Secret Sins: A Callie Anson

Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
About the Author
Books by Kate Charles
Copyright

As ever, this book would not have been possible without the encouragement, advice and expertise of many people. Among them are Suzanne Clackson, Deborah Crombie, the Revd. Dr. Joan Crossley, the Rt. Revd. Christopher Herbert, Ann Hinrichs, Gianna Lombardi-Roberts, Marcia Talley, Margaret Anne Tibbs, and Mel Thompson, as well as my wonderful agent, Dot Lumley, and my two splendid editors, Susie Dunlop and Barbara Peters. Heartfelt thanks to all of them.

Callie Anson first met Morag Hamilton at a Mothers’ Union meeting. Jane Stanford, the vicar’s wife, was very much in charge of the Mothers’ Union at All Saints’ Church, Paddington, and as the lowly curate, Callie was deliberately keeping a low profile, sitting in the back row as Jane introduced the speaker. Callie’s thoughts were elsewhere: certainly not on the woman who was to demonstrate how to make festive Christmas decorations out of yogurt pots and ribbon, with the assistance of scissors and a glue gun. The Mothers’ Union was not an institution which held much appeal for her in any case, but she knew that Jane would take as much offence if she were not there as she would if Callie were to try to take too prominent a role in its operation. The safest option, she had long since discovered, was literally to take a back seat.

As the correct use of the glue gun was explained, Callie’s
attention
wandered still further, to the woman sitting nearest to her in the back row. She didn’t recall having seen her before, though she wasn’t exactly a striking or memorable type: late middle-aged, small, compact, neatly put together, with capable-looking hands folded over a black handbag on a tartan-clad lap. Her grey hair was short and tidy, if not stylish, and her eyes were concealed behind spectacles, their frames unfashionably large.

What did seem out of place to Callie in the midst of the
well-groomed
London ladies was the woman’s complexion, her cheeks ruddy with small broken blood vessels, as if she had spent much
of her life out of doors and in a less genteel and rarefied climate than the soft rains of Paddington, Bayswater and Hyde Park.

Callie spoke to her at the earliest opportunity, as soon as the speaker had finished and the applause had died away. There was a discreet rush in the direction of the tea urn, but the woman hesitated for just a moment, and Callie turned to her.

‘Hello,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m the curate, Callie Anson.’

The woman took her hand in a firm grip. ‘Morag Hamilton,’ she said, her strong Scottish burr as much an indicator of her origins as her un-English name. ‘I’m new here.’

‘It’s good to meet you, Morag. And good to have you with us. Do you live in the parish?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Just round the corner, in fact.’ Morag
indicated
the direction with a tilt of her head.

‘Oh, we’re neighbours, then,’ Callie said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I live in the flat upstairs.’

‘Over the shop.’ Morag smiled. ‘That’s something I know a bit about myself. My husband was the village doctor, and we lived above the surgery.’

‘In Scotland?’ Callie ventured.

‘That’s right. In the Highlands,’ she amplified. ‘Gartenbridge. Not far from Aviemore. Do you know it?’

Callie shook her head. ‘No. I’ve been to Edinburgh once or twice, but that’s as far as I’ve been in Scotland.’

Morag gave a brisk laugh. ‘Edinburgh’s so far south, it hardly counts as Scotland at all!’

‘I understand the Highlands are very beautiful.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing so lovely on earth.’ Morag’s eyes looked over Callie’s shoulder, as if focusing on something far away, and her face softened. ‘You really should go, you know. Go for a week, and you’ll never want to come back.’

Callie felt a prickle of curiosity. If the Highlands were so perfect, what was Morag Hamilton doing in London? Might her husband have retired and taken a fancy to city life? As she thought how to phrase the question diplomatically, she was
forestalled by Jane Stanford, who was proprietorially steering the speaker towards the refreshments. ‘Callie, it looks as if Mrs. Barton could use a hand with pouring the tea,’ she said sharply, her brows drawn together in disapproval at the curate’s failure to read her mind. ‘I would help, of course, but I must look after our speaker.’

‘Yes, of course, Jane.’ Callie smiled an apology at Morag Hamilton, who quirked an understanding eyebrow in Jane’s direction. That endeared her to Callie, who decided on the spot that she liked the Scottish newcomer. ‘I’ll see you later, Mrs. Hamilton,’ she promised as she made a move. ‘Do come this way and have a cup of tea and a mince pie.’

‘Please, call me Morag,’ insisted the other woman. ‘And it would be very nice to see you again.’

Rachel Norton woke gradually, and not because it was yet
daylight
. The only source of light was from the ensuite bathroom, glowing faintly round the top and side of the stripped pine door. These Victorian houses had many charms, but period features came with a price—and that included doors which didn’t quite fit in their frames and single-glazed sash windows which admitted the chill winds of winter without putting up a great deal of fight.

Half awake, Rachel couldn’t quite decide whether her sleep had been disturbed by noises from the bathroom, or by the baby’s movements. Under the duvet, she ran her hands over the great mound of her belly, still not used to the shape she had assumed over the last months. Yes, the baby was kicking, all right. She shifted a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position. Most of the time now she slept on her back; anything else was just too awkward.

The cracks of light round the bathroom door morphed into a rectangle as Trevor came through, clad in his running shorts, a grey tee shirt and his expensive state-of-the-art trainers. His iPod was strapped round his upper arm in a holster.

‘Morning,’ Rachel murmured.

‘Oh, love.’ Trevor came to the side of the bed and leaned over, kissing her forehead. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you—I was trying to be quiet.’

‘The baby was kicking.’

