Murder by Sarah Pinborough Page B

when that had been the case – there was an edge to them that he could not define.He was sure that such women existed in London too, but perhaps in the part of society that belonged to ‘old’ money. There was no such thing in most of America – perhaps only in Boston. In New York it was the bankers and businessmen whose daughters were got up in fancy clothes and glittering jewels and paraded as examples of their fathers’ wealth. He’d found of late that most of them left him cold. Or maybe he was just getting older and the superficial was becoming jaded.
    By the time Juliana returned with coffee, his trouser legs were rolled down and James had run off to wash and sort the treasures collected on their walk. The boy was happy, but a small shadow of concern had flickered across his face when he’d seen his mother. It wasn’t fair on either of them.
    ‘He’s a good boy,’ Edward said, taking the cup and saucer from her, ‘and he’s tougher than you think.’
    ‘He’s prone to fevers and chest infections like his father was.’ She sat opposite him. ‘I hope it wasn’t too cold outside. And that water – well, I’m sure you understand why he shouldn’t go in it. It’s full of filth.’
    The lines between her eyes that had been slowly disappearing gathered together. Did she even realise the tension she was projecting?
    ‘You know something,’ he started carefully, ‘as adults, we have to learn to keep our fears from our children. They’re very good at picking up those things that don’t need language to communicate. I learned that from my relationship with my own father.’
    ‘Your father wasn’t murdered and thrown into a river.’ Her tone hadn’t changed, but her back had stiffened and she held her cup up over her mouth so only her dark eyes could be seen. He wasn’t a fool; the angry defensiveness in them wasclear. But damn the woman, he was no simpering disciple who would back down to her beauty, not when he was trying to do what was right, for her, and for James.
    ‘This is true,’ he said calmly, ‘and if that’s all you want James to remember of his father then you keep gripping him tightly and being afraid every time he wants to do things that are actually just part of normal boyhood behaviour.’
    ‘How I raise my son is none of your business.’ She carefully placed her cup down and stood up, ramrod-straight.
    She looked quite magnificent. Edward smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘So this is how we’re going to play it, are we?’
    A flush rose in her cheeks. ‘I think you forget your place here.’
    ‘Perhaps I do.’ He stood up and moved closer to her. ‘But just think about it: one day he’s going to grow into a man and he’ll need to know more of the world than what you can show him from behind your apron strings. Let him breathe.’
    She said nothing, but glared at him.
    ‘Why do you live so close to the river anyway?’ he asked. ‘I don’t understand, when it causes you so much pain.’
    ‘To keep James close,’ she said eventually. ‘So he doesn’t feel alone.’ As her eyes teared up she held her chin higher, and he found himself drawn to her even more. ‘I don’t know if he died before he went in the water or not, but if I don’t think of the river as being part of him then I don’t know where he died at all, and that is worse.’
    ‘He was very lucky to be loved by you.’ He watched her as she regained her composure. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to wash away all that grief with his passion. His words must have resonated with his feelings because she wiped her hands on her dress as if dusting something off and then turnedaway and picked up her cup. As she sipped from it he noticed the china trembling slightly. Was that the effect of her grief, or was she too feeling some of the heat between them?
    ‘Enough of this conversation,’ she said, breezily, ‘when it has been such a pleasant day. And you must be getting back so you have time to change