Legacy of the Past

  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 mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

  Legacy of the Past

  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

  MADELINE folded the last letter and placed it in the envelope, sealing it thankfully. There; she was finished!

  She pulled the plastic cover over her typewriter, locked her drawer and slipped the keys into her shopping bag. Walking to the door she lifted down her sheepskin coat and put it on, surveying the room as she did so to satisfy herself that everything was tidied up for the week-end. Then, satisfied, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor outside.

  The lone, rubber-tiled corridors stretched away ahead of her, flanked by classrooms and more corridors. Deserted now, without the chattering throng of boys and girls, it looked stark and uninspiring.

  Suddenly the figure of George Jackson, the school porter, appeared from around one of the many comers and made his way towards her. Madeline smiled at his approach, liking the elderly custodian who looked after things so efficiently.

  ‘Not away yet, Mrs. Scott?’ he asked, as he neared her. ‘It’s past five o’clock, you know.’

  Madeline nodded. ‘I’m just going, George. I’ve left the last few letters on my desk, as usual.’

  ‘All right, I’ll see to them.’ George searched his pockets for his pipe. ‘You get along now, my dear. That daughter of yours will be wondering where you are.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Madeline, smiling again. ‘See you on Monday.’

  She walked away down the corridor, her heels almost soundless on the rubber flooring. Although it was empty the school still had appeal for her. She enjoyed working there as secretary to Adrian Sinclair, the headmaster. She had been his secretary for over five years now, ever since they came to Otterbury, in fact.

  The staff entrance opened on to the school car-park. Madeline, who owned a scooter, left it here and she walked quickly across to where it was parked, the only machine left on the car-park. As she kicked the starter she shivered. Although it was late March, the air was still icily cold in the mornings and evenings, and riding the scooter was not as much fun as it had been during the warm summer months.

  She rode to the exit and slowed as she reached the main road. Traffic streamed by, mostly workmen leaving the nearby automobile factory. Although Otterbury was only a small town, the big new factory which had recently sprung up on its outskirts had enlarged the population considerably and new council houses were gradually being built to house the men who at present commuted from further afield.

  She turned into the main stream when there was a break in the traffic and changing gear she increased her speed easily. She enjoyed the feeling of freedom the scooter gave her and the menacing vehicles which swarmed past her did not bother her a jot. She was not nervous, she never had been about driving, and riding the scooter took little effort.

  Suddenly an enormous red car sped past her, its smooth, snake-like body a sure indication of unlimited speed. Madeline grimaced as the draught of its passing affected her like swell on the ocean and she was hardly righted again before she had to apply her brakes for all she was worth as the tail of the monster seemed to be hurtling at her. The driver had halted abruptly, twin brake lights like beacons illuminating the road even in daylight.

  Madeline was too close. She put both feet to the ground tentatively, but the scooter was skidding and a second later she hit the rear of the other vehicle. It was not a severe bump. Her brakes had saved her that, but the scooter overturned and she landed in the road, feeling foolishly like a schoolgirl falling from her cycle.

  As she attempted to scramble to her feet two strong hands assisted her, while a voice like crushed ice demanded: ‘Whatever do you think you’re doing?’

  Madeline’s eyes widened, and she gazed up at the man confronting her so angrily. Was he actually blaming her? Why, he was the one to blame!

  ‘This is a highway, not a child’s playground!’ he continued relentlessly, his tone uncompromising. ‘You ought to think ahead. Or stay off the road altogether,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  ‘Now, wait a minute,’ began Madeline indignantly. ‘It was your fault for stopping so precipitately.’ She fumed as sardonic eyes surveyed her, and she wondered what nationality he really was. There was a faint but unmistakable accent in his voice that was definitely not English. ‘This road was not built for motor racing, and cars usually signify their intentions to give their followers forewarning—’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ he interrupted her. ‘All right, I admit I did stop abruptly, but if I hadn’t something much more serious could have happened. If you will walk round to the front of the car you’ll see for yourself.’

  Straightening her shoulders, even though she felt a little shaky, Madeline walked slowly round the red monster. Then she halted, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her coat. Three vehicles were in collision in the centre of the road, a lorry and two cars, one of which had obviously run into the other two. A police car came whining up the road from Otterbury as she stood there, but happily no one seemed seriously injured.

  ‘Well?’ said her companion, looking r
ather amused now. ‘Does that convince you that my motives were reasonable?’

