it? Has he answered your letter?â It was hard to believe. But Nick wrote to jockeys as a matter of course, always adding to his collection of letters. Heâd heard from Pat Eddery, Graham Starkey, Eddie Hide. But Lester Piggott was a plum, to be sure.
She flung up the sash. The cold wind gusted like a cloud into the room.
âIs that it?â she asked.
From his ancient leather jacketâlong claimed to be a gift to his great-uncle from an American bombardier during World War IIâNick took an envelope. âIt isnât much,â he said. âJust ânice to hear from you, lad.â But he signed it real clear. No one thought heâd answer, remember, Mag? I wanted you to know.â
It seemed mean-spirited to leave him outside when heâd come on such an innocent errand. Even Mummy couldnât object to this. Maggie said, âCome in.â
âNot if itâll make trouble with your mum.â
âItâs all right.â
He squeezed his lanky frame through the window and made a deliberate point of not closing it behind him. âI thought youâd gone to bed. I was looking in the windows.â
âI thought you were a prowler.â
âWhyânât you turn on the lights?â
She dropped her eyes. âI get scared. Alone.â She took the envelope from him and admired the address.
Mr. Nick Ware, Esq., Skelshaw Farm
was written clearly in a firm, bold hand. She returned it to Nick. âIâm glad he wrote back. I thought he would.â
âI remembered. Thatâs why I wanted you to see.â He flipped his hair off his face and looked round the room. Maggie watched, in dread. Heâd be noticing all the stuffed animals and her dolls sitting upright in the wicker chair. Heâd go to the bookshelves and see
The Railway Children
along with the other favourite titles from her childhood. Heâd realise what a baby she was. He wouldnât want to take her about then, would he. He probably wouldnât want to know her at all. Why hadnât she thought before letting him in?
He said, âIâve never been in your bedroom before. Itâs real nice, Mag.â
She felt dread dissolve. She smiled. âTa.â
âDimple,â he said and touched his index finger to the small depression in her cheek. âI like it when you smile.â Tentatively, he dropped his hand to her arm. She could feel his cold fingers, even through her pullover.
âYouâre ice,â she said.
âCold outside.â
She was acutely aware of being in the dark in forbidden territory. The room seemed smaller with him standing in it, and she knew the proper thing to do was to take him downstairs and let him out by the door. Except that now he was here, she didnât want him to go, not without giving her some kind of sign that he was still hers in spite of everything that had happened in their lives since last October. It wasnât enough to know that he liked it when she smiled and he could touch the dimple in her cheek. People liked babiesâ smiles, they said so all the time. She wasnât a baby.
âWhenâs your mum coming home?â he asked.
Any minute
was the truth. It was after nine. But if she told the truth, heâd be gone in an instant. Perhaps heâd do it for her sake, to keep her from trouble, but heâd do it all the same. So she said, âI donât know. She went off with Mr. Shepherd.â
Nick knew about Mummy and Mr. Shepherd, so he knew what that meant. The rest was up to him.
She made a move to close the window, but his hand was still on her arm, so it was easy enough for him to stop her. He wasnât rough. He didnât need to be. He merely kissed her, flicking his tongue like a promise against her lips, and she welcomed him.
âSheâll be a while then.â His mouth moved to her neck. He gave her the shivers. âSheâs been getting hers regular
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