White Rose Of Winter. Anne Mather
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the use of a porter, Julie picked up a case in each hand and directing Emma to carry her airline bag they emerged into the reception area. Lucy Pemberton, Michael’s mother, had said she would meet them at the airport, but she was notoriously unreliable and Julie was not surprised to find no sign of her. She sighed. Were she not feeling so hollow already. Lucy’s non-appearance to meet the daughter-in-law she had not seen for almost six years might have aroused a distinctly unpleasant ache in the region of her heart, but the events of the past three months had been so traumatic anyway, she felt almost empty of emotion.
Only Emma’s small face drooped with disappointment. ‘She’s not here!’ she announced indignantly. ‘Oh, Mummy, why? Why isn’t she here like she said she would be?’
Julie bent to the child, putting down the cases with a sigh. ‘Don’t upset yourself, darling. Grandma is probably on her way at this very moment. But you don’t know what it’s like here. The traffic is very busy! And she’s most likely been caught in a traffic jam. You know what they are now, don’t you?’
Emma sniffed. ‘I s’pose so. But why didn’t she set out quickly enough to be here to meet us?’ Emma was a very logical child.
Julie shook her head, straightening. ‘I don’t know, darling.’ She glanced surreptitiously at the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. The plane had landed only a few minutes behind schedule. Lucy should have been here. ‘How would you like to go into the restaurant and have a Coke?’ she suggested. ‘Just until Grandma arrives? In fact I could see if I could telephone her from the restaurant.’
Emma frowned. ‘Won’t we miss her, though? I mean – if she arrives just after we’ve gone into the restaurant?’
Julie sighed again. ‘No. Look, if we sit near the windows we’ll be able to see everyone coming and going.’
Emma was unconvinced and Julie felt impatient suddenly. It should not have been too much to ask that Lucy should be here on time just this once. Particularly after the thousands of miles they had travelled. Didn’t she realize that after such a flight one was tired and disorientated, unable to cope with the usual upsets with the same degree of calmness?
A thought struck her. What if Lucy had forgotten altogether? It was not impossible. If it was her bridge afternoon, or her golf afternoon; (did people play golf in the rain?) or even one of those charity whist drives she loved to organize, it was quite possible that their arrival should pass unnoticed.
And after all, she had never liked Julie. She had shown that quite plainly. The very last thing she had wanted was for her to marry one of her beloved sons, and when that happened Michael had made things easier by taking the appointment in Rhatoon.
There was always Emma, of course. Three years ago when Michael had brought the child to England, he had said that his mother had doted on the child, but perhaps things would be different now that Julie was here. And Michael was dead …
‘Well, we can’t stay here,’ Julie said now, trying to sound competent and reasonable. ‘Come along, darling. I could do with a cup of tea myself.’
‘Julie!’
The hard masculine tones brought Julie up short and she turned reluctantly to face the man who had spoken. Even before she turned she knew exactly who it was, and her nerves jerked with exhaustion. Now was not the moment to confront Robert Pemberton, not when she was tired and uneasy and absurdly vulnerable, even after all this time.
Tall and lean, with hair as dark and straight as Emma’s brushing the collar of his expensively casual cream suede suit, he looked sleek and powerful, and compellingly sure of himself. He was not a handsome man, neither of the Pembertons had been that, but like Emma he possessed that elusive element of charm, and consequently he had always made other men, more strictly handsome men, seem insipid by comparison. He did not seem to have changed at all, except perhaps that his eyes were more deeply set in a face that wore a year-round tan due to the countless trips abroad he was able to make, and his expression did nothing to aid her failing confidence. Indeed, if anything he was regarding her with faint contempt and his lips twisted wryly as she held out a rather unsteady hand.
‘Hello, Robert,’ she managed. ‘How are you?’
He shook her hand briefly, his own cool and detached, his gaze flickering over her with painful appraisal. He had always had the knack of being able to reduce her to embarrassment by the directness of his stare, but on this occasion she endeavoured to hide her confusion, forcing herself to the knowledge that she was no longer a girl, no longer in his employ; she was a woman who had been married and widowed, with a five-year-old daughter. She must not think of all that had gone before. That was in the past. She must live for the present and think only of the future. Emma’s future.
Now Robert dropped her hand and said coolly, ‘I’m fine, thank you. And you?’ It was a formality, nothing more.
‘Fine. Fine.’ Julie assumed a mask of composure, hiding behind it like a fugitive fleeing from justice. Whenever she was emotionally disturbed she tried to do this, knowing that to an outsider she must appear cold and indifferent when this definitely was not the case.
Robert regarded her broodingly for a long moment, and she thought he was about to mention Michael, but then he dropped to his haunches beside the child. ‘Hello, Emma,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’
Emma stared at him consideringly. ‘No – o,’ she replied honestly. ‘But you look a little bit like Daddy, so I s’pose you must be Uncle Robert.’
‘That’s right.’ Robert smiled, the coldness which had been evident in his manner when he was speaking to Julie disappearing beneath Emma’s innocent charm. ‘Who told you I looked like Daddy?’
‘Mummy told me.’ Emma glanced up at Julie for a moment. ‘Didn’t you?’
Julie made an involuntary gesture, but Robert’s eyes never left the child’s face. ‘I see. And do I rate a kiss?’
Emma hesitated. ‘All right,’ she agreed, and leaning forward touched his cheek with her soft lips. She wrinkled her nose when it was over. ‘But why were you so late? And where’s Grandma? Mummy said she was coming to meet us. Where is she?’
Robert straightened, and looking round beckoned a porter to come and take their cases. Then he looked down and said: ‘Grandma couldn’t come. She’s not feeling well.’
Julie glanced at him quickly, sensing a rebuke, but he was not looking at her. He was talking to the porter, indicating the luggage, pointing outside to where his car was waiting. He had the supreme self-confidence that comes from always being used to giving orders, and Julie felt a fleeting irritation that he should so arrogantly take charge of the situation without offering any explanations, without even telling her where his mother was or why she should not be feeling well.
Now he turned. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘My car’s this way. We can talk on the way to town.’
Emma slipped her hand into Julie’s again, drawing her mother’s attention to herself. ‘Is it all right?’ she whispered. Emma’s whispers were all of the stage variety, and Robert could not fail to have heard her.
‘I expect so,’ replied Julie, managing a slight smile. ‘Come on. We’ll soon be able to have a bath and change our clothes. And those eyes look very tired, young lady.’
Emma smiled. ‘It’s exciting, though, isn’t it?’ she breathed. ‘I mean – we are here, aren’t we? In London. Do you think Grandma will be better by tomorrow?’
Julie shook her head. ‘I have no idea,’ she answered shortly, and was conscious of a faint reaction from the man ahead of them. He seemed to hesitate, as though he was about to say something more, but then he went on, his broad shoulders blocking Julie’s vision until they reached the swing doors and he stood aside politely to allow her to precede him.
Robert’s car was a pale grey Aston Martin, sleek and powerful, like the man himself. Six years ago, Julie reflected,