Still Waters by Katie Flynn Page A

passed her, the peasants on board laughing and shouting out as though they were unaware of their lowly status. Marianne, an aristocratic Frenchwoman to the tips of her fingers, knew peasants when she saw them and wondered, fleetingly, why Peter, who was so careful of his daughter, should let her go away for a whole week with such people. But then self-interest reasserted itself; I’m glad he’s sent her away, Marianne thought, so what does it matter what these Throwers are like? I am grateful to them, peasants or no, because Peter and I have a whole week together – as well as the rest of our lives.
    Marianne had not seen Tess until that morning, never clapped eyes on so much as a photograph, because Tess was always at home, so she and Peter had to meet away from the house and village. In fact she had never set foot inside the Old House. Instead, Peter arranged to meet her in pubs, small hotels, holiday cottages, cafés. Because of a plain little girl we’ve been forced to skulk, Marianne told herself as she packed up her picnic and prepared to wheel her bicycle across the road and up the path to the Old House. How absurd it has been, as though he were a married man with a jealous wife, instead of a widower with a small daughter who would probably love a stepmother.
    And although she was sure that the farce was just about over, that her new life was about to begin, she still pretended to herself that she was a holidaymaker, approaching a house to ask the owner whether there were any hire-craft on this part of the Broad. She wheeled her bicycle across the muddy, rutted lane, up the short gravel path and round to the back door, reminding herself that it would not do to break cover now. All must be respectable, for everyone’s sake. Even the child’s.
    Marianne propped her bicycle up against a rabbit hutch, then knocked on the back door. She desired most urgently simply to walk inside, but caution forbade it. Suppose he had a friend staying, or a housekeeper? He had never mentioned such a thing, but . . .
    The door opened. Peter stood there, his light-brown hair on end, a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles perched on his nose. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and corduroy trousers and tartan bedroom slippers and he had a book in one hand, one long finger marking his place. He looked at her almost uncomprehendingly for a moment, then said, sharply: ‘Marianne! What on earth . . .?’
    ‘My darling, are you alone?’
    He nodded uncertainly, then moved aside as Marianne, seizing the opportunity, stepped into the kitchen. My kitchen, she thought wonderingly, looking round. Goodness, it needs redecorating, smartening up. But I’ll do it – I’ll have all the time in the world once we’ve sorted things out.
    ‘Yes, I’m alone. Tess left about ten minutes ago. But I’ve told you never to come here, you know very well . . .’
    ‘Peter darling, I had to come.’ She kept her voice low, throbbing with passion. She put her arms round him and then stood on tiptoe to kiss the only part of his face she could reach – his strong, cleft chin – and pressed the length of her body against him in a manner she would once have considered wanton in the extreme. Only . . . she had to be wanton, if that was the only way to make him see sense! ‘Why are you cross with your Marianne?’
    ‘You know our agreement! Right from the start . . .’
    ‘Darling, I’m having a baby.’
    He stood very still. Sensing shock, fearing rejection, she pressed her cheek against his chest and kept her arms round him, but he jerked himself free and held her at arm’s length, staring down into her face.
    ‘A . . . a what ?’
    ‘A baby, Peter. Your baby.’
    ‘But that’s not possible! I’ve always taken precautions . . . we both agreed we didn’t want any sort of complications. Marianne, you must be mistaken, you must!’
    She had not expected this, but she should have done so. Peter’s feelings exactly mirrored her own, last week, when she