“That it doesn’t matter who his biological father is—he’s still my son.”
“And where does that leave me, now that you’ve suddenly become the ideal parent?” Kincaid couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. He’d spent months trying to repair some of the damage McClellan had done, and now the bastard thought he could come back like the prodigal son.
“Look, Duncan.” Ian leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and Kincaid realized it was the first time he had used his Christian name. “I’m not trying to shut you out of Kit’s life. He needs both of us—”
“How would you know what he needs?” Kincaid’s control was dangerously close to breaking.
“I can’t make amends without starting somewhere, can I? And it doesn’t sound to me as if you’ve any call for making threats or accusations—you’ve made a proper cock-up of things yourself,” Ian added hotly.
They stared at each other, then Kincaid sat back. He took a deep breath. Getting at cross-purposes with McClellan would benefit no one. “All right. I’ll admit that. But I was here, and I want it understood that I’m not bowing out of Kit’s life now.”
Ian gave him a crooked smile. “I’d say the question just now is whether he wants much to do with either of us. I’m going up to Cambridge tomorrow. I’ll open the house, then fetch Kit from the Millers.”
“Give him some time to get used to the idea,” Kincaid countered. “A few days at least. He’s found some security where he is … and he may find going back to the cottage difficult.… You know he won’t leave the dog?”
“I’ll give him a few days, then,” Ian agreed, then grimaced. “And I suppose I can get used to the dog. Anything is possible.”
Watching him, Kincaid felt a tingle of suspicion. It wouldn’t do to take this latest declaration of intent entirely at face value. In his experience with Ian, anything was indeed possible.
• • •
WILLIAM HAMMOND WOKE SUDDENLY, HIS HEART hammering painfully in his chest. For a moment he wondered where he was, then the shapes in the dim room reasserted their familiarity. He lay in the high, old tester bed where he had slept with Isabel, his outstretched hand brushing against the hangings. She had loved the maize-colored satin, but the fabric was faded now, and stained.
The dressing table, there … the nightstand, there … and the pale oblongs on the right were the windows, admitting a faint light from Hyde Vale at the top of the lane. The curtains moved in the breeze and William pulled the duvet up to his chin, shivering.
In his dream it had been ripe summer, green and golden. He and Lewis stood knee-deep in the stream that ran through the bottom of the old pasture, picking watercress for Cook. They were laughing, their nut-brown faces turned up to the sun, but his feet and calves were cold as ice in the clear, running water.…
He had spent so many years forgetting, and yet it might have been yesterday, so real had the experience seemed for those few moments. Now the images began to dissolve, slipping away with the elusiveness of dreams, and William squeezed his eyes tight shut against the slow, leaking tears.
CHAPTER 10Another favorite haunt of Island children for their outdoor games was Island Gardens, a small park on the riverbank opposite Greenwich, created by the London County Council in 1895.
Eve Hostettler, from
Memories of Childhood
on the Isle of Dogs, 1870–1970
Gemma was awakened from a disjointed, early morning dream by Toby’s voice. Opening her eyes, she made out his small form standing beside her bed, silhouetted by the dim light from the garden windows.
“Mummy, I had a bad dream.”
“Did you, darling?” She sat up, pushing her hair from her face. The pale blue plush carousel horse her son clutched to his chest had lost most of its felt saddle, and its white mane and tail were worn away to stubble, but its black glass eyes were still bright and Toby loved it with fierce loyalty. “Did Horsey have a bad dream, too?” she asked, feeling the soft skin of her son’s neck for signs of fever. “Was it monsters again?”
Toby nodded vigorously, and she made a vow to stop reading him Where the Wild Things Are at bedtime. “Climb in with Mummy, then, lovey, and go back to sleep.” As she tucked him in between her body and the wall, she held her cheek to his for a moment and savored the sweet scent of him. He might look more like a little boy every day, but when he was warm and damp with sleep, he still smelled like a baby.
She lay quietly, listening as his breathing slowed with sleep. But she felt increasingly restless, aware of a nagging sense of disquiet, and after half an hour she slipped out of bed and went to the window. Opening the blinds, she stood for a while, watching the pale light creep across the garden and listening to the birds greet the day with revolting cheerfulness. Her head ached dully, a symptom she assessed as a mild hangover.
Last night, while waiting for Kincaid to ring after his meeting with Ian McClellan, she’d had a glass more than the two glasses of wine she normally considered her limit. But Duncan had not called, and at last she’d given up and crawled into bed, already regretting her overindulgence.
Surely Kincaid wasn’t still cross with her over the business with Gordon Finch, she thought as she moved from the window to her tiny cupboard of a kitchen, where she filled the kettle. It was unlike him to hold a grudge, either personal or professional, but since Vic’s death his moods and his temper had been unpredictable.
The kettle whistled as she finished grinding the handful of coffee beans she’d taken from the fridge, and as she poured the hot water into the cafetière, she thought about Annabelle Hammond. What secret had she possessed that had compelled others to accept life on her terms? It had been more than beauty, that much was becoming clear, and for an instant Gemma wished she could have known her—could have judged for herself whether she was saint or sinner.
AN HOUR LATER, AS SHE LISTENED to Toby singing happily over his cornflakes, she dressed carefully—camel trousers, a white cotton tee shirt under an olive linen blazer—determined today to present a professional front to the world, hot or not.
Although the morning had brought a small respite from yesterday’s temperatures, the humidity had risen with the thin covering of cloud that spilled across the sky like curdled milk. As she drove towards the East End, she felt the moisture clinging to her skin and wondered if sheer willpower could keep her from wilting before the day had even begun.
Kincaid was there before her, leaning against the Rover he’d parked across the street from Hammond’s. He smiled when he saw her and straightened, running a hand through his already wind-ruffled hair. “We might get some rain,” he said by way of a greeting when she’d parked the Escort and joined him. “A break in the heat.”
“Are you all right?” she asked, studying him. His good cheer seemed a bit manufactured, and he was not usually given to talking about the weather.
He looked back at her guilelessly, his eyes as blue today as the denim shirt he wore. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t ring. What did Ian—”
“I thought you’d be asleep.” He looked away, leaning down to brush dust from the car’s bonnet off his trousers. “And to be quite honest, I suppose I needed some time to sort things through.” Glancing up at her, he added, “McClellan says he’s here to stay. He’s moving back to the Cambridge house. And he wants Kit with him.”
“But …” Gemma tried to make sense of this. “After months of wanting nothing to do with him? Just like that? What did you say?”
“What could I say?” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You know the situation as well as I do.”