Читать книгу: «Morgan's Child»

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

FLISS let herself into the cottage and dropped her tote bag onto the iron chest that stood just inside the door. The living room was deliciously warm after the chilly air outside, and after bending to pick up the mail she surveyed her small domain with a certain amount of relief. It had been a long day and she was tired, and it was so nice to think that she had the weekend ahead, two whole days without any demands being made on her.

Well, apart from Graham’s coffee morning, she acknowledged ruefully, but that wasn’t exactly an arduous affair. She’d promised to make some of her cheese scones, of course, but she could do them in the morning. Scones were always nicest fresh from the oven, and Graham was always so grateful for anything she did for his church.

Dear Graham. She smiled and, crossing the living room, she entered the tiny kitchen that adjoined it. A cup of tea first, she decided, dropping the letters on the counter and plugging in the kettle. Then she was going to take a long hot bath. Graham had his bible class this evening, so she wasn’t expecting to see him again until the next morning at the church hall. Which meant she had no one to please but herself.

Not that there was anything the least bit intimidating about seeing Graham, she mused, taking off her cashmere coat and Paisley scarf and hanging them in the understairs cupboard. Indeed, she had a lot to thank Graham for. She couldn’t forget all that he had done for her and their relationship had deepened over time. Without him, she might never have found the strength to drag herself out of the hole Morgan’s death had thrust her into, and it was in part thanks to him that she now had a home and a job in a place that was as far removed from the ravages of war-torn Nyanda as it was possible to be.

And it was only natural, she thought, that the gratitude she had initially felt towards him should have eventually deepened into a stronger emotion. Graham was that kind of man; all his parishioners loved him, and she was sure Morgan wouldn’t resent her finding a less frenetic kind of happiness with another man.

Or would he? As the kettle boiled, she admitted to herself that she didn’t really know how Morgan would feel. Their relationship had left little room for that kind of speculation, and there was no doubt that when they had been together no other man had stood a chance.

Her mouth quivered with remembered anguish, and she hurriedly reached for the tea caddy, determined not to let any maudlin thoughts of her dead husband destroy the very real happiness she had found with Graham. Graham wasn’t Morgan, and she wouldn’t have wanted him to be. Her love for Morgan had been too strong, too passionate, and the pain she had suffered when it had ended so violently had convinced her that perhaps it was better not to feel so deeply. If she’d cared for Morgan as she cared for Graham, she would have been distressed when she had received the news of his death but she wouldn’t have been devastated; she wouldn’t have felt that life no longer had any meaning; that her whole world had fallen apart...

The sound of the phone broke into her reverie, and she was grateful. From the beginning, the doctor had warned her not to brood about the past, and she was gradually coming to terms with it. Morgan was dead. They’d found the remains of his body in the burnt-out car. That period of her life was over, and she told herself that she had stopped looking back.

Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Whittersley 2492.’

‘Felicity?’

Fliss expelled a breath. Of all people, she thought ruefully, but her mother-in-law called her so infrequently these days that she wasn’t altogether sorry. ‘Yes. it’s me,’ she greeted the other woman warmly. ‘Hello, Celia. It must have been at New Year that I last spoke to you and James.’

‘Yes, well—’

There was a wealth of unspoken censure in those two small words, and Fliss prepared herself for another gentle tirade on what Celia and James Riker thought of their only daughter-in-law’s removal to this small Wiltshire village, which was so remote from the life they lived in Sussex. She dreaded to think how they would react when they learned that Graham had actually asked her to marry him.

In all honesty, she hadn’t wanted to mention it at New Year anyway, as those particular celebrations always brought back memories of Morgan. They’d always spent New Year together, and an image of them sharing a glass of champagne could still upset her even after all this time.

She sighed, nudging the solitaire diamond ring on her finger with some trepidation. She had to concentrate on Graham, and the life they expected to build together in the coming year. A year which would bring in a new millennium; a new husband. Was this a suitable moment to tell the Rikers the truth?

‘Um—’ Celia seemed to be finding difficulty in going on and, taking the initiative, Fliss swallowed any lingering doubts.

‘I was going to ring you anyway,’ she said, but before she could get any further Celia found her voice.

