A Mortal Sin

A MORTAL SIN

By

Margaret Tanner

ISBN: 978-1-927476-30-7

Published By:

Books We Love Ltd.

(Electronic Book Publishers)

192 Lakeside Greens Drive

Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

Canada

http://bookswelove.net

Copyright 2012 by Margaret Tanner

Cover Art Copyright 2012 by

Previously published as The Trouble With Playboys

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Chapter One

“You’re a bastard.”

Paul Ashfield felt the color bleach from his face.

“Like some rutting stallion, your father planted his seed…”

“Liar!” He cut off his mother’s drunken tirade. He bunched his hands into fists as he listened to a string of obscenities no respectable man would use, even in the worst state of intoxication.

“Who is my mother?” he demanded.

“Some insignificant slut your father bedded in Australia before the war,” she shrilled.

The words slammed into him with such ferocity the breath whooshed from his lungs, and he feared he might suffocate. With strength dredged from God alone knew where, he staggered out of the room with her maniacal laugh following him.

Once in the hallway he started shaking. Dragging in several shuddering breaths he regained some of his composure. What a relief to know this whisky soaked neurotic was not his mother.

Slowly he walked to his own suite of rooms in the large manor house that had been in the family for generations. The place was too dark and gloomy to appeal to him. He only lived here because it took him less than an hour to drive to work each morning. He had always hated coming back here at the end of term school holidays. Even the apartment in Mayfair, where his father usually kept some mistress in residence, was preferable to this dark mausoleum.

Over the years Sir Phillip Ashfield’s numerous affairs were known in certain circles, but of late he had been quite indiscreet. Now past middle age, it obviously bolstered his esteem to be seen with girls almost thirty years younger than himself. They were always blonde, quite often not naturally so, but nevertheless blonde. It was a fetish with him.

Paul flung himself down on the bed and morosely stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t even be bothered winding up the gramophone to play one of his new records. He was bored to death with life at the moment, and with the constant attention he received from doting mothers with daughters aged anywhere between sixteen and twenty-five. At twenty-four years of age, he knew without vanity his looks were better than average. Money and position overrode any faults he might have he thought with a twinge of bitterness. Sir Phillip Ashfield’s only son would be a wealthy, socially acceptable husband for their precious offspring.

No one cares about the way I feel or what I want out of marriage. Hell, he wasn’t sure himself, but he didn’t want a money hungry, poisonous wife like his father had.

What would these ladies think now if it were revealed his mother was in fact not his mother at all? The cold-hearted drunkard had never shown anything but animosity towards him. No wonder the old man always tried to keep them apart.

Of course, it had all been hushed up about the drinking binges and hysteria attacks, but people must suspect something. To give her credit, though, she had always managed to act the perfect hostess at their various balls and parties. Only the servants knew that for a week afterwards she would be in a drunken stupor, and they were too well paid to let anything slip out.

Who was his mother? Some insignificant slut? Not likely. Up until recently the old man had been fastidious in his tastes. Always attractive young girls from decent backgrounds. His mother would not be some whore plucked off the streets.

What type of woman would give up her child? Let him be taken halfway across the world and not bother to contact him. The usual mercenary types his father associated with, no doubt. It hurt, a pain so severe he felt as if his insides were being pared open. His mother had abandoned him, tossed him away like a piece of garbage.

Over the years, he had recalled elusive memories of other places. He always felt unsettled when he smelt lavender. The aroma of freshly baked bread, even though he had not ventured near the kitchens for years, sometimes permeated his dreams. Now he understood why.

He made up his mind to find out about his origins and there was only one way to do it, front the old man when he arrived from London. At least something is going my way. His father had an official engagement, so the old boy would not miss that. Oh no, Sir Phillip took his obligations seriously, and now the mill had been modernized there must be an official ceremony to celebrate. It was about the only thing that would bring the man down from London nowadays. God, what a farce, especially when none of the workers had been invited. Sir Phillip and his friends couldn’t possibly rub shoulders with the common man.

He had never really analyzed his feelings towards the old man before. All his life, Sir Phillip had given little outward show of affection. He had never quibbled about handing over some extra cash when Paul overspent his allowance. Always came to the most official occasions at school or sent Uncle Tony along. Bought him anything he asked for, yet gave nothing of himself.

* * *

In the English summer of 1938, Sir Phillip Ashfield still looked impressive. The long drive down from London had obviously not caused him any ill-effect. His black hair was thick, but Paul, waiting in the drawing room to confront his father, saw for the first time signs of dissipation about the lean angled face. As usual his lips had a cynical twist, and Paul knew that sarcastic tongue of his could flay a person to shreds. Now there was a slight purplish tinge about his nose, a sign of frequent whiskies. Never outwardly drunk, of course, Sir Phillip would not be so common. A superbly tailored suit fit the lean frame perfectly, and not one speck of dust could be seen on his glossy black shoes.

“Well, Paul my boy I thought you might be out with Caroline tonight. Now there’s a good looker for you, Lord Bowater’s daughter. What more could a young man want?”

“She hasn’t got a brain in her head.”

“With a body like hers, who needs a brain?” This recent father-to-son jocularity bordered on crudity. “Heard you exchanged heated words with your mother.”

“She’s not my mother.”

A weird sense of satisfaction surged through him as he watched the color fade from his father’s normally tanned cheeks. His hand on the whisky decanter trembled, but Sir Phillip got himself under control within seconds.