  Madeline shrugged. ‘Of course. I’m sorry I was so quick to jump to conclusions, but really, a scooter doesn’t have the braking power of a car like this.’ She indicated the automobile.

  The man inclined his head. Then he said, rather belatedly: ‘Are you hurt?’

  Madeline could not suppress a smile. ‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘I’m all in one piece, thank you. You’d better examine your car. It’s much more likely to be in need of repair.’

  He smiled too, rather mockingly, and Madeline found herself thinking what an attractive man he was. Tall, with broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, he was very tanned, and his eyes were a dark blue. His hair was very dark as well, and it was this that made Madeline think he might be a Spaniard, or an Italian. He moved with an easy fluid grace of movement and his attitude of indolence seemed to conceal a leashed vitality. The cut of his suit was impeccable and had obviously been made by a master craftsman, and the faint accent and his excellent grasp of English seemed to point to an expensive education. She wondered who he could be. She knew by sight most of the affluent people in Otterbury, but this man was a stranger. And, as though aware of her thoughts, he said:

  ‘As I am attached to the Sheridan factory, I hardly think we need concern ourselves with the repair of my car. Besides, it’s only slightly dented, as you can see.’

  Sheridans was the car factory further up the road, an Italian–American concern, this being their first enterprise in England. That also seemed to explain his accent. He was obviously of Italian descent, but had probably spent many years in the States.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ she said, bending to pick up the scooter and her shopping bag, which was fortunately closed. The man forestalled her, however, lifting the scooter effortlessly and scanning it with a practised eye.

  ‘Your scooter seems to be intact,’ he said. ‘If anything should go wrong just give us a ring and I’ll arrange to have it fixed. The number is Otterbury 2001.’

  Madeline thanked him, conscious now of how dishevelled she must appear. As he handed her the scooter she was overwhelmingly conscious of his eyes appraising her quite openly and she felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

  ‘Th…thank you,’ she stammered, and kicked the starter. To her relief it started first time and she sat astride the seat and said: ‘Good-bye.’

  ‘Au revoir…Miss…Miss…?’ He smiled and waited for her answer.

  ‘It’s Mrs. Scott,’ she corrected him, and with a brief smile she rode away. She was aware of his eyes watching her as she rode down the road, and she prayed she would make no more mistakes.

  Within seconds he sped past her, his hand lifted in acknowledgment, and she felt herself relax again.

  Reaching the centre of Otterbury she turned right at the traffic lights towards Highnook. Highnook was a suburb of Otterbury where a lot of new housing had gone up, including the block of flats where Madeline lived with her daughter, Diana. The flats were in Evenwood Gardens, overlooking the River Otter, and Madeline always felt a thrill of pleasure when she reached her home. It was such a nice flat and Otterbury was such a pleasant town.

  The flat was on the first floor, and as she opened the door and entered the small hallway, she called:

  ‘Diana! Are you home?’

  There was no reply, so she closed the door and removed her coat. The living-room opened off the hallway. It was a large room with plain distempered walls which Madeline had ornamented with several plaques. The wall-to-wall carpeting, which had taken a lot of saving for, was sapphire blue, while the three-piece suite was white leather hung with dark blue fringed chair-backs. The heating was all electric, unfortunately, for Madeline preferred an open fire in at least one room. She now turned up the valve which operated the radiators, for although the room was warm compared to the cold air outside it was by no means comfortably so. The room had a homely, lived-in atmosphere. A china cabinet contained her few pieces of really good china and glass and the rest of the space was filled with bookshelves, well filled with novels, a television, and Diana’s pick-up which stood on a table in an alcove with a stack of ‘pop’ records beside it.

  Madeline lit a cigarette and turned on the television. She had shopped at lunchtime and the chops she had bought for their dinner would not take much cooking.

  Carrying her shopping bag through to the kitchen which opened off the lounge and was very tiny, she unpacked the food and put on the kettle. Then she returned to the lounge. It was nearly six, so Diana ought not to be long.

  She walked into the bedroom which she and Diana shared. There was only one bedroom with a small bathroom and closet adjoining it. The flats were really only intended for one person, but as the two-bedroomed flats had been two pounds more a week, Madeline had had to content herself with the single bedroom. She did not mind for herself, but Diana was getting to an age when she objected to not having a room of her own. However, when they arrived in Otterbury after Joe’s death, Madeline had been grateful enough of a place of their own.

