Sealed With a Loving Kiss (32 page)

‘Hello? Rosie?'

Monty leapt to his feet and shot down the stairs as Rosie stood at the top and welcomed Mary. ‘Hello, dear, it's lovely to see you. But don't let him jump all over you like that, he'll ruin your nice coat.'

Mary continued to make a fuss of Monty as she grinned back up at her. ‘Oh, I don't mind,' she said cheerfully. ‘It's just lovely to get such a warm welcome.'

‘Monty, that's enough,' Rosie said sternly. ‘Come on up, Mary. Peggy should be here soon, but we can have a cosy little chat while we wait for her.'

Mary managed to disentangle herself from Monty's rapturous welcome and came up into the sitting room to take off her coat and scarf. ‘I heard about your brother,' she said awkwardly. ‘That was a terrible thing to happen.'

Rosie gave a small shrug. ‘He's his own worst enemy, and will get over it,' she said dismissively, her attention caught by the bruises and cuts on Mary's face. ‘Good heavens,' she gasped with concern. ‘What happened to you?'

Mary smiled ruefully as she touched the cut on her bruised forehead, and told her about being trapped in the shelter. ‘It wasn't a very nice experience,' she said finally, ‘but at least we all got out, and even those who were taken to hospital weren't that seriously injured.'

‘Well, I'm glad you're safe. Now sit down and make yourself comfortable while I go and put the kettle on.' Rosie walked into the tiny kitchen and lit the gas under the kettle, watching Mary surreptitiously through the open doorway as she warmed the pot.

It was a shame about the cuts and bruises, but they would heal and leave no trace. She was such a pretty girl, with that long, dark hair and lovely blue eyes – and in a way she reminded her of someone, but she couldn't for the life of her think who.

As she carried in the teapot, she saw Mary was looking at the newspaper she'd left on the arm of the couch, and realised this was the perfect moment to find out more about the girl. ‘I don't really believe in all that stuff, but I always find myself reading the horoscopes, don't you?'

‘No, not really,' Mary said shyly. ‘My parents were very religious, so this sort of thing was always frowned upon.'

‘Oh, but it can be quite fun,' said Rosie enthusiastically as she put the teapot on the tray and reached for the paper. ‘Let's have a look at what the Oracle has in store for you today – just for a giggle, mind. What's your star sign?'

Mary's returning smile was uncertain. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' she confessed. ‘What's a star sign?'

Rosie settled down on the couch beside her and pointed out the twelve separate paragraphs under their headings. ‘I was born on March the second, so I come under the sign of Pisces, the fish. Each of these is the name of the star formations we can see in the sky at night, and according to the astrologers our lives are influenced by the sign we were born under.' She saw Mary's sceptical expression and grinned. ‘I know it sounds daft, but it's only a bit of fun, so please humour me.'

‘It all sounds gobbledygook to me,' Mary replied, ‘but seeing as how neither of us takes it seriously, I suppose it won't do any harm. I was born on or around the tenth of October in 1924.'

Rosie felt a pang of something close to pain, then dismissed it firmly. She looked at Mary in confusion. ‘Don't you know the date you were born?'

‘Not really. You see, I've never managed to get hold of my birth certificate, but I've always celebrated the day on the tenth.' She leaned forward to examine the newspaper in Rosie's lap. ‘That would mean my sign is Libra. So what does it say?'

Rosie gathered her scattered thoughts and began to read aloud. ‘You will have some difficult dilemmas to face today, but never fear, they can be easily solved. Be prepared to hear from someone in your past, and open your heart to the person who loves you.'

Mary giggled. ‘What a load of tosh. Honestly, Rosie, you can't really believe all that, do you?'

‘Of course I don't,' she replied, folding the paper and setting it aside. ‘The tea must be mashed by now, so let's have that cuppa.' She poured the tea into the bone-china cups which were rimmed in gold and decorated with roses. ‘I don't know what's happened to Peggy,' she said anxiously as she glanced at the mantel clock. ‘She's very late.'

‘I expect she's held up at home,' said Mary as she accepted the cup and saucer. ‘There's always someone needing her for something.'

