Cruel Legacy

A bubble of hysterical laughter choked her throat.

‘You would be perfect for such a role,’ Elizabeth had told her.

The bubble exploded in a sharp high sound that shocked her into silence. It was the cackle, the shriek of a mad woman, someone on the verge of completely losing control.

There was no way she could ever apply for the job now, and no way that Blake would want her.

Her mouth twisted in grim recognition of her betraying choice of verb. She would have to come up with some sort of explanation for Elizabeth, some sort of excuse, some sort of lie.

Clinically her brain observed and assessed the physical weakness of her body and her emotions.

Funny how the sound of a voice which had once had the power to transport her into a teenage seventh heaven of sexual and emotional delight should now almost have the reverse effect upon her, sending instead a cold, shocked frisson of fear and panic racing down her spine, triggering off acute nausea in her stomach, making her recognise that she was still as ill-equipped to deal with the effects of severe emotional trauma at thirty-odd as she had been at eighteen.

Which was it she was most afraid of having to face—Blake, or her own awareness of just how much of a fool she had made of herself in front of him?

It was a shame about the job, of course, much more than a shame, even though she tried to be philosophical about it and remind herself that after all she was really no worse off than she had been when she woke up this morning… before Elizabeth had spoken to her.

She had, after all, already survived potentially worse blows: the death of her husband and the subsequent scandal, the loss of her financial security, her place in local society, the loss of people who had purported to be her friends, the loss of a man who could have become far more to her than just her physical lover. What could one more small loss matter? She hadn’t, in any case, been totally sure that she was right for the job… or that she would get it, despite Elizabeth’s reassurances.

Blake Hamilton… Was it tragedy or comedy that had so nearly brought him back into her life? Or was it perhaps neither, but fate offering her a chance to prove that she had meant what she had said about taking charge of her own life, being her own person… taunting her with the knowledge that there were still some aspects of her personality she could neither change nor escape?

* * *

Blake frowned as he listened to his answering machine and found that two calls had come in, but both times the person at the other end had hung up.

Why did people do that? he wondered irritably. What was it about a simple recorded message that they found so da

unting?

He had been in meetings virtually all day sorting out a myriad small details of his new appointment. That was something that never changed no matter what part of the world he worked in: bureaucracy… red tape… officialdom; and a part of him, for all his self-examination and teaching, still found it tedious and time-consuming, absorbing energy and assets which would have been far better employed on his patients.

He ran the tape through to the end, grimacing as he realised that the woman Elizabeth Humphries had recommended to him had not rung.

According to Elizabeth she was perfect for the job, and with her professional training he had no reason to doubt her judgement. He had never realised before how difficult it was to find someone to take charge of one young child. He had had far fewer problems employing and staffing an entire department. Far… far fewer.

His frown deepened. Perhaps those friends and colleagues who had advised him to let the authorities take charge of Anya had been right after all. After all, what did he really know about bringing up an eleven-year-old girl? Nothing.

But he had seen the look on her face when the social worker had suggested taking her into care.

Care, despair… The two words had formed a relentless rhythm, pounding against his brain and his conscience, reminding him of the moral responsibility he had taken on when he’d first agreed to be the child’s guardian. Him, a guardian.

He hadn’t needed the Social Services to point out that he had no legal responsibility for the child; there was no estate to speak of. Lisa and Miguel, both of them idealists, had worked tirelessly for their cause from their English base with other patriots, but their small council flat had been damp and ill-furnished and their daughter, who had inherited her father’s South American colouring, had looked sallow and undernourished, her huge dark eyes following Blake’s every movement.

Some of Miguel’s co-refugees had offered to take charge of Anya, informally adopting her into their semi-commune-like existence, but the authorities had balked at this even more than they had at Blake’s decision to take charge of her.

He closed his eyes briefly, all too aware of the problems that lay ahead of him, of them both.

There was no psychiatrist yet who could ever totally manage to dissociate himself completely and apply his knowledge unemotionally to his own family or those closest to him; even to apply it in many ways to himself; that was why it was so important that he find exactly the right person to take charge of Anya.

The house felt stuffy after being closed up all day. He strode into the sitting-room and threw open the French windows.

He had bought the house after a single viewing on a flying visit to confirm that he would take up the post the hospital was offering him. The chief executive, an accountant, with, Blake suspected, meanness and suspicion locked into his soul, had not seemed able to believe that he actually intended to take the job.

‘But it’s a considerable drop in salary,’ he had commented several times. Blake had said nothing, volunteered no explanation to satisfy his curiosity.

He paused in front of the open windows, studying the untidy green lawn. The house was Victorian and large with an equally large garden, a family home far too big for one man and a child—but he had seen the green lawn, the shabby summer house, the trees and had immediately thought of his own childhood… and Anya’s.

He had told himself that the house was a bargain, hard to sell due to the recession, and that ultimately when things picked up he could always convert it and sell it off as separate apartments at a profit.