Tangled Destinies

Her breath rasped in sharply. ‘Oh, God!’ she groaned. ‘You…knew and…still you left?’

‘I had to go. Now will you believe I’m not your brother?’ he asked softly. He looked white, the sharp ridge of his high Slav cheekbones standing out beneath the dark hollows of his eyes. ‘She wanted me to stay and pretend that I was her son. I refused.’

Confused, she walked to the window to think; her world, the past she’d known was frightening her in the way it was slipping and sliding in all directions. Things she’d thought to be true weren’t true. She gripped the white silk drape tightly then turned, her eyes wary beneath her wet lashes, and she realised she’d shed tears.

‘I became so bitter when Mother died,’ she said in a distant voice. ‘Father lost all interest in life and abandoned everything he’d worked for…all the things he’d believed in, like forgiveness and love for others. He had no emotional energy left and lost his concern for other people. It made him bitter too.’ And his hatred for István, who they all thought had hastened her mother’s death, had been frightening to see.

‘I’m so sorry,’ István said quietly. ‘Lisa said you look after him now.’

‘He’s no trouble, and besides, we can’t afford help.’ Tanya spoke without resentment though the tiredness came through in her voice. ‘Mariann and Sue work in London and send what they can. Mrs Lane—the new vicar’s wife, who lives in the new vicarage—is looking after Father while I’m away.’

‘It’s a huge mausoleum of a house,’ commented István. ‘Too big for you to cope with alone, I’d have thought.’

‘I can manage. I’ve learnt to run my business and the house by tight organisation,’ she said curtly. ‘If I’ve lost my malleability and gentleness, well, it’s not surprising. It takes drive and grit and initiative——’ She stopped in embarrassment, seeing that he was watching her curiously.

‘Go on. I am interested. In your business. Let me guess. A riding school?’ he hazarded.

‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘Riding holidays. I thought you and Lisa had done a lot of talking? You know remarkably little about us.’ And she could have bitten her tongue out. Of course they hadn’t been discussing life in Widecombe!

He smiled faintly. ‘We didn’t have the time. Are these riding holidays on Dartmoor?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said proudly, keen to show him that she’d triumphed in difficult circumstances. No wonder she wasn’t the same person he’d known. ‘I set the whole thing up on the small business scheme. I sell holidays that I’ve packaged myself—riding in the Camargue and gypsy-caravan tours in France.’

There was nothing in his face to indicate that he was impressed with her venture or thought it small-time and doomed to failure. ‘It’s a bad time for the holiday business, I hear,’ he remarked casually.