Castles Of Sand. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
Ashley shook her head. ‘You couldn’t do that, Malcolm. He’s—seven. He should be with seven-year-olds.’
‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take another form,’ Malcolm pointed out recklessly. ‘If I speak to Harry Rogers—–’
Ashley turned away. ‘He’d still be in the school.’
‘But—–’ Malcolm made a sound of frustration, ‘you wouldn’t know him. You need never see him. He would be just another boy—–’
‘You’re asking a lot,’ Ashley exclaimed, glancing at him over her shoulder. ‘Could you do it? Could you work here, knowing your son was in the school and didn’t know you?’
Malcolm had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you could,’ said Ashley steadily. ‘I don’t think anyone could.’
‘Well, you must give me time to think, to make arrangements,’ Malcolm exhorted desperately. ‘Tomorrow the boarders return, and the day after that school re-opens. You can’t abandon me without notice, Ashley.’
Ashley held up her head. ‘How much notice do you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A month is usual. A term would be better.’
‘And in my case?’
Malcolm sighed. ‘Two weeks?’ he ventured tentatively.
‘Two weeks!’ Ashley sucked in her breath. ‘Malcolm—–’
‘I’ll transfer you. I’ll let Rogers take your form. Who knows, you may change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Ashley was very definite about that. But she managed to maintain a semblance of composure as she added: ‘I’ll submit my written resignation this afternoon. And I’ll transfer my things to Room 1A.’
Malcolm made a baffled gesture. ‘Won’t you at least think about this, Ashley? You’ve been here five years!’
‘I know.’ Ashley moved towards the door. ‘And they’ve been good years. But you must see, I have to do this.’
Eventually he let her go, but she knew he was not entirely satisfied that she was determined. He still held out hopes that she might change her mind, while Ashley knew that nothing he said or did could alter her decision. She would be sad to leave Brede School. She had been happy here, or at least, she had been content. Now she was lost and uncertain, with the unwelcome knowledge that it was not going to be easy to find another post. It was the wrong time of the year, and she could only hope that there was someone else, like her, who suddenly found her present position intolerable.
But even as these thoughts occurred to her, they were superseded by others. Andrew was going to be living in England, in London, and unless she took a post out of the capital, he would always be only a few miles away. Her small flat in Kilburn was only a bus ride from the school. She could make it there in less than half an hour. Could she bear to go on living within breathing distance of her son?
She hurried along the corridor from Malcolm’s study with a feeling of impending disaster weighing down on her. Why, oh, why had Alain chosen to send the boy back to England to be educated? She would never have expected it of him. The United States, perhaps, but not England. Not after everything that had happened.
And then again, she argued, why not? Both Alain and Hassan had been educated in England. Why should she have imagined anything less would be good enough for Andrew? He was a Gauthier. And unless Alain had married and produced a son, the only heir to his grandfather’s fortune.
Ashley’s stomach churned. Alain could have married, she acknowledged, but the thought still had the power to leave her weak. It was not fair, she thought, that one man should wield so much power over her, particularly when he regarded her as an inferior being, a nonentity, something to be trampled on. And it was ironic that history should have appeared to have reversed itself. Prince Ahmed had married Alain’s mother after his first wife, Princess Izmay, had produced a series of daughters. But, within a year of Alain being born, she had borne him a son, Hassan, thus ensuring the line of succession. Now Alain’s brother had succeeded in marrying before him, and the son Ashley had had was heir to Prince Ahmed.
In the entrance hall she paused, looking about her almost with a sense of bereavement. This school had come to mean a lot to her. She knew many of the boys, as they had passed through her form on their way to the middle school. She was popular with them, and being young herself could understand their problems better than some of the older masters. She and the biology mistress were the only female tutors on the staff, and she had begun to regard it less like a job and more like a vocation. She had never thought of marrying again, and these boys had become her family. Brought up by an elderly aunt, without either brothers or sisters of her own, she had welcomed their friendship and their confidences, and she dreaded the thought of beginning again with strangers.
The doorbell rang behind her, and she turned automatically, going to open it without hesitation. She guessed it might be the launderers or the caterers, or even the firm of contractors who had been redecorating the dormitories, and making minor repairs, and she flung the door wide, glad of the diversion. But the man and the boy who stood outside the door were not tradespeople at all, and Ashley’s jaw sagged in horror as she perceived their identity.
The man, too, looked taken aback at her appearance, but with the assurance that came from his position he recovered more quickly, hiding his real feelings behind a mask of courtesy. As she struggled to evade the encroaching wave of blackness that threatened to engulf her, he gathered his composure and assumed a polite expression, and she was left to gaze at the boy, as if she was afraid he might disappear in a cloud of smoke.
She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, she simply couldn’t believe it, and her knees shook abominably as she hung desperately on to the door handle. The amazing thing was, he even looked like her, although he had his father’s dark hair and skin. But the green eyes were hers, and so too was the straight nose, and the generous mouth was parted slightly, as if aware of some irregularity here.
‘Miss—Miss Gilbert, is it not?’ Just by the momentary hesitation did Alain betray his agitation, and Ashley dragged her gaze from the boy’s tall slim figure to the man’s tautly controlled features.
‘P-Prince Alain,’ she acknowledged, bowing her head. ‘Wh-what can I do for you?’
Alain glanced about him half impatiently, as if seeking deliverance. A tall lean man, with straight dark hair, and just the slightest crook in his nose, where it had once been broken in a boyish fight, he had changed little over the years, she thought. He was, she knew, in his early thirties now, and although the lines in his face were more deeply carved than they had been, he was still the most disturbing man she had ever encountered. In an immaculately-cut European suit, he looked cool and businesslike, but she also knew he looked equally well in a loose flowing burnous or the tunic-like djellaba he had worn about his apartment. The apartment! Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. Why did she have to think of that now?
Alain fixed her with a steely gaze, and then spoke, almost with reluctance. ‘I wish to speak with a Monsieur Henley,’ he declared, his deep voice harsher than she remembered. ‘He is the headmaster here, is he not? Will you please tell him I am here?’
Just like that, thought Ashley bitterly. Within the space of a few moments, he had accepted her presence in the school and dismissed it, and was already issuing his orders. He did not ask how she was; he did not ask what she was doing here; he did not care how she might be feeling, having just seen her son for the first, and possibly only, time in her life. Without sensitivity or emotion, he expected her to do his bidding, and ignore the deeper ravages of time and circumstance.
Her eyes moved to the boy again, searching his face eagerly, hungrily, seeking some recognition from him, even though she knew such a thing was impossible. The boy did not know her. He had probably not been told of her existence. And of a certainty, his