“That’s daft. My dad’s in France.”
“Look at me, Kit.” Kincaid reached for Kit’s shoulder, but the boy flinched away. “Look at my face, then look at yourself in the mirror.” He flipped down the passenger side visor. “You are the spitting image of me at the same age. My mother saw it instantly. I see it every time I look at you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Kit said, but he darted a look at the glass.
Pulling his wallet from his pocket, Kincaid extracted two dog-eared photos. “My mother sent me this one. I was eleven.” He handed it to Kit, who accepted it reluctantly; then he held up the second photo. “This one I took from your mum’s office.” Vic and Kit stood arm in arm in the back garden of the cottage in Grantchester, laughing into the camera. “You can see the resemblance, too, can’t you?”
“No.” Kit shook his head and dropped the photo of
Kincaid in the console. “I don’t believe it. My mum wouldn’t have …” His eyes strayed to the photo again.
“This doesn’t mean your mum did anything wrong, Kit. You know we were married before she married Ian. She must have been pregnant with you when we separated.”
“She’d have told me. Mum told me everything.”
“You must see that she couldn’t. She was with Ian by then, and she wanted you to think of him as your father.” And then Ian had abandoned them. After Ian’s defection, Vic had brought Kincaid back into her life, and Kit’s, but they would never be sure what she’d intended for them.
Kit kneaded the knees of his jeans with his fingers, refusing to meet Kincaid’s eyes.
“I didn’t know about you until that day I came to Grantchester. Your mum never let me know she’d had a child.”
A tiny rip in the denim grew larger as Kit picked at it. “You’re not my dad. You can’t prove it.” His barley-fair hair fell over his forehead, hiding his eyes, but the stubborn set of his jaw was clear.
Kincaid looked out at his quiet street in the early evening light. Next door a man and a boy washed a car, laughing as they got soaked in the spray. He could smell the smoke from someone’s barbecue, hear the high voices of children in the back gardens. It was the language of families, and he didn’t know it. “I
can
prove it, Kit, with a DNA test, but I won’t try until you want me to. Give me a chance at being a dad. I know we can work things—”
“Like this weekend?” There was a ripping sound as Kit pulled at the bit of fabric he’d worked loose. “Like you let my mum die?”
“Kit, I—”
“I want to go back to Cambridge. Tess needs her dinner and she won’t have been eating well with me away.” Kit reached for his seat belt, snapped the buckle into place. He hugged his arms across his chest and stared straight ahead.
They drove to the station in silence.
• • •
L
EWIS FOUND THE KITCHEN NOT ALL
that different from his mum’s. Although the room was enormous, the oak table in its center was scarred and bleached from much scrubbing, with a bottom rail worn by generations of feet. Tea towels hung drying on a rack suspended above the old cooker, the room smelled of baking, a muted wireless played dance tunes in the corner. And Cook, a plump and floury woman as different from Lewis’s willowy mother as chalk from cheese, scolded him in the same affectionate way
.
Cook had fed him part of a steak-and-mushroom pie and some cold ham—what she called bits-and-pieces—but it was more meat than Lewis had ever eaten at one sitting. With the addition of a pot of cider, he could hardly keep his eyes open by the time John Pebbles returned to fetch him
.
John carried a shaded lantern, and he led Lewis across the cobbled yard by its dim light. When Lewis caught his toe on a stone, John steadied him and clucked with disapproval. “Shame on Cook, plying a mere lad with cider.”
“She said I needed nourishing,” Lewis explained
.
John gave a disgusted snort. “Hot, sweet tea, or a jug of milk from the dairy, would have done better. You remember that next time and don’t let Cook teach you bad habits. Here we are, then,” he added as they reached the stable
.
As they entered through the central doors, John uncovered the lantern, and Lewis caught a glimpse of stalls to the right. One held Zeus, who looked curiously at them over the door, and the other a dark brown horse with a white blaze down the center of its face
.
To the left the old stalls had been torn out, and two humped, canvas-covered shapes filled the open bays. But before Lewis could exclaim, John said, “Tomorrow, lad,” and nudged him up the steep flight of stairs. “You can have a look at the autos then. In the meantime, you’ll be snug enough up here.”
