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all right, darling, Mumma’s fine now.’ She made her face brighter. ‘Do you think Mrs H has made pasta?’ she asked. It was no guess—Mrs Hughes always did pasta for Nicky when he ate downstairs.

      ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I love pasta!’ he informed his cousin.

      Anatole was grinning, all his attention on Nicky too. ‘So do I,’ he said. ‘And so,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘does your mumma!’

      His gaze slid sideways. He was speaking to her again before he could stop himself. Why, he didn’t know. He only knew that words were coming from him anyway.

      ‘We always ate it when you cooked. Don’t you remember?’

      Again, she reeled. Of course she remembered!

      I remember everything—everything about the time we spent together. It’s carved into my memory, each and every day!

      She reached for her water, gulping it down. Then the door opened and Mrs Hughes came in, pushing a trolley.

      ‘Pasta!’ exclaimed Nicky in glee as Christine got to her feet to help her housekeeper serve up.

      Nicky did indeed have pasta, but for herself and Anatole there was more sophisticated fare: a subtly flavoured and exquisitely cooked ragout of lamb, with grilled polenta and French beans.

      There was no first course—Nicky wouldn’t last through a three-course meal and he was eager to start eating straight away—but, again, Nanny Ruth’s training held fast.

      Christine put a few French beans on a side plate, arranging them carefully into a tower to make them more palatable.

      ‘How many beans can you eat?’ she asked Nicky, and smiled. ‘Can you eat ten? Count them while you eat them,’ she said, draping his napkin around his neck—she knew Mrs Hughes’s pasta came with tomato sauce.

      She turned back to put more dishes on the table, only to see Mrs Hughes lift two bottles of red wine and place them in front of Anatole.

      ‘I’ve taken the liberty,’ she announced, ‘of bringing these. But of course there is all of Mr K’s cellar if you think these won’t do—that’s why I haven’t opened them to breathe. I hope that’s all right with you?’

      Christine said nothing, but bitter resentment welled up in her. Mrs Hughes was treating Anatole as if he were the man of the house. Taking her husband’s place. But she said nothing, not wanting to upset her.

      Nor, it seemed, did Anatole. ‘Both are splendid,’ he said approvingly, examining the labels, ‘but I think this one will be perfect.’ He selected one, handed back the other. ‘Thank you!’

      He cast her his familiar dazzling smile, and Christine could see its effect on her housekeeper.

      Mrs Hughes beamed. ‘Good,’ she said. Then she looked at Christine. ‘Will Mr Kyrgiakis be staying tonight? I can make up the Blue Room if so—’

      Instantly Christine shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. My husband’s nephew has a room reserved at the White Hart in Mallow.’

      ‘Very well,’ said Mrs Hughes, and took her leave.

      Christine felt Anatole’s eyes upon her. ‘Have I?’ he enquired.

      ‘Yes,’ she said tightly. ‘I reserved it for you. Unless you’re driving back to town tonight, of course.’

      ‘The White Hart will do very well, I’m sure,’ replied Anatole.

      His voice was dry, but there was something in it that disturbed Christine. Disturbed her a lot.

      She turned to Nicky. ‘Darling, will you say Grace for us?’

      Dutifully, Nicky put his hands together in a cherubic pose. ‘Thank you, God, for all this lovely food,’ he intoned. Then, in a sing-song voice he added, ‘And if we’re good, God gives us pud.’ He beamed at Anatole. ‘That’s what Giles says.’

      Anatole reached for the foil cutter and corkscrew, which Mrs Hughes had set out for him, and busied himself opening the wine, pouring some for Christine and himself. Nicky, he could see, had diluted orange juice.

      ‘Does he, now?’ he responded. Wine poured, he reached for his knife and fork, turning towards Christine, who had started eating, as had Nicky—with gusto. ‘This dinner party next Friday...tell me more.’

      ‘There isn’t much to tell,’ she replied, keeping her voice cool.

      She hadn’t missed the dry note in Anatole’s voice. But she didn’t care. Let him think what he would about her friendship with Giles Barcourt. He would, anyway, whatever she said. She was condemned in his eyes and always would be.

      ‘Don’t expect a gourmet meal—but do expect hospitality. The Barcourts are very much of their type—landed, doggy and horsy. Very good-natured, easy-going. Vasilis liked them, even though they are completely oblivious to the fact that their very fine Gainsborough portraits of a pair of their ancestors need a thorough cleaning. He offered to undertake it for them, but they said that the sitters were an ugly crew and they didn’t want to see them any better. Their Stubbs, however,’ she finished, deadpan, ‘is in superb condition. And they still have hunters in their stable that are descended from the one in the painting.’

      Anatole laughed.

      It was a sound Christine had not heard for five long years, and it made a wave of emotion go through her. So, too, did catching sight of the way lines indented around his sculpted mouth, the edges of his dark, gold-flecked eyes crinkled.

      She felt her stomach clench and her grip on her knife and fork tighten. She felt colour flare out along her cheeks. Memory, like a sudden kaleidoscope of butterflies, soared through her mind. Then sank as if they’d been shot down with machine gun fire.

      ‘I look forward to meeting them.’ His eyes rested on Christine. His tone of voice changed. Hardened. ‘Giles Barcourt would not do for you,’ he said. ‘As a second husband.’

      She stared. Another jibe—coming hard at her. Dear God, how was she to get through this evening if this was what he was going to do? Take pot-shots at her over everything? Wasn’t that what she’d feared? That his blatant animosity towards her would start to poison her son?

      ‘I am well aware of that,’ she said tightly. She took a mouthful of wine, needing it. Then she set it back, stared straight at Anatole. ‘I am also well aware, Anatole...’ she kept her voice low, and was grateful that Nicky was still enthusiastically polishing off his plate of pasta, paying no attention to anything but that ‘...that I am not fit to be the wife of a man whose family have owned a sizeable chunk of the county since the sixteenth century!’

      ‘That’s not what I meant!’ Anatole’s voice was harsh, as if he were angry.

      His expression changed, and Christine saw him take a mouthful of wine, then set the glass down with a click on the mahogany table. ‘I meant,’ he said, ‘that your years with Vasilis have...have changed you, Tia—Christine,’ he amended. He frowned, then his expression cleared. ‘You’ve changed almost beyond recognition,’ he said.

      ‘I’ve grown up,’ she answered. Her voice was quiet, intent. ‘And I am a mother.’ Her gaze went to Nicky. ‘He gives my life meaning. I exist for him.’

      She could feel Anatole’s eyes resting on her. Feel them like a weight, a pressure. She saw him ready himself to speak.

      But then, with an exaggerated sigh of pleasure, Nicky set down his miniature knife and fork and announced, ‘I’m finished!’ He looked hopefully at his mother. ‘Can I have my pudding now? Is it ice cream?’

      ‘May I,’ corrected Christine automatically, her voice mild. ‘And, yes, I expect so. But you’ll have to wait a bit, your...your cousin and I are still eating.’

      Had she hesitated too much on the word cousin? She hoped not.

      ‘It’s

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