Rosie suspected that if that was the case, Peggy would have telephoned her to warn her she'd be late – she was always good like that. But Peggy's whereabouts were secondary to her curiosity about Mary's lack of knowledge concerning her birth. She knew from Peggy that the girl had been adopted by a vicar and his wife, and that she'd lost them during a tip-and-run following an enemy bombing raid. Other than that, she actually knew very little about Mary. It was time to discover more, and even perhaps broach the thorny subject of Cyril Fielding.

‘This is nice, isn't it?' she said, settling back into the cushions. ‘We so rarely have the chance to talk properly, what with the pub and everything, and as we seem to have become good friends despite all that, I'd love to hear about your life before you came to Cliffehaven.'

Mary sipped her tea and then shot Rosie a wry smile. ‘I suspect Peggy has told you most of it, so there's not much more I can add.'

‘Peggy actually hasn't told me much at all, only that you came from a small village in Sussex, and that you lost your adoptive parents during an enemy raid and were taken in by your lovely Jack's parents,' said Rosie truthfully. ‘But I must admit I do find it intriguing that you don't have a proper certificate with your date of birth on it.'

‘Well, it has proved to be a bit of a nuisance now the war's on,' Mary admitted. ‘Bits of paper seem to have taken on a huge significance suddenly. But because I'd lived in Harebridge Green all my life, and my father was the rector, it was easy to get a proper identity card, ration books and such, without having to produce a birth certificate.'

‘But surely you'd have adoption papers? Or were they destroyed in the raid?'

Mary's hand was a little unsteady as she raised the cup to her lips and took a drink of tea.

Rosie noticed and was immediately contrite. ‘Oh, Mary, me and my curiosity – I didn't mean to upset you, love. Let's forget about it,' she said quickly, ‘and just have a natter about something else.'

Mary put the cup and saucer down and shook her head. ‘I'm not upset, not really, and I'd like to tell you. But it's quite a long story, and it doesn't have a very nice ending, I'm afraid.'

‘Only if you want to,' Rosie murmured as she took her hand. ‘It won't make a jot of difference to our friendship however it ends, but if you'd rather not, then I'll quite understand.' Her genuine regret at having upset Mary made her cross with herself. She should stop prying and poking into the girl's life – for what did it really matter if she'd been looking for Cyril? It was none of her business.

‘No, really, I'd like to tell you, because I know you aren't the sort of person to judge others just because things have happened to them which were completely out of their control.'

Rosie patted her hand and watched as the girl composed herself, wondering once again who she reminded her of – especially in profile, with those high cheekbones and the neat little nose.

‘I never knew I'd been adopted,' Mary began. ‘It was only after the rectory burned down and Jack's father found Daddy's old trunk that I learned the truth.' Her voice faltered, but she carried on relating how her life had been with the gentle, loving Gideon and the cold, self-possessed Emmaline.

As Rosie listened she began to feel even closer to this young girl, for it was clear she'd never known a mother's love. Rosie's soft heart went out to her and she had to determinedly resist taking her in her arms and giving her a cuddle, for Mary would probably have been embarrassed by such a show of affection.

‘I found Daddy's diaries in the trunk,' Mary went on. ‘And I was a bit reluctant to read them at first because they were his private thoughts and feelings and it didn't feel right to pry.' Her smile was soft and sweet as her eyes grew misty. ‘But I'm glad I did, because it meant I got to really know him, and to understand how his marriage to Emmaline survived.'

She gave a sigh. ‘She was never an easy woman, and what he did was done out of love for her, and in the belief that I was a gift from God which would ease her suffering after all the babies she'd lost.'

‘He sounds a lovely man,' said Rosie softly. ‘You were lucky in that respect.'

Mary looked down at her hands, which were tightly knotted on her lap. ‘I know,' she replied, her voice unsteady with emotion, ‘but it would have broken his heart if he knew how I found out the truth, for he'd never imagined for one minute that I would read that 1924 diary, or find the piece of paper he'd tucked inside it.'

She flicked the long hair from her face. ‘It broke my heart too,' she admitted. ‘But I suppose that was the price I had to pay for snooping.'

‘It wasn't snooping, Mary.' Rosie reached for her hand again. ‘You had a right to know, and if he'd lived, he would have told you eventually that you'd been adopted.'