Lewis saw a small, bare-planked room with a single, blanket-covered bed. A straight-backed chair and an old chest with a china basin and ewer atop it completed the furnishings. His battered case sat neatly beneath the heavily curtained window
.
“There’s an oil stove, but you won’t be needing that tonight. The pump’s in the yard, and there’s a privy on the far side.” John seemed to hesitate, then said, “I’ll leave you the lantern, but you must promise to take care with it, and don’t forget the blackout.” He set it gently atop the chest, then went to the door. “You just go across to the kitchen in the morning. Good night, lad.” His heavy footsteps clumped down the stairs, and the door at the bottom banged shut
.
At home, Lewis had always slept in the same room as his brothers, and his mum or his sister had always been there when he came home from school in the afternoon. Now, he found himself completely alone for the first time in his life
.
He sat down on the rough blanket and stared at the lantern light wavering on the walls. Although the room still held the day’s heat, he began to shiver. He got up and extinguished the lantern, then curled himself into a fetal position on the narrow bed, his fist pressed to his mouth to keep the grief welling up inside him from escaping
.
And so he slept, deeply and dreamlessly, until the morning sun brought a faint brightening round the edges of his window
.
Awakening brought a moment of comfort, until he realized he couldn’t smell his mother’s cooking, or hear faint snatches of the songs she sang as she moved about the kitchen. Reality flooded back into his awareness, and with it the sense of being watched
.
He opened his eyes, blinking stickily at a shadow in his doorway. As his vision cleared, the fuzzy form resolved itself into a boy about his own age, who crossed the room and pulled aside the curtains. Light flooded in, and Lewis saw that his visitor was tall and slender, and wore a navy
blazer with a school tie. His dark hair was slicked neatly back above a pale face
.
“Cook sent me to fetch you,” the boy said in an accent Lewis had heard only on the wireless. “And I wanted to see you for myself. I couldn’t get away last night—Mummy kept me fetching and carrying for Aunt Edwina while they talked about the war.”
Lewis sat up and rubbed his face. “The war? Has it started, then?”
The boy leaned against the window frame. “Not officially, but they expect the announcement sometime today. Aunt Edwina has the wireless on in the sitting room, and Cook’s listening in the kitchen. Aunt Edwina has a wager on with my dad that it will all come to nothing. ‘A bloody old windbag’ is what she calls Hitler. I think she’s wrong, though. There is going to be a war.”
“Is that why you’re here, too?” Lewis asked, feeling confused. He couldn’t imagine this elegant boy being sent away from home like a mislaid parcel
.
“Edwina’s my godmother,” the boy explained. “Edwina Burne-Jones, she’s called. This is her house. Mummy is certain the Huns will bomb London, and my school with it, so she wants me to stay down here for a bit. Edwina says you come from the Island. My family’s business is there—Hammond’s Teas.”
“That’s just across the street from my school,” Lewis exclaimed with pleasure at encountering something familiar. “Are you a Hammond, then?”
“Oh, sorry.” The boy pushed himself away from the window and came towards Lewis with his hand outstretched. “I should have said. My name’s William. William Hammond.”
K
INCAID KNOCKED AGAIN AT
G
EMMA’S DOOR
. There was no response, even though her car was pulled up on the double yellows in front of her garage flat. He’d driven straight from King’s Cross without ringing first, something
he seldom did, and now he realized he’d not considered whether he would be welcome.
But the thought of his empty flat was too sharp a reminder of his failed weekend, so he let himself through the wrought-iron gate that led into the Cavendishes’ garden. Perhaps Gemma had gone next door, as she often did.
The walled garden lay in the cool, rose-scented shadow of early evening, and as he made his way along the flagged path that led to the big house, he saw Hazel on her knees in the perennial bed next to the patio. She wore shorts that had seen better days, and a pink tank top that bared her lightly freckled shoulders.
“Gemma’s taken Toby to the park,” Hazel called out. “You’ll have to make do with me for a bit, unless you want to go after them.”
“I think you’ll do admirably. Although you look like you’re working entirely too hard.”
