, the man who emerged grasped the hand the fat man extended. They exchanged a few barely audible words, and then they both turned to examine the occupants of the vehicle with close scrutiny.
Charlotte, who had been watching the encounter with only scant interest, suddenly felt her breath catch in her throat, and all the blood drain away from her face. The resemblance between the newcomer and the man who had been occupying her thoughts for the past few minutes was startling. There again was the darkness which had been duplicated in Robert’s intelligent features, the lithe economy of movement that reminded her of the sinuous grace of a feline, the detached, appraising stare from eyes which she knew could change, as his emotions changed, from coolest hazel to burning amber.
But she was imagining things, she told herself sickly and without much conviction. She had to be. The man with the undisguisedly cynical expression who was presently surveying the passengers aboard this ancient conveyance could not possibly be the same man who had abandoned her almost twelve years before, without even troubling to find out whether she had recovered from his assault. It was too great a coincidence. That she should travel half across the world to escape from one situation only to find herself facing something even worse was nothing short of disaster.
Realising she had been holding her breath, she expelled it sharply, unwillingly attracting Robert’s attention. He frowned when he saw how pale she had become, and said, with what