Castles of Sand Read online

  Harlequin is proud to present a fabulous

  collection of fantastic novels by

  bestselling, much loved author

  ANNE MATHER

  Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

  publishing industry, having written over one hundred

  and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

  forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

  This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

  for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

  passionate writing has given.

  We are sure you will love them all!

  I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

  I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

  These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

  We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

  Castles of Sand

  Anne Mather

  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

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE room was quiet. Even though it was only a stone’s throw from the busy heart of London’s West End, the school buildings seldom allowed more than the steady hum of traffic to invade their thick walls, and Kingsley Square was a sequestered backwater, secure from the noise and confusion scarcely half a mile away. Sitting at her desk, with a pile of crisp new exercise books in front of her, Ashley could not have wished for more private surroundings to bear the shock she had just experienced, and yet it still left her shaking and incapable of coherent thought.

  She looked at the register of names in front of her, and ran a trembling finger down the column. Devlin, Fredericks—perhaps she had been mistaken—but no, there it was again, Gauthier, Hussein Gauthier, there was no mistake. And it was not such a common name either. Surely, surely, there could not be two seven-year-old boys called Hussein Gauthier.

  She did not often take a drink, but right now Ashley felt she could do with one. Her mouth felt dry, and her head was spinning, and although she knew there were other matters to be taken into consideration, all she could think of was that she was expected to have the boy in her form for a whole year!

  It couldn’t be done. Her initial reactions were all negative. She would not—she could not—be expected to teach him; not in the present circumstances. It was too much to ask of anyone, any woman, at least. How could it have happened? What cruel twist of fate had brought the boy to this school, out of all the schools that could have been chosen? It was intolerable, it was unkind, it was inhuman!

  Ashley got up jerkily from her desk, pushing back her chair so abruptly, it almost fell over, and rocked dangerously on its back legs. But it steadied itself, as Ashley tried to do, before stepping down from the small dais and walking determinedly towards the door.

  Outside, the polished wooden blocks of the floor of the corridor stretched ahead of her, the walls lined with portraits of past headmasters of Brede School. Between the portraits, half glass doors opened into other classrooms and activity rooms, empty until tomorrow when the school re-opened after the summer recess. Ashley herself had only come in that morning to acclimatise herself to her surroundings again, and to run a casual eye over the new pupils she was to have charge of. She had been away, staying with some friends in Yorkshire, enjoying the unaccustomed freedom from books and learning, joining in the work of the farm, where she had spent the last two months. The Armstrongs had always been like her own family to her. She and Lucy Armstrong had met at university, and since then, apart from those disastrous months she had spent with Hassan, she had remained in regular contact with them. As she had no parents of her own, there had been many occasions when she had been grateful for their support, and at this very moment she would have welcomed Mr Armstrong’s practical common sense.

  The corridor emerged on to a railed landing, overlooking the entrance hall below. The school had originally been formed in the eighteenth century by linking together two town houses, and although the buildings had been added to since that time, the atmosphere of a close community remained. There were lots of halls and curiously winding staircases, and low beams to catch the unwary, but as the boys it accommodated were only five to thirteen years of age, it seldom troubled them. It was a small school, only a hundred and fifty pupils, but its record was excellent, and its results ensured a permanent register of pupils waiting to receive a place.

  As she hurried down the stairs, Ashley wondered how Hussein had been admitted. Had his name been entered since his birth, as many of the boys’ names had, or had someone in authority pulled some strings? She could hardly believe the former, and although the latter seemed more likely, what unknowing chance had prompted Alain to choose this school?

  Malcolm Henley, the present headmaster of Brede School, had his study on the ground floor, in a room which had once been used as a reception parlour. It was not a large room, but the ceiling was high, and the bookshelves that lined the walls drew one’s eyes upwards rather than pointing to its limited proportions. It was a comfortable room, a masculine room, with rather austere furnishings and fittings, but Ashley had always felt at ease here, and during the five years she had been working in the school, she and Malcolm had become close friends.

  Now, she knocked at the door, and having been bidden to enter, stepped on to the worn brown carpet. Malcolm had been seated at his desk, but at her entrance he rose politely to his feet, and with a warm smile came round the desk to greet her.

  ‘Well, Ashley,’ he said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘Have you satisfied yourself that everything is as you left it?’

  Ashley forced a faint smile. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve done that,’ she answered, withdrawing her hand from his enthusiastic hold. ‘And—and I checked over the new register of pupils.’