  She stripped off her jersey dress and went into the bathroom to wash and brush her teeth. As she did so, she found herself wondering what the man in the car had really thought about her. She had found him immensely attractive, but then any woman would. She wondered how old he was. He had only looked to be in his early thirties and as she herself was thirty-three, he was probably about her age.

  Brushing her hair, which when loosed from the French knot she usually wore it in fell to her shoulders, she wondered how old he had taken her for. She knew she did not really look her age. Adrian Sinclair was incessantly telling her that she looked more like Diana’s sister than her mother, but Adrian wanted to marry her and that was his way.

  Of course, Diana grumbled sometimes too, that Madeline wore clothes which were not in keeping with her position as the headmaster’s secretary, and a respectable widow, but again, Diana was old-fashioned in some ways. She supposed that was due in some measure to Joe’s influence.

  Critically, she decided that her eyes were her best feature, greenish-grey with tawny lights and her hair was silky-soft and the colour of rich amber. She was tall; too tall, she always thought, although at least she was nicely rounded and not angular. All in all, she reflected, she was an average, presentable female, but certainly not outstanding in any way.

  Now the man, she sighed, he had been outstanding, in every way. She felt sure that dozens of women must have thought so too. After all, in his income bracket, if women were rather dull or drab, their beauty parlour, hair-stylist and plastic surgeon could soon remedy that. From the rather world-weary cynicism she had seen round his eyes and his mouth, he was all too bored with his life and well aware of his own magnetism.

  Madeline grimaced at herself in the mirror, amused at her own thoughts. Good heavens, she was behaving like a child, simply because she had happened to meet a man who without question was way out of her sphere!

  She slipped her arms into a quilted housecoat and as she buttoned it she pushed all thoughts of the man out of her mind. No matter how she felt, Diana was always her first consideration. Poor Diana, who after all had never really recovered from the shock of losing Joe when she was just seven years old.

  As she merged from the bedroom, a key in the lock heralded the arrival of her daughter. Diana breezed in cheerfully enough, a slender, younger edition of Madeline except that her hair was dark brown. Diana was sixteen, and at the commercial college in Otterbury. She was often late home at present as the college was rehearsing for its end of term play and Diana had a starring role. They were performing a play written by another of the students and it was to be staged in the college hall with the proceeds going to local charities.

  Diana was not as tall as Madeline and wore her hair fashionably long. Dressed in a dark grey duffel coat and swinging a tartan bag, she was a typical teenager.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ she greeted Madeline, flinging her bag on
to a chair, ‘Isn’t it cold tonight? I’m freezing!’

  Madeline nodded. ‘Yes, it’s not much like spring,’ she agreed. ‘Did you have a good rehearsal?’

  ‘So-so,’ replied Diana, indifferently. ‘Miss Hawkes always tries to run the affair like a military tattoo, but apart from that it was all right. It seems such an uproar I’m sure it will never come right.’

  Madeline chuckled. ‘It will on the night, I’m sure. Never mind, it will soon be over. Term ends in three weeks, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness. Gosh, then we’ll have two whole weeks with nothing to do! It will be glorious!’

  Madeline smiled and went into the kitchen. As she prepared the vegetables and put the chops under the grill she decided not to say anything to Diana about falling off the scooter. After all, no harm had been done and Diana often said that Madeline ought to use the bus during peak traffic hours. Diana was a little possessive about her mother at times, probably due to the fact that she was her only relative, and Madeline did not want to cause her any more worry.

  They had their dinner in the lounge. One end had been converted into a dining recess by the addition of a velvet curtain, shielding the table from view. Diana set the table while Madeline dished up the meal and they sat together afterwards, idly watching the television while Madeline had a cigarette with her coffee.

  ‘Shall I wash up?’ asked Diana, stretching lazily. ‘Is Uncle Adrian coming round tonight?’

  ‘I think Adrian’s coming and I should be grateful if you would do the washing up. I want to change into something more suitable.’

  Diana smiled and rose to her feet and Madeline looked at her queryingly.

  ‘Are…are you going out tonight?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘Why, yes. Jeff asked me to go to the Seventies Club.’

  ‘Oh!’ Madeline nodded.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  Madeline ran a tongue over her lips. ‘No. No. Why should I?’

  ‘No reason, but I’ve noticed you don’t really enthuse about my going out with him.’