The Mother Of His Child

He continued ruthlessly, “If it’s been thirteen years since you’ve made love with anyone, you’re long overdue. And I know I am.”

Marnie stood very still, and of all the emotions churning in her belly, she couldn’t have said which was uppermost. Desire? Fury? She said, finally, “That would be so easy for you, wouldn’t it? Your daughter in Burnham and your mistress in Faulkner. Everything compartmentalized.”

“Easy? No. But I can’t deny that I want you. And I want you as my mistress far more than Kit needs you as a mother!”

Although born in England, SANDRA FIELD has lived most of her life in Canada: she says the silence and emptiness of the north speaks to her particularly. While she enjoys traveling, and passing on her sense of a new place, she often chooses to write about the city which is now her home. Sandra says, “I write out of my experience; I have learned that love with its joys and its pains is all-important. I hope this knowledge enriches my writing, and touches a chord in you, the reader.”

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MARNIE Carstairs pulled her car over on the shoulder of the road; the motor gave its usual asthmatic wheeze, then settled down to a low grumble. From her vantage point on the crest of the hill, she could see the town of Burnham spread out below. Her destination. The place that might answer—at least partially—some of the terrible questions she’d lived with for nearly thirteen years.

No wonder her hands were ice-cold and her throat tight with anxiety.

Burnham was a pretty town on this sunny Sunday in late April, situated as it was around the shores of an inlet of the Atlantic. Its houses and shops were painted bright colors, while its church spires pointed cheerfully to the high-piled clouds and the wheeling gulls. A few yachts admired their own reflections in the silky water, their hulls crisply painted white and blue. On the wooded hills that overlooked the town, Marnie could pick out the stone buildings of Burnham University. Did Calvin Huntingdon work there? Perhaps his wife did, too.

It was their names that had brought Marnie here today. Calvin and Jennifer Huntingdon of Burnham, Nova Scotia. Two names, a place and a date: the date of birth of Marnie’s child all those years ago, the child who had been, against her knowledge and her every wish, adopted. The child she had not seen or heard of since then.

If her mother hadn’t died at fifty-two, a death that no one had anticipated, least of all Charlotte Carstairs herself, Marnie would never have found that single piece of paper in a plain white envelope in her mother’s safe. She was sure of it. Her mother would have destroyed it.

The Huntingdons’ names had been printed on the paper in Charlotte Carstairs’s angular script, along with the birth date and the name of this little town: a discovery that had rocked Marnie to her roots.

The Huntingdons must have adopted her child. What other conclusion could she come to?

Briefly, the town blurred in her vision. She stared down at the steering wheel, noticing that her fingernails had dug tiny crescents into the vinyl covering, and that her wrists were taut from the strain of her grip. She had very strong fingers and wrists; for the past five years she’d been learning how to rock climb. Making a deliberate effort to relax, she blew out her breath in a long sigh, checked in the rearview mirror and engaged the clutch. No point in sitting here. She’d come this far, she’d at least follow through on the rest of her plan.

If you could call it a plan.

As she pulled back on the highway, she noticed that the bank of clouds to the southeast had lowered over the hills, the edges of the clouds swabbed with a theatrical blend of purple and gray. Storm clouds. Then a gust riffled the water and the yachts swayed uneasily at their moorings.

It wasn’t an omen. Of course it wasn’t.

The Huntingdons’ address was engraved on Marnie’s mind; she’d found it, all too easily, in the phone book. Her plan, such as it was, was to drive past the house and check it out; at least that way she’d see where her child was living.

And was she praying that a twelve-year-old girl would run out of the house just as she drove by?

Basically, she didn’t have a plan. She’d come here because she couldn’t possibly have done otherwise. No force on earth could have kept her away. Even though she was afraid that her action would tear open old wounds better left alone.

The Huntingdons would be wealthy; Charlotte Carstairs would have seen to that. No, Marnie had never worried about the material circumstances of the baby she had never seen. It was other concerns that had haunted her over the years. Was her daughter loved? Was she happy? Did she know she was adopted? Or did she believe that the two people bringing her up were her true parents?