The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,33

was bound to come out sooner or later that he’s not properly married to Esmie – and I think it’s best to know these things. Secrets can lead to so much heartache once they’re found out.’ She put a hand on Stella’s shoulder. ‘You must see The Anchorage as a safe haven. If you ever need to escape from Lydia, promise me you’ll come here.’

Stella felt a pang of gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

Clouds were rolling in off the sea as she pedalled away. In minutes, a chilly sea fret had settled over the town and hidden the old castle from view. Stella’s dread mounted the closer she got to Templeton Hall.

Chapter 12

Andrew slipped off to the garden with his cricket ball. A damp mist hung over the trees and it had begun to drizzle but he was happy to be outside. He’d been cooped up all day playing board games with an eleven-year-old girl called Flis or Tish or some silly name, while their mothers lingered over a long lunch and gossiped about people he didn’t know. The girl had a cold and was forbidden to go outdoors.

Andrew put his head back and let the soft rain dampen his face and hair. He didn’t know rain could come as a fine spray and smell of the sea, so different from the violent deluges of a monsoon. Restlessly, he paced around the garden, throwing and catching his ball and practising bowling. When would Stella come back? Lily said she’d cycled over to The Anchorage hours ago. How he wished he’d gone too.

These visits to his mother’s friends, to have lunch or tea, were a trial. He was constantly on edge, trying to anticipate his mother’s mood. One minute she was patting his back and introducing him to her friends as her ‘darling boy’ and the next she was scolding him for being clumsy and ordering him to ‘run along and play’. He would much rather his family had all gone together with Stella to see his aunt. He longed to explore the old castle.

Just then, a woman on a too-large bicycle emerged out of the mist, straining to pedal up the drive. He ran towards her. ‘Stella!’

As he reached her, she slowed and came to a halt with a wobble.

‘Hello, Andy,’ she said, out of breath. ‘Have you had a good day out?’

‘Yes, thanks. Well, not that good. Quite boring actually. I wish I’d been with you at The Anchorage. I can’t believe you went to see Auntie Tibby without me. What’s she like? Did you meet the artists?’

‘Let’s get out of the rain,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell you.’

‘I’ll push the bike for you,’ he offered. ‘You look tired out.’

The rain came on harder as they reached the shelter of the garage. Inside, Andrew propped the heavy old bicycle against the wall and Stella flopped onto a dusty mattress that looked like it had once belonged to a swing seat. She pulled off her wet cardigan and shook her damp blouse to try and dry it. He squatted down beside her, shaking rain out of his hair.

‘Is Auntie Tibby as mad as Mamma says she is?’

‘No, she’s lovely. A bit disorganised but really friendly. We went for a picnic on the cliffs with one of the artists – he’s Indian and from Lahore, would you believe?’

‘Lahore! Can I meet him too? Does he paint or sculpt?’

‘He paints. He’s very serious about his art – calls it his religion. His pictures are really interesting – one or two are quite racy.’

‘What do you mean, racy?’

He saw a blush creep up Stella’s face.

She pushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear. ‘Well . . . some of the women he paints are half-naked.’

Andrew felt himself reddening too. ‘Oh, what does Auntie Tibby say? Is she shocked?’

‘Not in the least.’ Stella grinned. ‘In fact, I think she might be his muse.’

‘What’s a muse?’ Andrew studied her green eyes.

‘A woman who models for an artist so he can be accurate in drawing the body.’

He gaped at her. ‘You mean Auntie Tibby takes her clothes off in front of the Indian artist?’

Stella smothered a laugh. ‘Judging by his latest painting, I think she might.’

Andrew realised how much he’d been missing their casual conversations. She was the only person he could tell how he was feeling without fear of being patronised.

‘I can’t work out what my mother wants,’ Andrew said quietly. ‘She says she’s waited thirteen years to spend every minute of every day with me,