‘Oh, why?’ she asked. ‘Have—have they been in touch with you?’ The tremor in her voice caused a sympathetic shiver to slide down Fliss’s spine. ‘The Foreign Office, I mean?’

Fliss swallowed again. ‘The Foreign Office?’ she echoed, trying to sound casual and failing, abysmally. She sought the safety of the nearby sofa’s arm. ‘I—why, no.’ She moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘Have they been in touch with you?’

Her thoughts spiralled. What now? she wondered. She’d thought she was through with all the formalities consequent upon Morgan’s death. And it had to be about Morgan. There was no other reason for the Foreign Office to get in touch with her.

The silence at the other end of the line was ominous, and although she quite understood that anything to do with the death of their son was just as painful for her in-laws as it was for her she wished Celia had marshalled her facts before picking up the phone.

‘You haven’t had a letter, then?’ her mother-in-law queried at last, and Fliss knew an uncharacteristic urge to scream that that was what she’d just said. ‘About—about the coup in Nyanda,’ Celia added confusingly. ‘Oh, dear. James said you would have rung us if you had.’

‘The coup in Nyanda?’ Fliss couldn’t imagine why the recent coup in the country where Morgan had met his death should be of any interest to her. Indeed, she preferred not to think about Nyanda at all, and the news that her husband’s killers had overthrown the legal government was too painful to think about.

‘Yes, the coup,’ Celia repeated eagerly, and Fliss wondered if there was to be some kind of official acknowledgement of Morgan’s murder. Surely they were not hypocritical enough to suggest that there should be some lasting memorial? The last thing she wanted was to have all those unhappy memories raked up now.

She tamped down her indignation, and said, ‘Is there a problem?’ in what she hoped was a pleasant tone.

‘You could say that.’ Celia’s response was agitated. ‘Oh, Felicity, it’s such wonderful news!’

Fliss felt guilty suddenly. Here she was considering only her own feelings when it was obvious that Morgan’s mother was delighted by what she’d heard. The trouble was, since she and Graham bad started spending so much time together. she’d been neglecting her in-laws. How long had it been since she’d visited them at Tudor Cross?

‘Celia—’

She didn’t know exactly what she’d been intending to say, but her mother-in-law broke in before she could go on. ‘Morgan’s alive!’ Celia cried, and then collapsed into violent sobbing and Fliss heard Morgan’s father swear as he grabbed the phone from her.

The room swam dizzily around her. She was glad she was sitting down, but even so the feeling of imbalance made her feel slightly sick. Clutching the arm of the chair, she assured herself that Celia must be having some kind of seizure. Whatever communication she had had, it could not have said that Morgan was alive.

‘Felicity!’

She was dimly aware that James Riker was speaking to her now and his voice, so like his son’s, had a sobering effect. She knew he was going to tell her to discount what his wife had said, but Celia’s words—so pathetic in some ways, so cruel in others—were not so easily dismissed.

‘Felicity,’ James said again. And then, more gently, ‘Fliss.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘God. I’m so sorry, my dear. Celia promised me she’d just ask you if you’d had a letter. She wasn’t supposed to blurt out what it said.’

‘What it said?’ Fliss trembled, trying hard to remain calm in the face of enormous provocation. ‘I just don’t know why you thought I’d be interested in some coup they’ve had in Nyanda.’ She drew a breath. ‘Are they planning a memorial to all the innocent victims of the war, or what?’

‘Oh, Fliss.’

James sounded so distressed now that Fliss wished she could say something to reassure him. It seemed there had been a letter and somehow Celia had convinced herself that Morgan was still alive. How awful for her husband to have to deal with that, and handle his own grief as well.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, putting aside her own feelings. ‘It’s obvious Celia’s got the wrong end of the stick. If there’s anything I can do, please feel free to call me. Um—perhaps if there is to be a memorial service we could get together—’

‘Oh, Fliss!’

Her words didn’t seem to have reassured him at all, and she hoped he didn’t think she didn’t care. No one liked the suggestion that a relative might not be wholly rational, but if he’d had any doubts about Celia’s mental capacity he shouldn’t have let her make the call in the first place.

