Absent in the Spring (The Shakespeare Sisters 3)

He didn’t return it.

‘Your parents weren’t married, is that correct?’ Marina went on.

‘That’s correct.’ Lachlan nodded.

He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. His left jaw twitched as he stared back at the journalist.

‘That must have been hard for you, growing up with the stigma of illegitimacy hanging over you. Especially as your father was already married when you were conceived.’

Outside the window, a flurry of snowflakes fell, dancing as the breeze lifted them before letting them reach the ground. But Lucy was far more interested in what was happening inside the lodge. The frosty atmosphere in the drawing room could rival the biting temperatures outside.

On the sofa, Lachlan leaned his head to the side, keeping his gaze on Marina. ‘Many children suffer hardships,’ he said. ‘It’s how we learn and grow.’

‘But you appear to have suffered more than most,’ she pointed out. She seemed unperturbed by Lachlan’s intense stare. ‘According to your bio, you grew up in relative poverty, in spite of your father’s wealth. Why was that?’

‘You’d have to ask my parents,’ Lachlan said. ‘And compared to some kids I was lucky. I always had a roof over my head, food on the table. I wasn’t exactly living in a shack.’

‘Well, I can’t ask your father.’ The journalist gave a little laugh. ‘But maybe I could speak to your mother some time.’

‘That won’t be possible,’ Lachlan replied. His tone left no room for questions.

Lucy swallowed, though her mouth felt dry. Lachlan was as stiff as a board. She shifted in her own seat, trying to get comfortable.

‘Maybe you could tell me some more about your mother then,’ Marina said, rifling through her papers. ‘I managed to find out a little bit about her from a few sources.’

‘You did?’ Was it possible for his voice to sound even shorter? ‘Why?’

Marina brushed her dark hair from her face. ‘It’s my job, Lachlan. If I turned up here without doing my research what sort of journalist would I be?’

Lachlan swallowed, but said nothing.

Marina tapped her pen against her teeth, then put it back down on her pad. ‘Well, if I can’t speak to her, maybe I can ask you. How did she and your father meet? Is it correct that she was an escort?’

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. She sat very still and looked between Marina and Lachlan again. She could see the tightness of his jaw, the narrowness of his eyes.

‘No. She was a nightclub hostess,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.’

‘Is that how they met?’ Marina asked again. ‘Did your father pay her for… ah… favours?’

‘I’ve never asked how they met.’

Marina scribbled something on her pad. ‘And what does your mother do now?’

Though Lachlan’s face was impassive, his hands were clasped together so tightly Lucy could see the white of his knuckles. And then he glanced at her, and he looked almost like a child. Vulnerable, hurt, in need of protection.

So completely unlike him it brought Lucy to her feet. ‘Is that the time?’ she said, walking over to where Lachlan and Marina were sitting. ‘It will be dark soon, and we’d love you to take a walk around the estate before you leave, Marina. And I know your photographer was hoping to get some photographs of Lachlan while the light is good.’

‘But I have some more questions —’

‘No problem at all. Just send them over and I’ll get Lachlan to answer them.’ Lucy wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘Why don’t I get somebody to bring you and the photographer a cup of tea, and then we’ll get on with the pictures?’

The old estate office smelled musty – as though the rain that had soaked through the stone walls for centuries could never quite be chased away. It was located in the gatehouse – a small, turreted cottage built with the same stone as the main lodge – where once upon a time the estate manager would have lived, his whole life squeezed into these tiny rooms. Nowadays Alistair lived in his own cottage in the nearby village, leaving the gatehouse to be the main administrative offices, though of course there was a much more luxurious library in the main house that Lachlan’s father had used whenever he visited.

Lachlan looked up from the spreadsheets he’d been surveying, and across the ancient wooden desk to where Alistair was sitting. ‘You’ve kept good records.’

‘For what they’re worth. We keep the place ticking over, but it really needs investment. To attract the kind of paying guests the lodge needs to keep it going, we should be offering luxury. The Americans expect it.’ Alistair offered Lachlan a small smile.

‘What kind of investment?’ Lachlan was interested. He leaned forward, scanning the sheets again.