Sara's Child (8 page)

“I’d have to say it’s a good one,” Logan nods. “It doesn’t sound like your father is around much; why is that?”
Because he didn’t want us!

Catherine hesitates, decides that if the possibility of her being a bastard in the literal sense makes him balk, then so be it. Holding her head high she says, “Apart from the donation of his genes I didn’t have a father.” The statement is a challenge and Logan knows it, but he just smiles and waits for her to continue. Eyeing him warily, Catherine does continue. “I have no idea who he is, where he is, or even if he’s still alive. And I don’t care to,” she adds defiantly.
He didn’t care then and I don’t care now!

Brows creased, Logan asks the obvious question. “You’re not even a little bit curious?”

Catherine’s spine straightens. “Was he curious about me?” she states rather than asks. “He took off when he found out my mum was pregnant – no doubt crawled back under the same rock he crawled out of.”
And bloody good riddance!

“You sound so bitter, Catherine,” he reaches for her hand but she pulls it quickly away to wrap her arms round her drawn up knees. “Do you really know for sure that your father didn’t want or care for you? Things happen between couples that don’t always end well,” he urges, uneasy at her unbending attitude towards a man who just might deserve better.

Logan isn’t blind to the fact that some parents do indeed walk at the first sign of trouble or responsibility; but he cannot understand why Catherine won’t even entertain the prospect of finding out for herself who her father is and what kind of man he might be.

“I know he wasn’t there for my mum when she needed him most!” Catherine gets to her feet and starts off, without looking back. Her long legs take her quickly along the water’s edge, the calf length, lemon cotton dress fluttering in her wake. Then she breaks into a run and sprints out of site.

Logan doesn’t attempt to stop or follow her. There is something eating away at Catherine, but he can’t imagine what. Sure, she’s had a bad start to life on her own, thanks to that bastard, Shipley, he growls audibly. But he didn’t manage to actually rape her, though he isn’t belittling the terror he had inflicted; hadn’t he evidenced that himself just last night! He pushes up from the grass, needing to stretch his legs a while.

He thinks of Colson, the woman he was introduced to at Arthur and Robert’s office just a couple of weeks ago. She’d had a strong, don’t mess with me, attitude that wouldn’t have allowed a shit like Shipley to get the better of her. Hell, hasn’t she managed to live with the fear that she had actually killed the man for eight years – that is no mean feat. It just does not make sense, he reasons, jamming his hands in to the pockets of his slacks.

What had she meant about her mother? He knows she died when Catherine was still young; young enough to need foster care – but he hasn’t delved deeply into her past, not wanting to invade Catherine’s privacy beyond the basics.

He chuckles to himself. I’ll just bet she didn’t do a basic search on me, he thinks sceptically; and makes his way along the lake’s edge in the opposite direction to Catherine.

It took her an hour or so to get rid of the knot in her stomach. Always physically painful, it could make her vomit when particularly bad. Doctor’s had previously diagnosed a nervous stomach when her carers had forced her to go to one as a child. But she hadn’t needed a doctor to tell her what it was; it always came when she thought of her mother, of the pain and suffering ‘that man’ had inflicted on her.

Taking a few deep, cleansing breaths, Catherine re-enters the house as she had left it, via the kitchen. There she finds a plump, pleasant looking woman, busy rolling pastry with pans of something delicious cooking on the stove. What a blissful scene.

“Hi, I’m Catherine,” she introduces herself, not bothering to say Colson as both Logan and Henry insist on using her Christian name.

The cook looks up and smiles widely. “Yes, I heard from Henry that you’d be staying a few days; I made up your room,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper, “can’t leave such things to Henry, he hasn’t got a clue. Don’t know what he’d do if I didn’t come in to look after things.”
Really?

Catherine smiles, remembering Henry’s earlier comments about the ‘bossy’ Aida Thorpe. She watches as Aida wipes her hands on a damp cloth then takes the kettle to the sink to fill it. “I’m Aida, by the way. Don’t suppose Henry thought to mention me?” Oh yes he did. Catherine manages to stifle a laugh but can’t hide the smile or the knowing twinkle in her eyes before Aida turns back from the sink and catches them. “So…he did mention me,” she eyes Catherine speculatively. “Not all of it complimentary I see.”