“Oh, really? Who gave you this piece of information?”

“She did. Your wife.”

“What!” His lips became bloodless and the veins engorged at the side of his throat. For the first time ever, he saw his father really shaken.

“For heavens sake, I’m twenty-four--it’s time I learnt about my origins.”

“You’re an Ashfield,” Sir Phillip ground out.

“She called my mother a slut,” he said furiously. “Some whore you bought for a few nights.”

“Your mother was never that.” The hard planes of Sir Phillip’s face momentarily softened. His eyes darkened with pain. Only a fleeting instant in time, but he looked like a man mourning the loss of something special. His usual hard mask swiftly settled back into place, however, leaving Paul to wonder whether he imagined his father’s sadness.

“You’re my son, let the past rest.”

“I have a right to know.”

“You have no rights, unless I give them to you.” Sir Phillip’s voice became harsh and guttural. “Your mother deserted you. Never forget it. You’ve had everything a young man could wish for.” The lines about his mouth deepened ruthlessly. “I think you should officially announce your engagement to Caroline, now that she’s home from that Swiss finishing school.”

“The hell I will. You might manipulate others, but not me, Father. I will not marry to suit your plans and aspirations.”

“It’s a good match.”

“Like your marriage?”

“Watch your mouth, boy.”

“I’m not a child, and I won’t be stuck with some woman I will never be able to love.”

“Love be damned. You’re a fool. Money and power is what counts.”

“Is it, Father? Your marriage hasn’t made you happy, God knows, and that’s public knowledge.”

“Why you…” Sir Phillip raised his hand then dropped it again. “The matter is closed. Tony should be here soon, I invited him over for dinner. It’s the only chance I’ll have to see him for a while.”

Paul strode out of the room, before they had a full-blown argument. Now was not the time to get into a fight with his father, but later, after Tony left, he would press the matter further and demand the information about his birth.

* * *

After dinner the three of them retired to the smoking room. Paul liked Tony, who was Sir Phillip’s only real friend. He was also a business partner. Tony had always come to school to cheer him along at football or cricket, whereas Sir Phillip came if and when he could afford the time.

Why Tony had never married remained a mystery for years, until a drunken sneer overheard at a party about eighteen months ago set him thinking. Could Tony be homosexual?

Sir Phillip puffed at a cigar; Tony sipped his drink, while Paul did neither.

“Did you find out what happened to Reuben Goldstein and his family?” Sir Phillip asked Tony.”

“No, and I’ve used every connection in the government that I’ve got. Word has it, a lot of wealthy Jewish families in Vienna have disappeared since Hitler and his brown shirts marched into Austria.”

“I told him to get out before there was all-out war.” Sir Phillip took an angry puff of his cigar. “Stubborn fool. He’ll probably end up in Dachau concentration camp.”

Paul listened to the interchange without speaking. He didn’t know them personally, like his father did, but the Goldsteins were one of the biggest buyers for their wool, with factories in Austria and Germany.

“Well, who are you going to send out to Australia to represent us on the Wool Board?” Tony changed the subject.

“I’ll go.” Paul volunteered.

“No you won’t, son. I want you here. We need to get the factory on a war footing now that Hitler has sent troops into Austria and beyond.”

“What’s Hitler got to do with us? Anyway, I’ve never been to Australia, and I’ve always wanted to go.”

“There’s nothing there for you,” Sir Phillip said.

He had often wondered why the mention of Australia always brought a negative response from his father, but now the reason was clear. This impending war talk was merely another ploy by the old man to keep him from going to Australia. Well, it was not going to work. If Neville Chamberlain maintained there wouldn’t be a war that was the end of it. For God’s sake, the man was the Prime Minister, after all.

“What did you want to discuss with me, Phillip? I don’t want to be too late, I’ve got an early start in the morning.” Tony glanced at his watch.

“Come to my study.”

Paul decided to take a stroll in the grounds. No way would he be able to sleep right now, he felt too wound up.

“That drunken bitch told him,” Sir Phillip’s savage tones punctured the air outside the study window.

“I warned you.”

Paul edged closer, despising himself for doing such a contemptible thing as eavesdropping, but a team of wild horses could not have dragged him away.

“You should have told years ago. He’s a man not a little boy.”

“I’m not telling him. The fact Allison is his mother means nothing. He’s an Ashfield.”

“He’s bound to find out one day, especially with the letter. Have you still got it?”

“Of course I have. I might need it for proof in case something happens. I can’t risk that crazy bitch upstairs getting her hands on my money.”

“Did you ever wonder what happened to Allison?”

“Yes.”

“You were a bloody fool to have let her go, Phillip.”

Paul waited, hoping for more details, but heard nothing more that was useful to him, and when the talk turned to the Treaty of Versailles being so harsh that it caused the rise of Germany’s Adolf Hitler and his Nazis party, he walked away. At least he knew something now. He felt a sudden surge of excitement. His mother’s name was Allison.

When he got up the next morning his father had already left the house. Probably gone over to inspect the mill, on a Saturday of all things. Thanks goodness he had arranged with the foreman to give the men the day off because they had not been invited to the ‘celebration dinner.’ At least none of the workers would be on the premises to confront the old man about the pay rise they wanted. If that were to happen, Sir Phillip would carry on in his usual belligerent fashion and the unions would call an all out strike. Six weeks of delicate negotiation, which had just about brought a resolution to the problem, could go down the drain because of the old man’s lack of empathy with his workers. Damn it all.