  Malcolm nodded, pulling his pipe out of his pocket, and examining the bowl with a knowing eye. ‘You’ll see you’ve got fifteen boys this year,’ he remarked, searching his pockets for some matches. ‘I’ve agreed to take on an extra pupil, one who is slightly olde
r than we usually take them, but an intelligent boy for all that, or so I believe.’

  ‘Hussein Gauthier,’ put in Ashley tightly, and Malcolm acknowledged this as he struck a match.

  ‘Gauthier, yes, that is the boy’s name,’ he agreed, smiling as he dropped the spent match into the already overflowing ashtray. Then a look of mild concern crossed his lined, yet still handsome, face. ‘Is something wrong, Ashley? You look—disturbed.’

  Ashley indicated the chair at the opposite side of the desk. ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘Of course.’ Malcolm walked to resume his seat. ‘Need you ask?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘Physically, you mean?’ suggested Ashley, a vaguely hysterical note lurking in her voice. ‘No. No, Malcolm, I’m not ill. At least, not in any way that you can see.’

  Malcolm rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her thoughtfully across its littered width. ‘You are upset, aren’t you? What is it? Is there anything I can do?’

  Ashley lay back in the worn leather armchair and wished desperately that there was. But she didn’t see what anyone could do—except herself. She and Malcolm had never discussed her past. Oh, he knew she had been married, and that her husband had died within a few days of that marriage, but that was all. She had never discussed his identity, or their relationship, and as she had reverted to her maiden name of Gilbert, the rest of the staff were no wiser.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Malcolm indicated the decanter on the filing cabinet by the window, but Ashley shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ she protested, and Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Perhaps you need one,’ he suggested, and remembering her own thoughts of only a few minutes ago, Ashley acquiesced. Maybe it would be easier to say what she had to say with a little dutch courage inside her. She didn’t honestly know what she was going to say, but something had to be said, that was certain.

  With a glass containing a measure of Scotch whisky in her hand, Ashley strove to find a way to explain herself. ‘I—I have to offer you my resignation,’ she said, clearing her throat as Malcolm stared at her aghast. ‘I—I’m sorry. I know it’s an awkward time for you, the beginning of term and everything, but—I—I’m sorry.’

  She buried her nose in the glass as Malcolm digested what she had just told him. Characteristically, he did not immediately deny her claim, but sat there quietly smoking his pipe, watching her with the same assessing intentness, with which he appraised the boys.

  ‘I assume you do intend to tell me why you’ve come to this decision,’ he said at last, when Ashley had choked over the raw alcohol and set her eyes streaming. ‘You do realise that I care about you, and am concerned about you, and that whatever it is that’s troubling you is better shared?’

  Ashley expelled her breath shakily. ‘You’re very kind, Malcolm, but—’

  ‘I’m not kind!’ he retorted briefly. ‘I’m concerned. That’s a completely different thing.’

  Ashley sighed. Malcom was kind, whatever he said. Kind, and understanding, and had she never known another kind of loving she might easily have succumbed to his affectionate attentions. But when she first came to Brede School to work, she had still been raw from her experiences with the Gauthiers, and she had made it plain that so far as men were concerned she preferred them to keep their distance. In consequence, the association which had developed over the years between her and Malcolm was compounded of a mutual liking and respect, and if, as a bachelor of almost forty years, Malcolm still hoped for a closer relationship, Ashley was not to blame. Nevertheless she did not want to hurt him, and she was loath to destroy what she had built up without due cause.

  ‘I have to leave,’ she said now, choosing her words with care. ‘Something—something’s happened. I—I can’t stay on.’

  Malcolm tapped out his pipe in the ashtray, spilling smouldering shreds of tobacco over the scarred surface of his desk, so that he had to rescue several papers from ignition. Then, turning an unusually taut gaze on Ashley, he said:

  ‘Why? Why can’t you? You seemed perfectly all right when you arrived this morning. Why, we waved to one another across the quadrangle. For heaven’s sake, if you were thinking of leaving, why didn’t you warn me then?’

  Ashley shook her head, looking down into her glass, and with sudden perception Malcolm brought his fist down hard upon the desk. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving then, were you? It’s something else. Something that’s happened this morning. Something to do with this new form you’re taking—’

  ‘No—’ began Ashley, realising he was closing on the truth, but Malcolm wasn’t listening to her.