She sounds brusque, but Catherine can see she doesn’t mean it. “Actually, it was,” she lies convincingly, “he obviously relies on you quite a bit.” She consoles herself that she hasn’t actually said that Henry has said as much to her in confidence, so she isn’t really betraying him. She hopes.

Aida’s head lifts in pride. “I knew it,” she states with a smug smile and setting the kettle on the range to boil. “He always makes out like he’s the one doing me a favour, what with me being a widower and needing the job; but I can tell when a place needs a woman’s touch. Not that Henry’s lazy or fuddled like some older folk get,” she smiles fondly, obviously not putting herself in that category either, “he’s just a typical man. He can’t think like a woman because he isn’t one,” and that seems to be explanation enough to Aida’s way of thinking. And you care about him very much.

Catherine chuckles then. “Is Henry still out in the back garden?” she asks, knowing that is where he disappeared to after breakfast.

“No, no…,” Aida’s head is bent over the pastry she has begun to roll out again, “…he’s away in the library – just down the hall, second door on the left – I’ll bring you both a cup of tea when the kettle’s boiled.”

Catherine finds Henry studying a large book spread out over a desk. Giving a knock on the already open door, Catherine smiles as he looks up. “Aida told me where to find you,” she tells him as she crosses the room. “She also said she’d bring us a cup of tea in; that’s if I’m not disturbing you?” Her smile is uncertain now.

“Not at all,” Henry waves her over. “I’m just looking at the old plans for this place.”

Catherine looks with interest at the old intricate blueprints for the Lakelands house and grounds. “Henry, these are amazing.” She moves to his side to get a better look.
Probably worth a small fortune but obviously worth more than mere money to Henry.
“Are you thinking of making some kind of alterations to the house?” she asks, as these are the pages he appears to be studying.

He looks a bit flustered. “Well…I don’t know…needs change…and, one day…maybe…” Catherine actually sees a spot of red come in to Henry’s cheeks. “…well, Logan may want to make this his home, too,” he declares quickly.

Oh you thoughtful, lovely man.

She smiles wickedly. “You haven’t told Logan about this, have you?”

“No I haven’t,” he replies, closing the book and putting it back on the shelf, “and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to him.”

Aida wheels a tea trolley in then, and tells them that lunch will be ready in about an hour. After pouring two cups of tea and setting the small plate of biscuits, that Aida has thoughtfully provided, on the table between them, Catherine takes a seat opposite Henry and considers his request.

“I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want Logan to know about your plans for the house?” she asks, frowning over her teacup. “I mean, how great is that, to have a dad who would go to all that expense and trouble to entice you back home?”

I wish I had a dad like you – mine probably doesn’t even know I’m alive.

“Mmm,” Henry smiles crookedly, “you’d think so, hey?”

Catherine’s smile falters a bit, realising that she still hasn’t done what she originally came for. “Actually, Henry, I came here to apologise for this morning. I shouldn’t have made you so uncomfortable in your own home that you felt you had to leave it.”
I’m such an idiot.

“I only went to feed the chickens,” he offers, then sees that she isn’t buying that. “Well, couples sometimes need a little privacy to work things out. I know Ellie and I had our moments; life would get a tad boring without a few fireworks to liven things up now and then.” His smile is wide and sincere, and Catherine loves him for it.

“Is that how you see us?” She asks tentatively. “As a couple, I mean.”

Henry looks surprised. “Don’t you?”

It’s too soon. It won’t last. But I want it to. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me.

Catherine frowns for a moment. “But we’ve known each other for such a short time; isn’t it a little early to be thinking like that?”

“Humph,” Henry gruffs loudly. “Knew how I felt about Ellie the first time I saw her; but you youngsters – always analysing and pulling everything to pieces before you even half way trust it. Go with your gut,” he states uncompromisingly, “that’s what I say.”