“Dandelions among the daisies,” Hazel said by way of explanation as he sank into a chair on the patio. “That’s the problem with this gorgeous weather. The weeds love it as much as we do.” She wiped her hand across her brow and left a dirty streak. “There’s some lemonade in the jug.” Frowning, she gave him a closer look. “Unless you’d like something stronger. You look a bit done in.”
He took a glass from the tray on the small table, then reached for the silver jug, its frosted surface traced with runnels of condensation. “No, this is fine, really. You’re a marvel, Hazel.”
“Tell that to my child. We’ve had a spectacularly bad day. Tim finally had to separate us and send me outside for a bit of earth therapy.” Sitting back, Hazel drank from the glass she’d placed on the flagstones.
“Oh, come on, Hazel. I’ve never seen you even out of sorts with the children.”
She laughed. “You should have heard me today, screeching like a fishwife at Holly because she refused to pick up the toys she’d deliberately thrown on the floor. Toby came in for his share of it, too, but he can’t push my
buttons in the same way. There’s something about your own child.…” Hazel picked up her spade again and thrust it beneath the spiky leaves of a dandelion.
“Doesn’t your training as a psychologist help?”
“Much to my dismay, I’m discovering that understanding children’s behavior intellectually doesn’t always make dealing with it easier.” The dandelion came up with a spray of dirt and she shook what remained from the roots before tossing it into a pail.
“I don’t even have that small advantage.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.
Hazel glanced up at him. “What’s going on? Did you and Kit not have a good weekend?”
“That’s an understatement,” he said with a derisive snort.
Hazel pushed herself up from the flagstones, dusted off her bare knees, and came to sit beside him. “What happened?”
Kincaid looked away. The white lilies in Hazel’s border had begun to glow in the dusk. “I blew it. He was being stubborn and unreasonable, and I just lost it—blurted out that I was his dad, without thinking of the consequences.”
“And?” Hazel prompted.
“He—” Kincaid shook his head. “He was furious. Accused me of lying to him, and told me to bugger off, more or less.”
Hazel nodded. “That’s not surprising. Remember how shocked you were at first? And you’ve turned Kit’s world on end without warning. Not even his mother’s death will have made him doubt his perception of things in the same way.”
Frowning, Kincaid said, “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve made a lie of his life, his image of who he is and how he came to be. Especially now, with Vic gone, that image is all he’s had to sustain him.”
“You’re saying I shouldn’t have told him at all?”
“No.” She touched his arm for emphasis. “Only that
you need to understand the depth of the charge you’ve planted. What started the argument?”
“Work. A case came up this weekend—Gemma will have told you—and I couldn’t do what I’d promised. Kit felt I’d let him down. And I had.” He moved restlessly in his chair. “I’d thought that having him live with me was the obvious solution, once he’d had a bit of time to adjust. Now I’m beginning to wonder if my seeing him at all is doing more harm than good.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. But I don’t think you realized the extent of the commitment you made,” Hazel added, sighing. She reached for a box of matches and lit the citronella candle in the center of the table. “You haven’t any experience with that sort of responsibility, and your job makes it doubly difficult.”
“I know. But I still can’t see any alternative to having Kit with me. He can’t stay with the Millers indefinitely, as kind as they’ve been to have him through the school term.”
“No word from Ian McClellan?”
Vic’s ex-husband had returned to Cambridge just long enough to agree to Kincaid’s arrangements for Kit, then he had hightailed it back to his lover. “Not a peep. I assume he’s still enjoying the south of France with his nubile graduate student. But Kit hasn’t given up hoping Ian will send for him.” Kincaid shook his head. “I thought that if Kit learned
I
was his father, not Ian, it might make Ian’s desertion a bit more bearable.”
“It may, in time. But you’re asking Kit for belief based on nothing but your word. You have no proof.”
He thought of the day of Vic’s funeral, when his mother had taken him aside and told him he was blind not to have seen the resemblance the boy bore to him, or to have calculated the number of months between the time Vic left him and Kit’s birth. His first reaction had been denial; his second, panic; it was only the fear of losing Kit altogether that had made him realize how much he wanted it to be true.
Inside the house the kitchen light flicked on, and he heard the rattle of crockery clearly through the open window. “Kit has more to accept than the fact that he’s
my
son,” he said slowly. “He blames me for Vic’s death.”