LITMIR.BIZ

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      Marion frowned, handling the envelope as if its evident age and discoloration offended her sensibilities. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Read it,’ urged Isobel, endeavouring to control her impatience, and Marion pulled a face as she extracted the letter.

      ‘Very well,’ she said, flicking a speck of dust from her fingers. ‘But I can’t imagine why you would think…’

      Her voice trailed away as she began to read. Watching her expression, Isobel soon became convinced that what she was seeing was as much of a shock to Marion as it had been to her. Her sister looked up once, when she was about halfway through the letter, and gave Isobel a disbelieving stare, but she waited until she’d reached Robert Dorland’s signature before making any comment.

      ‘Do you think this has something to do with you?’

      Isobel shrugged. ‘Don’t you?’

      Marion looked down at the letter again. ‘How would I know? Who is this Robert Dorland? Some relation of Daddy’s, I suppose.’

      ‘His brother,’ Isobel told her. She flicked through the other letters she was holding. ‘I’ve read all of these, and that one was the last.’

      Marion held out her hand. ‘Can I read them?’

      ‘Of course.’ Isobel handed them over. ‘But not now. I—well, I’m expecting somebody.’

      Marion’s expression tightened. ‘Not Jared Kendall?’

      ‘No, not Jared,’ agreed Isobel wearily. ‘Though if he was coming here, it would be nothing to do with you.’

      ‘It would if his father-in-law found out I’d known about it, and done nothing to try and put a stop to it.’

      Isobel caught her breath. ‘Marion, you’re not my keeper.’

      ‘No, but Howard and Elizabeth are friends,’ declared Marion, fitting the letter back into the envelope. ‘We’ve even had dinner with them occasionally.’

      ‘Very occasionally,’ remarked Isobel drily. Howard Goldman and the Rimmers happened to belong to the same golf club, and Marion had been trying for years to cultivate the right kind of social circle. So far their contact with the Goldmans had been restricted to charity dinners and the like, but Marion had ambitions.

      ‘Nevertheless—’

      ‘Nevertheless, nothing,’ said Isobel shortly. She squared her shoulders. ‘Did you know anything about this?’

      ‘This?’ Marion held up the letter. ‘No. How could I?’

      ‘You’ve never heard of Robert Dorland?’

      Marion was indignant. ‘Isobel, I was only three years old when Mum and Daddy adopted you.’

      ‘Yes.’ Isobel acknowledged what she’d already accepted herself. ‘So what do you think I should do?’

      ‘Do?’ Marion blinked. ‘What do you mean? What do I think you should do? What can you do? These letters are—what? Twenty-five, thirty years old?’

      ‘I’m only twenty-six, Marion.’

      ‘Oh, yes. Right.’ Marion pulled a wry face. ‘Well, it hardly matters now.’

      Isobel dropped down into the armchair opposite. ‘Don’t you think so?’

      ‘How could it? This man—this Robert Dorland—is probably dead by now.’

      ‘He might not be.’

      ‘No.’ Marion conceded the fact with ill grace. ‘But what are you going to do? Turn up on his doorstep and expose the secret he’s been keeping all these years: you!’

      ‘He is my father.’

      ‘Is he?’

      ‘Of course he is.’ Isobel stared at her. ‘Surely you don’t think he’d have gone to all that trouble if—’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure he thought he was your father,’ declared Marion dismissively. ‘But your mother was hardly a paragon of all the virtues, was she? I mean—’ Her lips twisted, and Isobel could almost see what she was thinking. ‘Getting involved with a married man! How do you know she wasn’t lying about your paternity in the hope of making a better life for herself?’

      ‘Because Robert Dorland wouldn’t even have known he had a daughter if she hadn’t been killed,’ retorted Isobel tersely. ‘For pity’s sake, Marion, what are you implying here?’

      ‘Well, you don’t know anything about her, do you? She could have been—well, anything.’

      Isobel sprang to her feet. ‘I think you’d better go now.’

      ‘Oh, Isobel, don’t be so melodramatic.’ But Marion got to her feet anyway, clearly aware that she had overstepped the mark. ‘All right. Maybe I’m not being very—sympathetic about her, but you know I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just my way.’

      ‘Yes.’ Isobel knew Marion’s ways very well. She snatched the bundle of letters out of her sister’s hands and folded them within her arms. ‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be needing these,’ she said, stepping aside so that Marion could walk towards the door. She took a breath. ‘Oh, and here are the keys,’ she added, lifting them off the table by the door. ‘But you’ll have to get Malcolm or somebody else to clear out the rest of the junk. There’s far too much for me to handle.’

      ‘Isobel…’

      Marion tried again to placate her sister, but Isobel had had as much as she could take for one day. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, guiltily, aware that she was planning to leave town without giving her sister her new address. ‘Goodnight.’

      ‘Goodnight.’

      Marion took the keys and left, but after she’d gone Isobel found herself in tears again. Dammit, she thought, what was wrong with her? The sooner she got out of Newcastle the better.

      She’d barely dried her eyes before Michelle arrived. Her friend came into the apartment looking at Isobel with anxious eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

      Isobel sighed. ‘Don’t ask.’

      ‘Jared Kendall,’ said Michelle disgustedly, taking off her jacket. ‘Honestly, Issy, I thought you were going to be sensible about him.’

      ‘I am being sensible.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ Michelle flicked her neck with a sardonic finger. ‘So what’s this? A mosquito bite?’

      Isobel covered the mark Jared’s teeth had made with defensive fingers. ‘Jared hasn’t upset me,’ she denied. ‘It was Marion, if you must know.’

      ‘Oh, yeah?’ Michelle flopped down onto the sofa, spreading her ample bulk over both cushions. ‘So what’s she done now?’

      Isobel hesitated. ‘I found some old letters in the loft today.’

      ‘Big deal.’ Michelle pulled a face. ‘Isn’t that what you usually find in lofts? Old papers; old letters; junk? What’s that got to do with the green-eyed monster?’

      ‘The letters were from my father.’

      ‘So?’

      Isobel sighed. ‘My real father!’

      Michelle frowned. ‘Your real father?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you didn’t know who your real father was.’

      ‘I didn’t. Until today.’ Isobel looked doubtful. ‘It turns out he was my father’s brother.’

      ‘Are you serious?’ Michelle’s blue eyes were wide. ‘Holy Moses! And they never told you?’

      ‘They didn’t tell anyone,’ said Isobel unhappily. ‘My father—my adoptive

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