Through the remainder of the service, he listened for her, but dared not risk another glance. He felt as if he’d stumbled across a shy animal that mustn’t be spooked.
Only one thing marred his pleasure in the mass. The last of the carols was “Away in a Manger,” a piece he had always disliked. He thought the lyrics saccharine, the tune impossible, and tonight it conjured up an image he’d tried to suppress. He glanced at Juliet and saw her standing tight-lipped, her face strained, her hands gripping the top of the forward pew. So she had thought of the child in the manger as well, this one no cause for celebration.
Then the recessional began and they filed slowly out after the choir, joining the queue of those waiting to pay their respects to the priest. Kincaid spotted Caspar Newcombe standing to one side, shaking hands and chatting with passersby, ignoring his wife and family as if they didn’t exist. Beside him stood a large, handsome man whose well-cut clothes didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was running to heaviness. His good looks and wavy fair hair made Kincaid think of a matinee idol, from the days when film stars had looked like men, not androgynous boys. He, too, was meeting and greeting, but not alone.
Beside him stood a tall boy with the stamp of the older man’s features beneath his bored expression, and fair hair that might wave if not cut stylishly short.
“Who’s the bloke with Caspar?” he whispered to his mother, who stood nearest him in the queue.
Rosemary looked at him in surprise. “That’s Piers Dutton. Caspar’s partner. I didn’t realize you’d never met him. And that’s his son, Leo. He and Lally are in the same class.”
So this was the partner with whom Caspar had taunted Juliet during their row. At first sight, Kincaid couldn’t imagine a man less likely to appeal to his sister—but then he’d not have wagered on Caspar, either.
“Caspar and Piers never miss a chance to oil their connections,”
said his mother, the softness of her voice not disguising the bite.
“The churchwardens are good clients.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise—”
Kincaid looked round as he felt a bump against his shoulder, followed by a murmured apology. A woman had nudged past him, slipping out of the queue and making her way towards the porch doors. Although she moved with her head ducked, avoiding eye contact with those she passed, he recognized the slightly untidy short hair, the slender body whose movement hinted at unexpected fitness.
It was the woman who had sung so beautifully, leaving as she had come, alone.
Chapter Seven
The Newcombes had walked back from church, the four of them together, Sam and Lally forging ahead with their father while Juliet lagged behind. They would have looked a proper family to anyone watching, thought Juliet, the children boisterous with the cold and the excitement of the occasion, the father doting, the mother tired from the day’s preparations.
But when they’d reached the house, Caspar had disappeared into his study without a word, and Juliet had gone up with the children.
Then, when she’d seen Sam and Lally settled and kissed them good night, she’d gone into her bedroom and carefully, deliberately, locked the door.
She leaned against it, breathing hard, her hands trembling and her heart pounding in her ears. It was over. Her marriage was over.
She couldn’t deny it any longer. She’d lived with the sarcasm, the veiled accusations, the ridicule, refusing to acknowledge the extent of the rot.
But tonight Caspar had gone too far. The things he’d said to her, his humiliation of her in front of her family, were unforgivable.
There could be no going back.
But how could she manage if she left him? What could she do? She had virtually no income; drawing a pittance of a salary, she only barely managed to keep her fl edgling business out of the red. Of course, she could do the sensible thing. She could give it up, find an ordinary, respectable office job that would bring in a regular paycheck.
But oh, she loved her building work with a passion she’d never expected, loved even the days spent in blistering sun and freezing rain, days she came home so exhausted she fell asleep over her dinner. She had a knack for seeing what things could become, and for bringing brick and stone to life under her hands.
No, she wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t let Caspar take that from her, too, not if there was any way she could help it. What, then? Ask her parents for help? Bad enough that she would have to admit she had failed at her marriage, without begging for money as well.
Of course, she wouldn’t be penniless. Caspar would have to give her some financial assistance. But she knew him now, knew he would use his connections to find the best solicitor, knew he would juggle funds to reduce his apparent means and that Piers would help him, regardless of the cost to the children.
And the children—dear God, how could she tell the children she meant to leave their father? Lally would never forgive her. And Sam, what would it do to Sam, so vulnerable beneath his constant chatter?
But she could see now that she’d been a fool to think the children didn’t know what was happening, a fool not to realize that Caspar was poisoning them against her every day in little, insidious ways, and that he was prepared to do worse.
She had to think. She had to come up with a strategy that would protect her and the children. Steeling herself, she unlocked the door, switched off the light, and climbed into bed, her body tense as a spring. But there was no tread on the stairs, no click of the doorknob turning.
Slowly, the traumas of the day caught up with her. Her body warmed under the duvet, her muscles relaxed, and against her will,
her eyelids drifted closed. Hovering in that halfway state between sleeping and waking, she knew when the dream began that it was a dream.
She held a baby in her arms . . . Sam . . . no, Lally . . . She recognized the pink blanket with its leaping white sheep. The child stirred in her arms . . . She could feel the warmth of it against her breast . . . Then, as she looked down, the tiny red face melted away, bone blossoming beneath the skin, eyes sinking into the gaping pits of the sockets.
Juliet gasped awake and sat up, panting in terror. It was a dream, only a dream of the poor child she had found. Sam and Lally were safe. “Only a dream,” she whispered, easing herself down under the covers again. “Only a dream.”
But as her heart slowed, her senses began to register the faint pre-dawn creakings of the house. She had slept longer than she thought, and the night was almost over. Caspar wasn’t coming to bed at all.
A wave of fury washed over her, leaving her sick and shaking, slicked with sweat. He’d never meant to come up, never meant to face her after the things he’d said. Avoiding a confrontation was his way of punishing her, of keeping the upper hand.
Now she would have to get up in the morning, go down, and manage Christmas for the children as if nothing had happened, and he would be smug and vicious in his little victory.
And then a new thought struck her. Was he ahead of the game?
Was he plotting already, calculating the damage he could do? And the children—there had been something sly tonight in the way he had sucked up to Sam and Lally, complimenting and cajoling them.
The children. She clutched at the bed, as if the room had rocked on its foundations. What if he meant to take the children?
Christmas morning dawned cold and clear, with a sparkling layer of frost laid over the packed snow like icing on a cake. Ronnie Babcock s
greeted the beautiful day with a distinct lack of appreciation, and a reminder to himself to dig out his sunglasses or he’d have a permanent squint. His central- heating boiler had not miraculously repaired itself in the night, and after sleeping under every spare blanket and duvet he could find, he’d plunged out of bed with the temerity of an arctic explorer, bathing (thank God for immersion heaters) and shaving with dangerous haste. His reward for his fortitude was a seeping cut on his chin. Lovely, just bloody lovely.