‘Felicity,’ he said again, and she registered the return to a more formal appellation with a relieved smile. ‘You did hear what Celia said, didn’t you?’

Fliss nodded. Then, realising he couldn’t see her, she answered, ‘Yes, of course.’

James groaned. ‘You heard, Fliss. But you weren’t listening,’ he interposed swiftly. ‘God, I knew we should have driven down to see you instead of expecting you to call us. But the weather’s been so abominable, and we’ve both had flu—’

‘Wait!’ Now Fliss broke in. Before he said another word, she had to know what he meant ‘Are—are you saying there’s some truth in what Celia was saying? Is there some doubt about—about Morgan’s death?’

‘Not doubt, no.’ As Fliss gripped the receiver with hands that were now ice-cold and trembling, her father-in-law gave what sounded like a muffled laugh. ‘Oh, my dear. There is no doubt. Morgan is alive. He’s apparently been a prisoner of the rebel forces for the past four years.’

Fliss couldn’t believe it. She had the awful feeling that this was some sort of practical joke. Morgan was dead. The Foreign Office had virtually said so. They’d found the burnt-out remains of the car he’d been travelling in on the airport road, and the chances of Morgan having survived the ambush were minimal.

‘You obviously haven’t watched the reports on television,’ her father-in-law continued, his voice a little unsteady. ‘The rebel leader, a man called Julius Mdola, gave an interview outside the parliament buildings in Kantanga, and he admitted he’d been forced to keep his whereabouts a secret because of the danger of attack.’ He made a choked sound. The authorities believe Morgan must have been with him, and, thank God, they’ve discovered he’s still alive.’

Fliss shook her head as if to clear it. She could hear James’s voice, but the things he was saying made no sense. Whatever lies he’d been told, she didn’t want to hear them. It was all a mistake, and she just wanted to be left alone.

‘Fliss! Fliss, are you still there?’ James sounded anxious now, but still she didn’t speak. ‘Did you hear what I said? They’re calling it the coup of the millennium. Mdola insisted it was the people’s coup. But as long as Morgan’s free I don’t particularly care.’

Fliss’s mind wouldn’t function. Whether she believed it or not, no one could drop a bombshell like that and still expect her to respond. She had to keep telling herself that the Rikers were mistaken. Whatever they said, Morgan wasn’t coming back.

‘Fliss, for God’s sake, answer me!’

James was getting angry now, and Fliss supposed that she couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault that her mind had slipped out of gear. Well, it was his fault, but there were obviously mitigating circumstances. If Graham were here, he’d know how to deal with it. He always knew what to do in a crisis.

‘Fliss, I know you’re there,’ James declared at last, a trace of desperation in his voice, and she guessed he had detected her quickened breathing. ‘You should have had a letter,’ he added, somewhat flatly. ‘When I rang the Foreign Office earlier today, they confirmed that you’d been contacted, too.’

Fliss shook her head again, wondering if she was the only sane person amongst them. ‘James, it’s not true,’ she said firmly, trying not to get impatient. ‘Whatever you’ve heard, Morgan is dead.’ She licked her lips. ‘You saw the pictures of that car, just as I did. No one could have survived—’ She broke off. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

‘Oh, hell!’ James swore. ‘Look, my dear, I know this has come as a shock to you, and I’m sorry you’ve had to hear the news so baldly. But it is true. Morgan’s alive. He’s presently in a hospital in Kantanga. Some kind of stomach infection, I believe.’

‘No—’

‘Yes.’ James sighed. ‘You will forgive Celia, won’t you? She was so excited, she couldn’t wait to talk to you.’

Fliss couldn’t breathe. ‘No,’ she said again, seemingly incapable of saying anything else, and Morgan’s father groaned.

‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘Look, we’ll come down and see you. Not tonight, of course, but we’ll be with you first thing in the morning.’

Fliss didn’t answer him. There was a buzzing in her head, and although she knew the lamps in the room were lit she could sense a darkness at the comers of her eyes. She slid numbly off the arm of the sofa, bouncing briefly on the chintz-covered cushions before slipping almost nervelessly onto the floor. The phone dropped from her fingers, but she didn’t notice. As the blackness engulfed her, she heard Morgan’s father saying her name over and over again...

