The sunshine streaming through the windows was blinding. I blinked furiously. When I had more or less accustomed my eyes to the glare, Charles Dance was still there, leaning forward now and looking relieved.
‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘We choppered the doctor over in the night and he reckoned all you needed was warmth and rest. But none of us were entirely sure...’
‘I don’t remember a doctor...’ I mumbled blearily. My head felt as if it belonged to somebody else.
‘You wouldn’t,’ replied the vision. ‘You were suffering from shock and exposure. You were pretty much out for the count.’
He smiled. It is pretty damn stupid to be bowled over by a smile when you’ve just come back from the dead. But then, I’ve never been very bright when it comes to matters of the heart — let alone the more basic urges.
‘I’m Robin Davey, by the way,’ he said.
Even in my state of weakness I recognised the name. The Davey family had owned Abri for generations and Robin Davey was about the nearest thing to a feudal lord this side of the remains of Hadrian’s Wall. I judged him to be somewhere in his mid-forties, and his face was of the sort that is inclined to improve with age. He had wispy reddish blond hair, thinning a bit, which in no way lessened his attractiveness, and the brightest of blue eyes. They held an obvious warmth and humour in the way they crinkled at the edges and he positively oozed charm.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Piper, that I was not here to welcome you to my island and I am even sorrier I was not here to stop what happened yesterday afternoon.’
I struggled to remember exactly what had happened.
‘Was it you who rescued me from that rock?’ I asked hesitantly.
He nodded imperceptibly.
I could remember being taken out there by the boy, Jason. But what had happened then? Why had he left me there? I began to ask more questions.
Robin Davey shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For now you must rest. I just hope you feel able to accept my apologies and my hospitality.’
He stood up then. He was a big man, definitely well over six feet tall, and I could not help noticing the breadth of his shoulders and the slenderness of his hips as he left the room.
It was just as I was beginning to realise that the one question I might have insisted upon asking was exactly where I was, that the door opened again and in bustled a thin rather severe-looking woman, balancing a tray on which sat a bowl of something steaming.
‘I’m Mrs Cotley, Mr Robin’s housekeeper,’ she said in a soft voice which completely belied her somewhat forbidding appearance. ‘Mr Robin says that his home is your home, and that I’m to look after you,’ she went on, at least half-answering my as yet unspoken question.
She brought the tray to the bedside, with one hand flicked something underneath it so that it grew neat little legs, then manoeuvred it across my lap. I looked down at myself with interest as I lay caged within the tray’s wooden frame. I appeared to be clad in a man’s nightshirt. It was striped in blue and made of the kind of cosy flannelette I vaguely remembered from my childhood.
‘Mr Robin’s,’ said Mrs Cotley, who obviously didn’t miss much. ‘Hope you don’t mind, most comfortable nightwear you can get, they be.’
I shook my head, and barely even had the strength to wonder if Mr Robin had helped me into the nightshirt. Not likely with Mrs Cotley around. Meanwhile my nostrils were being invaded by the smell of something wonderfully good.
‘This is my special home-made chicken broth, my dear,’ said Mrs Cotley soothingly. ‘And I want you to eat it all up. ‘Twill bring your strength back in no time.’
Obediently I picked up my spoon and overcame — just — a slightly hysterical desire to giggle. The whole thing was like living out a cliché. I had been rescued by a quite gorgeous man and now I was sitting up in bed in his house eating chicken broth and being mothered by his housekeeper.
Mrs Cotley’s chicken broth turned out to be nothing to giggle about, and tasted every bit as good as it smelt. Even that, however, could not quite bring about a miracle. My ordeal had taken its toll. It was, I learned, mid-afternoon. I had been more or less asleep since being put to bed shortly before midnight, and I still felt exhausted.
Mrs Cotley insisted that I stay in bed, but in fact I wasn’t arguing. It was late the following morning before I woke properly and reckoned I was at least halfway back to normal.
I climbed a little uncertainly out of bed and as soon as I started to move around the room Mrs C, looking grim and sounding kind, arrived clutching a cup of tea. She fussed around me in the already familiar motherly fashion.
‘Come down to the kitchen when you’m ready and I’ll have a nice breakfast waiting for you, dear,’ she said.
I saw that the clothes which I had been wearing on my ill-fated trip to the Pencil had been washed, dried and ironed, and were neatly folded on a chair by the bed. After a much needed bath and hair-wash, I put them on, wandered downstairs, and was guided to the kitchen by the sweetly wafting aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon.
Mrs Cotley greeted me with a tight smile. I had already realised that her nature matched the warmth of her voice. If it contained any of the paradoxical severity of her appearance then this was probably reserved to add weight to the uncompromising efficiency with which she patently ran this house and all who resided in it.
I was swiftly provided with a huge fried breakfast followed, in the West Country fashion, by slices of rich fruit cake.
‘Mr Robin’s off at the farm,’ she informed me. ‘He’ll be back just after one for ‘is dinner and ’e’s going to be that pleased you’re up and about.’
I glanced at my watch, which thankfully appeared to have survived its thorough drenching on the Pencil. It was already nearly noon. The breakfast had been delicious, an orgy of cholesterol, and my appetite — nearly always healthy, I was a great believer in comfort food — seemed even more vociferous than usual. Nonetheless, if I was also expected to have dinner just after one I might be struggling.
Mrs Cotley, clutching a big mug of tea, came and sat at the kitchen table to watch me finish off the fruit cake.
‘He’s been worried sick about ’ee I don’t mind telling ’ee,’ she confided in an almost conspiratorial fashion, as if informing me of something very important and confidential. ‘You know that’s ’is bedroom you’re in, don’t ’ee? Mr Robin said you must ’ave the best room in house, and he moved isself into one of the guest rooms.’
I raised an eyebrow and just stopped myself remarking that Mr Robin was quite welcome to share the best bedroom with me, but I suspected that Mrs C would not approve of such flippant remarks about the man she clearly hero-worshipped.
I spent a fascinating hour or so checking out the Davey home, which I knew to be called Highpoint House, having admired the splendid Georgian building from the outside frequently during my first few days on the island. It’s name had been appropriately bestowed. The house dominated the island from a fine vantage point at the edge of the village, but it nestled into the top of a gully, and, unlike my lighthouse, was considerably sheltered from the high winds Abri was famous for. The grand old stairway and the hall boasted a selection of Davey ancestral portraits. There were more in the drawing room where Mrs Cotley bade me sit by a blazing fire.