hall to get our coats—the weather had cleared, but there was still a nip in the air—and were just about to set off when the lord of the manor himself appeared. He drove up in a Range Rover, slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and opened the back to let out two large liver-spotted dogs.
“Who the hell’s parked their bloody car in the—?” he burst out. Then, seeing me, he stopped.
He was a well-built, good-looking man in his late fifties or so, with exactly the same luminous green eyes as his son.
“Evan. This is Dr. Mayhew.” Arianrhod seemed unsurprised by his outburst. “Dr. Mayhew, my husband, Evan Morgan.”
I nodded at him.
He cleared his throat and thrust a hand out toward me. “How d’you do.”
We shook hands briefly. He looked remarkably youthful, I noticed, and remarkably like Gwydion, except for the lines on his forehead and temples, his jutting cheekbones and the lilac shadows under his eyes. But there was nothing of Gwydion’s insecurity in his demeanor.
He let go of my hand and turned to Arianrhod. “Is Gwydion out of bed yet?”
“Not yet, no.” An anxious note crept into her voice. “But he’ll be up sooner or later, I’m sure . . .”
“So, no joy, eh?” He turned to me, a look of exasperation on his face. “I really don’t know what we’re going to do with him. Lying around in bed all day, like a teenager. Still tied to his mother’s apron strings. I despair of him sometimes . . .”
I didn’t reply, but I felt my anger rising. No wonder Gwydion has problems, with a father like this, I thought.
“I hope you can help him. It’s time he pulled himself together. Made his own life, away from here.” He looked me in the eye as he spoke, and I felt a flush start to rise from the back of my neck. He seemed to be sizing me up, assessing my competence, whether as a woman or a doctor, or both, I wasn’t sure.
“Dr. Mayhew and I were just going for a stroll, before she goes home,” Arianrhod said. There was a subtle touch of martyred patience in her tone. She paused. “We won’t be long. We’ll take the dogs, if you like.”
“Whatever you want.” He gave a sigh of frustration. “I’ve got Rhiannon coming over in a minute.”
At the mention of Rhiannon, Arianrhod looked pained, but did her best to hide it.
“We’ve got a ton of work to get through . . .” He paused, as if he’d suddenly remembered I was there. “Good-bye, Dr. . . .”
He looked at me again, registering my discomfort, a faint smile playing about his lips.
“Mayhew,” I reminded him. “Jessica Mayhew.”
He nodded curtly, then walked off toward the house, his boots crunching on the gravel. As I watched him go, I realized with a shock why he looked so familiar. It wasn’t just his similarity to Gwydion, or the fact that I’d probably seen his face in the papers or on TV. He was, without a doubt, the man in the photograph I’d been sent, with the blacked-out eyes.
Arianrhod and I set off across the lawn, the dogs circling us in their excitement at the prospect of another walk. Then they ran off ahead, on the trail of some scent or other, darting back to us from time to time as we headed out into the walled gardens overlooking the sea.
For a while, neither of us spoke. My mind was racing. I knew now who the man in the mystery photograph was, but I still didn’t know who had sent it, or why.
“I’m sorry about that,” Arianrhod said at last, when we were out of earshot. “Evan isn’t the most patient of men. He gets upset whenever Gwydion’s . . . ill. He worries about him. And it tends to come out in . . . well, an odd way. He’s very fond of him, really. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
I nodded, but I didn’t reply. I was still puzzling over the photograph. Then it came to me. It must have been Gwydion who’d sent it. It had arrived the morning he first came to see me, after all. He was obviously unstable, and hated his father—he’d told me as much at the last
“Who the hell’s parked their bloody car in the—?” he burst out. Then, seeing me, he stopped.
He was a well-built, good-looking man in his late fifties or so, with exactly the same luminous green eyes as his son.
“Evan. This is Dr. Mayhew.” Arianrhod seemed unsurprised by his outburst. “Dr. Mayhew, my husband, Evan Morgan.”
I nodded at him.
He cleared his throat and thrust a hand out toward me. “How d’you do.”
We shook hands briefly. He looked remarkably youthful, I noticed, and remarkably like Gwydion, except for the lines on his forehead and temples, his jutting cheekbones and the lilac shadows under his eyes. But there was nothing of Gwydion’s insecurity in his demeanor.
He let go of my hand and turned to Arianrhod. “Is Gwydion out of bed yet?”
“Not yet, no.” An anxious note crept into her voice. “But he’ll be up sooner or later, I’m sure . . .”
“So, no joy, eh?” He turned to me, a look of exasperation on his face. “I really don’t know what we’re going to do with him. Lying around in bed all day, like a teenager. Still tied to his mother’s apron strings. I despair of him sometimes . . .”
I didn’t reply, but I felt my anger rising. No wonder Gwydion has problems, with a father like this, I thought.
“I hope you can help him. It’s time he pulled himself together. Made his own life, away from here.” He looked me in the eye as he spoke, and I felt a flush start to rise from the back of my neck. He seemed to be sizing me up, assessing my competence, whether as a woman or a doctor, or both, I wasn’t sure.
“Dr. Mayhew and I were just going for a stroll, before she goes home,” Arianrhod said. There was a subtle touch of martyred patience in her tone. She paused. “We won’t be long. We’ll take the dogs, if you like.”
“Whatever you want.” He gave a sigh of frustration. “I’ve got Rhiannon coming over in a minute.”
At the mention of Rhiannon, Arianrhod looked pained, but did her best to hide it.
“We’ve got a ton of work to get through . . .” He paused, as if he’d suddenly remembered I was there. “Good-bye, Dr. . . .”
He looked at me again, registering my discomfort, a faint smile playing about his lips.
“Mayhew,” I reminded him. “Jessica Mayhew.”
He nodded curtly, then walked off toward the house, his boots crunching on the gravel. As I watched him go, I realized with a shock why he looked so familiar. It wasn’t just his similarity to Gwydion, or the fact that I’d probably seen his face in the papers or on TV. He was, without a doubt, the man in the photograph I’d been sent, with the blacked-out eyes.
Arianrhod and I set off across the lawn, the dogs circling us in their excitement at the prospect of another walk. Then they ran off ahead, on the trail of some scent or other, darting back to us from time to time as we headed out into the walled gardens overlooking the sea.
For a while, neither of us spoke. My mind was racing. I knew now who the man in the mystery photograph was, but I still didn’t know who had sent it, or why.
“I’m sorry about that,” Arianrhod said at last, when we were out of earshot. “Evan isn’t the most patient of men. He gets upset whenever Gwydion’s . . . ill. He worries about him. And it tends to come out in . . . well, an odd way. He’s very fond of him, really. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
I nodded, but I didn’t reply. I was still puzzling over the photograph. Then it came to me. It must have been Gwydion who’d sent it. It had arrived the morning he first came to see me, after all. He was obviously unstable, and hated his father—he’d told me as much at the last
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