Mary returned the pressure on Rosie's fingers. ‘He wrote that he dreaded telling me, and that he'd planned to reveal the truth on my twenty-first birthday. But even if he'd lived, I doubt he would have told me the whole story, for the adoption was never legal.'

Rosie frowned. ‘But how could that be? He was an honest man of the cloth.'

‘He was a soft-hearted, gullible man who was thoroughly taken in by someone who could tell a good sob story,' she replied with more than a hint of sadness. ‘And that someone was my real father.'

Rosie felt a prickle of unease and tried to make light of it by joking that her erstwhile father sounded very like her brother.

Mary's smile was wan. ‘He does rather, doesn't he? But unfortunately there's more than one man like Tommy in this world, and my father evidently shared the same disreputable traits.'

Rosie felt a great deal of sympathy for the poor girl. It couldn't have been at all easy to discover that not only were you adopted, but that your father was not the most honest of people. But she said nothing and let Mary gather her thoughts so she could tell her story in her own way.

Mary stared into the teacup. ‘They drew up a private agreement that Gideon would raise me as his daughter, and that my father would have no further contact with me. There was no formal stamp on the agreement or witness signature – and nothing anywhere that gave a clue to my mother's identity.'

Rosie's pulse was beginning to race and she felt cold to the very bone. ‘But how could a man give a child away without the mother's consent?' she asked, her voice raw with anger.

‘According to the account in Gideon's diary, she'd gone shopping one day and simply never returned – and without a name or any clue as to who she was, I have to accept I'll never find her.'

Rosie was so outraged on Mary's behalf that she could barely speak. ‘But your father must have signed that agreement with Gideon, so you must know who he was,' she managed. ‘Did you come to Cliffehaven to find him?'

Mary nodded. ‘Daddy mentioned in his diaries that my father was a travelling salesman and had met my mother during his time here. I stupidly thought that someone might remember him, you see – and that would lead me to finding out who my mother was.'

She took a tremulous breath. ‘But I've since learned he was nothing but a crook and a womaniser who's spent time in prison and couldn't be trusted to tell the time, let alone any kind of truth. So you see it's all rather hopeless really.'

Rosie's thoughts were in chaos, putting things together, sifting through everything Mary had told her until she couldn't bear it any longer. ‘How did you find all that out?' she asked.

‘Peggy asked Ron about him after I'd confided in her, and he remembered him only too well. It was a terrible shock when Peggy told me what a crook he was, but as no one knows where he is, or even if he's still alive, I decided to give up my search and leave well alone. After all,' she added with a soft, sad smile, ‘it's sometimes better not to know the truth when it can only be ugly and ultimately damaging, don't you think?'

Rosie stared at her as the words rang in her head and common sense warned her urgently not to take this any further – for she suddenly realised who it was that Mary reminded her of, and if her mind wasn't playing tricks on her, then she already knew the answer to the question she so desperately wanted to ask. But something deeper and more primal took over, for there had been too many years of silence – and she wanted to hear the girl's answer to all the questions that had haunted her for so long.

She battled to breathe as her pulse raced and her heart thudded. ‘What was your father's name?'

Mary regarded her with a frown. ‘Does it really matter?'

Rosie could only nod.

‘You've gone very white, Rosie. Aren't you feeling well?'

Rosie waved away her concern. ‘Tell me,' she rasped. ‘Please, Mary, what is his name?'

‘Cyril Fielding.'

Rosie felt as if her heart was in her throat. She couldn't breathe, and her head was spinning as a terrible darkness threatened to overwhelm her. She heard Mary's distant cry of alarm but was incapable of saying anything to reassure her – and then she did something she had never done before. She fainted.

Peggy had been all too aware of how swiftly time was passing, and of the impossibility of being in at least three places at once. It was with a huge sense of relief that they finally managed to speak to a doctor and learn that Cordelia had regained consciousness and was in no danger. The suspected fracture had turned out to be a painful wrench and tearing of her ankle ligaments and tendons, the head wound needed a couple of stitches and there were signs that she was slightly concussed. She would stay overnight under observation and if the doctor agreed, they could take her home at lunchtime the following day.