  ‘It must have to do with the boy,’ he finished at last. ‘What was his name? Gauthier—Hussein Gauthier! Of course,’ this as Ashley turned a stricken face towards him. ‘Why didn’t I realise it before? You identified him immediately, as soon as I mentioned a new boy. I should have connected the two things sooner, only I was more concerned about you.’

  Ashley set down her scarcely-touched glass with a weary hand. What was the point of denying it any longer? she thought. Malcolm was no fool. He could demand a satisfactory explanation, he deserved a satisfactory explanation. So why pretend she could just leave here without arousing his suspicions?

  ‘Well?’ he was asking now. ‘I am right, aren’t I? It’s the boy Gauthier who’s upset you. Why? What’s he to you? Do you know him? Do you know his family? Ashley, I mean to find out, so you might as well be honest with me.’

  Ashley inclined her head. ‘He’s my son,’ she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Hussein—Andrew—Gauthier is my son.’

  Malcolm’s astonishment was not contrived. A look of stunned disbelief crossed his features and remained there. He was evidently shaken, and who could blame him? she thought bleakly. She had never, at any time, mentioned that she had had a child.

  ‘Don’t you think that statement deserves some explanation?’ he ventured at last, thrusting his pipe back into his pocket with somewhat unsteady haste. ‘You told me you’d been married, that your husband was dead. But—but not that—that there were children!’

  ‘There were no children,’ retorted Ashley wearily. ‘Only one child. And—and as I never saw him, I never felt as if he was mine.’

  ‘But you must have done!’ Malcolm stared at her. ‘Ashley, a woman always cares about her children.’

  ‘Not all women,’ corrected Ashley tautly, controlling her emotions with great difficulty. ‘But you’re right about me, as it happens. I did care. At least, in the beginning.’

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve never even seen this boy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But how—why? How did it happen?’

  Ashley sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Malcolm—’

  ‘And don’t you think I deserve to hear it?’

  Ashley pressed her lips together. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps you do—I don’t know. Oh, Malcolm, what am I going to do?’

  Malcolm got up from his chair and came round to her, perching on the side of his desk and looking down at her with compassionate eyes. ‘I meant what I said, you know. A trouble shared can help one to see it in its right perspective. Perhaps if you talked to me—’

  ‘I can’t teach my own son!’ declared Ashley emotively. ‘I can’t, Malcolm. I can’t!’

  ‘I see there’s a problem,’ said Malcolm levelly, but as she would have protested again, he held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is something we have to talk about.’

  Ashley made a helpless gesture. ‘What is there to say? It’s an impossible situation.’

  ‘First of all, I want you to tell me why you haven’t seen—Hussein—all these years.’ He frowned. ‘And why you added the name Andrew. I don’t recall the boy having that name.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’ Ashley moved her shoulders wearily. ‘That was my name for him. I called him Andrew. I—I refused to
have a son of mine with only an Arab name.’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, I understand that. But I had no idea your husband was an Arab. I imagined he was someone you’d met in England.’

  ‘I did meet him in England,’ said Ashley flatly. ‘I—I met his brother at—at the home of a girl I got to know at university. And—and through him, I got to know Hassan.’

  ‘I see.’ Malcolm digested this. ‘So you know his family?’

  ‘I—knew his brother,’ Ashley corrected tightly.

  Malcolm sighed. ‘Yet you were married. You had a child!’

  ‘I lived in London,’ Ashley explained. ‘Hassan had been working here before we got married.’

  ‘Of course.’ Malcolm slapped his hand to his knee. ‘The Gauthiers are in oil and shipping, aren’t they?’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Ashley, did you realise what a wealthy family you were marrying into?’

  Ashley’s long lashes veiled her expression. ‘Yes, I realised it,’ she replied dully. ‘You might say—that was why I married Hassan.’

  ‘Ashley!’

  ‘Well—’ she tilted her gaze up to him, her green eyes dark and haunted, ‘I wouldn’t be the first girl to admit that. It’s true. I was pregnant, you see.’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ Malcolm made a sound of sympathy. ‘And you were—how old?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ she answered blankly. ‘In my first year at the college.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I was very naïve.’

  Malcolm hesitated. ‘But he did marry you. Some men—well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Ashley assented, ‘I know what you mean. But Hassan—always got what he wanted, and he wanted me.’

  She said it without conceit, and Malcolm watched her closely. ‘You’re still bitter.’

  Ashley’s smile was self-derisive. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your husband dying so soon after the wedding—that must have been a great shock to you.’

  Ashley’s expression hardened. ‘Yes.’

  ‘They—his family—they wouldn’t let you keep the boy?’