shrink inwardly. She forced
herself to look at him, to lift her chin. She said deliberately, 'But
what else did you expect, Gethyn? I did warn you that I was here
on business.'
'Then I'm afraid your journey has been unnecessary,' he said, and
his tone sounded bored. 'My writing career is over. I have other
interests now.'
'So I've heard.' She dropped back wearily on to her chair. 'A
woollen mill.'
'You sound disapproving. Yet the weaving of cloth is an older craft
than the weaving of words, and probably far more respectable.' He
came away from the doorway and walked across to the table, taking
the chair opposite to her. 'Besides, locally, we need the industry,
even on this small scale.'
'You said my uncle wasn't a philanthropist. It isn't exactly the role
I'd envisaged for you either,' she said coolly, and he grinned.
'Philanthropy doesn't enter into it, girl. Other mills make a profit, so
why shouldn't mine? They have a strong tourist appeal too.'
'And you really think you'll be satisfied with that?' she asked almost
contemptuously. 'Selling tweed and tapestry to holidaymakers in
this backwater?'
His brows rose. 'I'm sorry you have such a low opinion of it. I spent
a holiday here myself once when I was a kid. Compared to the
back-to-back houses and the slagheaps, it seemed like paradise on
earth, and I knew then it was the environment I wanted for my own
children.'
'Even with snakes on the mountainside,' she said with a wintry
smile.
'Every paradise has its serpent. That's inevitable,' he said curtly.
Davina was silent. His casual reference to the possibility of children
had discomfited her. It showed very clearly that he was looking
ahead, beyond their broken marriage. She felt pain lash at her. How
could he speak so casually when he knew that she had suffered all
the heartbreak of an early miscarriage? That if things had been
different and the baby had lived, it would have been walking by
now—saying the first words which make those early years of the
first-born so uniquely precious to its parents. She felt tears scalding
behind her lids and dammed them back with a sheer effort of will.
Gethyn might have been able to dismiss the conception and loss of
their child from his mind, but she could not, and she swore to
herself that she would never let him see the hurt he had dealt her.
She said tonelessly, 'I have something else to tell you. Apparently
your last American tour was such an incredible success, they would
like you to undertake another.'
For a moment he stared at her, then he began to laugh. 'Duw,
Davina. You never give up, do you? What are you going to tell me
now—that I have a duty to the television networks and the luncheon
clubs?'
She raised her eyebrows. 'You can't pretend you didn't enjoy the
last one.' She hoped the bitterness underlying her words would
escape him.
'Why should I pretend?' he shrugged. 'Being feted and lionised on
that scale is like balm to the spirit, and I was feeling pretty raw
when I arrived in New York—for reasons I'm sure you'd rather we
didn't go into.'
'In spite of that, it didn't take you long to find consolation,' she
flashed, and wished passionately that the words were unsaid.
'Beware, Davina,' he said mockingly. 'A comment like that might
make a more conceited man think you'd been jealous, and we both
know that isn't true—don't we, lovely?' His voice had dropped
almost to a whisper.
She moistened her lips desperately. 'You're being quite ridiculous.
I—I think I'll go to bed now.' She pushed her chair back scraping it
across the floor and stood up. 'I'll be leaving first thing in the
morning,'
'Will you indeed?' He smiled faintly. 'Without even giving me time
to consider your—interesting proposition? What would your uncle
say?'
She paused, her attention arrested, in some bewilderment. 'Are you
telling me that you—might be interested after all?'
'In the tour—yes.' He rocked back on his chair, his face
herself to look at him, to lift her chin. She said deliberately, 'But
what else did you expect, Gethyn? I did warn you that I was here
on business.'
'Then I'm afraid your journey has been unnecessary,' he said, and
his tone sounded bored. 'My writing career is over. I have other
interests now.'
'So I've heard.' She dropped back wearily on to her chair. 'A
woollen mill.'
'You sound disapproving. Yet the weaving of cloth is an older craft
than the weaving of words, and probably far more respectable.' He
came away from the doorway and walked across to the table, taking
the chair opposite to her. 'Besides, locally, we need the industry,
even on this small scale.'
'You said my uncle wasn't a philanthropist. It isn't exactly the role
I'd envisaged for you either,' she said coolly, and he grinned.
'Philanthropy doesn't enter into it, girl. Other mills make a profit, so
why shouldn't mine? They have a strong tourist appeal too.'
'And you really think you'll be satisfied with that?' she asked almost
contemptuously. 'Selling tweed and tapestry to holidaymakers in
this backwater?'
His brows rose. 'I'm sorry you have such a low opinion of it. I spent
a holiday here myself once when I was a kid. Compared to the
back-to-back houses and the slagheaps, it seemed like paradise on
earth, and I knew then it was the environment I wanted for my own
children.'
'Even with snakes on the mountainside,' she said with a wintry
smile.
'Every paradise has its serpent. That's inevitable,' he said curtly.
Davina was silent. His casual reference to the possibility of children
had discomfited her. It showed very clearly that he was looking
ahead, beyond their broken marriage. She felt pain lash at her. How
could he speak so casually when he knew that she had suffered all
the heartbreak of an early miscarriage? That if things had been
different and the baby had lived, it would have been walking by
now—saying the first words which make those early years of the
first-born so uniquely precious to its parents. She felt tears scalding
behind her lids and dammed them back with a sheer effort of will.
Gethyn might have been able to dismiss the conception and loss of
their child from his mind, but she could not, and she swore to
herself that she would never let him see the hurt he had dealt her.
She said tonelessly, 'I have something else to tell you. Apparently
your last American tour was such an incredible success, they would
like you to undertake another.'
For a moment he stared at her, then he began to laugh. 'Duw,
Davina. You never give up, do you? What are you going to tell me
now—that I have a duty to the television networks and the luncheon
clubs?'
She raised her eyebrows. 'You can't pretend you didn't enjoy the
last one.' She hoped the bitterness underlying her words would
escape him.
'Why should I pretend?' he shrugged. 'Being feted and lionised on
that scale is like balm to the spirit, and I was feeling pretty raw
when I arrived in New York—for reasons I'm sure you'd rather we
didn't go into.'
'In spite of that, it didn't take you long to find consolation,' she
flashed, and wished passionately that the words were unsaid.
'Beware, Davina,' he said mockingly. 'A comment like that might
make a more conceited man think you'd been jealous, and we both
know that isn't true—don't we, lovely?' His voice had dropped
almost to a whisper.
She moistened her lips desperately. 'You're being quite ridiculous.
I—I think I'll go to bed now.' She pushed her chair back scraping it
across the floor and stood up. 'I'll be leaving first thing in the
morning,'
'Will you indeed?' He smiled faintly. 'Without even giving me time
to consider your—interesting proposition? What would your uncle
say?'
She paused, her attention arrested, in some bewilderment. 'Are you
telling me that you—might be interested after all?'
'In the tour—yes.' He rocked back on his chair, his face
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