“It’s a fine idea,” she hesitates, “I’m just not sure that my gut is as trustworthy as yours appears to be.”
Or as deserving.

Henry studies Catherine for a long minute. “You’re the first he’s ever brought home; that’s all I’ll say.” Then Henry stands up and waves Catherine over to the back wall of the library. “A little inside information,” he winks as he indicates the many photos displayed there.

Still digesting that titbit of information that has caused her stomach to do a back flip, Catherine follows him. “Are all these of Logan?” she asks, amazed to see him holding up trophy’s of one type or another in each of the photos.

“Not all. I’ve got some of Ellie up there,” Henry, points to the right hand corner of the display, “she won more than one trophy or rosette for her baking; and proud of them she was, too.”

Going from one to the other, Catherine is fascinated by the photos of Logan between the ages of about five to in his teens, or early twenties. It is difficult to tell, as he has evidently always been tall.

“He was good at just about any sport; athletics, rugby, football and swimming were his favourites, though,” Henry continues, then points to a photo of Logan in swimming trunks; all arms and legs and gangly looking. ”That’s when he won the swimming gold cup – ordinarily it is silver, but they gave him a gold one for winning it three years in a row.” Catherine glances up to see a proud gleam in Henry’s eyes. Then he points over to a glass cabinet. “We saved all his trophies, and Ellie’s, too.” Turning back to the wall of photos, he reaches up to draw a gentle finger over the face of an elegant looking woman. “My Ellie,” he whispers, and Catherine is sure he has, momentarily, forgotten her presence. “We were so proud of our boy, weren’t we?”

To be loved like that. How many people are that lucky?

Catherine shifts, intending to leave Henry with his memories of Ellie, but he turns and she sees that his eyes are glistening. “Logan and I were devastated when Ellie passed away. I can only thank the Lord that he took her quickly. Cancer can be a terrible death, but we found out why she had been so tired and listless one month and she died the next. Her ashes are sprinkled on the island at the centre of the lake, just as she asked.” He turns then to see Logan enter the room, knowing he has heard his sad lament. “And of course, I’d be content to join my Ellie on her island if this one would stop making it his life’s work to stay a bachelor.”

Logan laughs, comfortable with his father’s teasing. It isn’t the first time after all. “Aida sent me to tell you both that lunch is ready and she’s served it up on the front terrace as it’s such a lovely day.” He walks over to Catherine as his father strides out of the library. Holding his arm out to her, like the gentlemen of old, he asks, “May I escort a lady to lunch?” You idiot.

“You could if there were any ladies in the room,” she giggles, but puts her arm through his anyway, grateful that they are no longer at odds.

“I think I should take umbrage at that,” he says with mock severity, “as I seem to remember picking that particularly lovely dress out myself.”

Not used to compliments or dresses, Catherine blushes deeply. “You picked them all out,” she reminds him, hiding her face against his arm. “I’m well aware that I don’t have any taste or style, or whatever the bloody hell every other woman has; but I have to admit, I like this one.” Logan beams. She gives a yank on his arm. “No need to look so smug, it’s just a dress.”
But I’m so glad you like it
.

“Don’t get all defensive,” Logan chides, bringing them both to a stop in the hallway. “You look beautiful, and I adore you.”
Oh!

Catherine can hardly catch her breath; after this morning, she thought she had ruined everything. “You do?”

“I absolutely do,” he confirms, before pulling her into his arms to kiss her.

She’s so thrilled, and relieved, that Catherine pours her heart and soul into the kiss and Logan responds in kind. Holding him, having him hold her, it makes her so happy. So very happy.
And he tastes so damn good!

A discreet cough at the end of the hallway has them springing apart. It is Aida, and she is trying not to smile. “Your lunch’ll be getting cold. It’s only a dressed salad but I put some hot chicken and new potatoes with it.”

They look at each other, caught like a couple of teenagers snogging behind the bike sheds at school, and break into fits of laughter that has Catherine bent over double