She recovered consciousness to the sound of someone hammering at the door.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, and even the realisation that she was lying on the rug in front of the stone hearth didn’t immediately supply an explanation. Had she tripped and fallen? Had she hit her head? She couldn’t remember ever having fainted, but it seemed obvious that she wouldn’t have just lain down in front of an unlit fire.

Her head was throbbing quite badly and whoever was attacking her door wasn’t improving it. If only they would stop banging quite so loudly, she might find the wherewithal to think.

‘Fliss!’ The letterbox rattled and someone shouted her name through the opening. ‘Fliss, can’t you answer me? Where are you? Are you all right?’

It was Graham, she realised as the pause in the knocking allowed her brain to function again. Graham was at her door, and she couldn’t understand why he sounded so worried. She distinctly remembered him telling her that he was giving a bible class this evening. He should have been at the vicarage, not hammering on her door.

She shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t when the room spun dizzily about her. Obviously, she had fainted, she thought incredulously. But how had Graham known that she needed his help?

She struggled up onto her elbows. She’d always believed she wasn’t the type to suffer sudden losses of consciousness. She’d thought she was made of stronger stuff and it was disconcerting to discover she’d been wrong. Why, even when she’d heard the news that Morgan had been murdered by the rebels—

Morgan!

The searing recollection of what she was doing on the floor hit her with lightning force. For a second, she was half afraid she was going to lose consciousness again, but Graham chose that moment to renew his assault on the door. Oh, God, Morgan, she thought sickly; Morgan’s alive. And, struggling groggily to her feet, she saw the phone receiver dangling from its cord.

‘Fliss!’ The letterbox rattled again. ‘Oh, Fliss, darling, can’t yon open the door? Can you hear me, Fliss? Oh, dear, I’m going to have to break a window. I’ve got to see that you’re all right.’

Graham!

Rubbing a dazed hand across her damp forehead, Fliss managed to regain her balance. I‘m—here. I’m all right,’ she called in a thin, wavery voice. Replacing the receiver and using the furniture for support, she started across the room. ‘Just give me a minute. I can’t seem to find the key.’

‘It’s on the floor,’ said Graham, bending to speak through the letterbox again. ‘Thank God you’re all right. I’ve been so worried. I managed to push your key out, but you’ve dropped the dead bolt so I couldn’t use my key.’

Fliss allowed her tongue to moisten lips that were as dry as parchment and bent to gather up the key. Of course, she thought, making sense of what he was saying, as this cottage still belonged to the church, it was feasible that Graham should have a key. The fact that she had had dead bolts fitted along with the existing locks had been an added security precaution on her part. She was used to living in London, where excessive personal protection was the norm.

It took a few moments for her trembling fingers to fit the key into its hole and deal with the other locks, but at last she got the door open. And, as if his patience had been stretched to breaking point, the Reverend Graham Bland—her fiancé—burst into the room, grasping her by the shoulders and pulling her into his arms.

‘Fliss!’

His voice was thick with emotion, and she wondered why her phone being off the hook should have caused him such concern. How long had she been unconscious, for heaven’s sake? He was behaving as if he knew something was wrong.

‘Should—shouldn’t you be at bible class?’ she ventured at last, when he drew back far enough to stare into her pale face. His expression gave her an anxious feeling. Did she look as numb as she felt?

‘At bible class?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘My dear, I came as quickly as I could. When the Rikers phoned me, I was—shattered. Finishing the bible lesson was the least of my concerns.’

‘The Rikers phoned you?’ Fliss felt a momentary twinge of the dizziness that had overwhelmed her before. ‘So—so you know what they—what they were ringing me about?’

‘Well, yes.’ Graham cupped her face in his large hands now, and smoothed her cold cheeks with tender fingers. ‘Oh, my dear, I can imagine what a shock this has been for you. The Rikers were frantic when you went off the phone.’

Fliss nodded, but although she was trying hard to behave rationally she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Hearing that the Rikers had told Graham the same thing they had told her made it more official somehow. Her fears—her doubts that maybe she had been hallucinating—were all swept away by Graham’s assertion. He wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t so. By some miracle, Morgan was alive. In a few days—weeks?—he’d be coming home.