Trevor gave a fond chuckle and patted the duvet above the mound. ‘He’ll be a football player. Mark my words, Rache.’

‘You’re so sure it’s a boy.’ Rachel’s protest was perfunctory and half-hearted, oft-repeated. The scans had been noncommittal on the subject, but Trevor was unfazed.

‘It’s got to be. A beautiful blond boy.’ Trevor lifted a lock of the thick blond hair spread on Rachel’s pillow and fingered it lovingly, then patted his own close-cropped fair head. ‘Couldn’t be anything else.’

Rachel changed the subject. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven. As usual. You know I always run at seven.’

Like clockwork, she reflected. You could set your watch by Trevor’s timekeeping. A run along the canal at seven—winter or summer, dark or light—, home for a shower and a quick breakfast, and at his desk by half-past eight.

Trevor was much happier these days, since he no longer had to commute into the City. His office was at the other end of the corridor, in the large bay-fronted room at the front of the house. When they’d bought the house, six months ago, Rachel had
fancied
that room for their bedroom, but Trevor had been adamant. ‘I’ll spend more time in the office than the bedroom—we both will, for that matter. Makes sense to use the biggest room. Space for all the computers and filing cabinets. And good light.’ She hadn’t really argued. It
was
a big house, and their bedroom at the back was perfectly adequate in size. And they’d taken the small bedroom next to it, knocked it through and fitted it out as an ensuite, still leaving another bedroom to use as the nursery.

They’d come a long way from the scruffy, cramped flat in Stoke Newington that they’d shared for a few years before their marriage, and where they’d started their married life a scant year ago. Trevor was an IT genius—she’d always told him so, and
eventually he’d carried through with the threat he always made when his boss hacked him off. He’d told him where to put his job, and had started up on his own as an independent IT
consultant
. Some—many—of his old clients had followed him; it hadn’t taken long for word-of-mouth to bring others, and now the business was flourishing. They’d bought the Victorian semi in Paddington—with the canal close by for the daily run—and left Stoke Newington behind forever.

Rachel, too, had quit her job—as a bookkeeper in the same City firm where Trevor had worked, and where they had met. Trevor had insisted that she could do his books instead. After all, with the business growing like it was, he needed a good bookkeeper. She didn’t miss the commute, she admitted to herself, but she
did
miss her co-workers, her mates. She’d been working there since she left school, and those people were almost like family to her. The congenial coffee breaks, the confidences shared over sandwiches at lunchtimes, the drinks at the corner pub after work: those things were undervalued at the time, barely thought of when she’d agreed to pack in the job. Now, when she no longer had them, she valued them fiercely with a nostalgia she’d never expected in herself.

And now, with the baby on the way, Trevor didn’t want her to work at all. ‘We don’t need the money,’ he said often. ‘You can be a stay-at-home mum.’

‘But your books…’

‘I can hire a bookkeeper,’ Trevor had stated grandly. ‘I’ll advertise.’

The baby kicked her again, even more violently than before. Rachel flinched and rubbed her stomach.

‘I’m off, then.’ Trevor leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘See you in a bit. There’s no rush for you to get up, love. Take your time.’

‘Have fun,’ she called after him.

‘Running isn’t supposed to be fun,’ Trevor reminded her as he slipped his iPod earphones into his ears and pushed the play button. With a wave over his shoulder he disappeared down the corridor, already breaking into a trot.

Rachel waited until she heard the front door close, then struggled into a sitting position and reached under the bed for her laptop. Propping it up awkwardly on her bump, she opened it, logged into the wireless network, and checked her e-mail.

Neville Stewart had scarcely seen his friend Mark Lombardi for weeks. They’d run across each other occasionally at the police station, once or twice sharing a meal in the canteen, but it seemed as if the old days of bachelor evenings together at the pub had come to an end.

There had been no row; they hadn’t changed their pattern by design. It just happened that the station’s two most confirmed bachelors had developed relationships at the same time, and things had changed.

Today, though, Neville was feeling restless, missing the old camaraderie he and Mark had shared.

There was an underlying reason for his restlessness, one he didn’t want to think about too closely.

Triona.

He was sick of the status quo, tired of the way things seemed to have stalled out. Going nowhere: that was their relationship. Why was she so stubborn?

They had met up again a couple of months ago, nine years after a brief but intense affair which had scarred them both. The magic, Neville realised at once, was still there. Triona affected him as no other woman had ever done, before or since.

He had invited her out to dinner; she had accepted.

He had gone to pick her up at her flat—her posh flat in a warehouse conversion overlooking the river.

They’d never made it to dinner. They hadn’t made it any further than her bedroom.

Turning over the papers on his desk without really looking at them, Neville recalled that night with a complex mixture of burning longing, self-pity, and anger.

It had been as good as ever. Better. Triona had matured, was now a grown woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to give pleasure, without losing any of her raw animal energy. He knew her so well, recalled every detail of her body, yet she was a stranger to him, a source of unexpected delight.

That night had been the best, most memorable one of Neville’s life. He hadn’t wanted it to end. He’d assumed,
naturally
enough, that it would be just the first of many such nights to come.

In the morning, lying with Triona in his arms, her head
pillowed
on his chest, he’d looked round her bedroom. ‘It’s a great flat,’ he said, playing with a curled strand of her long black hair. When he’d first known Triona, her hair had been shorter, wild and curly with a life all its own. Now she’d grown it out, wearing it in a neat and elegant knot by day. That night, though, he’d freed it from its constraints; it had sprung back into its curly ways, untamed and uncivilized. ‘Do you own it? I don’t suppose you’ll want to move back to my scruffy old place. It would make more sense for me to move in here.’