The Divided Child (51 page)

           
"However,
when William married Demetra, Michael was sent off to school.
 
Remembering how miserable I'd been
during my own school days, I began visiting him there.
 
We got on well from the start, and the
more time I spent with him, the more attached I became, though I still didn't
know whether he was my son or not."

           
"How
did you learn the truth?" I asked.

           
"The
day my brother died, he rang up and demanded I meet him at his home.
 
At first, his imperious tone put my
back up and I refused; then he told me that if I cared about Michael's future
I'd better come.
 
When I arrived he
led me into the hall and asked me point-blank if I knew
who Michael's real
father was
.
 
Startled, I asked
him what reason he had for doubting the boy’s paternity.
 
He replied he'd just come from
specialists in London who'd informed him he suffered from a congenital malady
that made it impossible for him to father children."

           
"So
the appointment card was for your brother, not Demetra!" I exclaimed.

           
Geoffrey
nodded.

           
"What
happened then?"

           
"I
told my brother the truth.
 
I said
if he wasn't Michael's real father, then in all likelihood I was, and I told
him about the night I'd spent with Elizabeth.
 
He was furious.
 
He swore at me and said he was done providing for my bastard.
 
I told him he had every right to wish
me to the devil, but none to take out his anger on Michael.
 
He yelled that he'd do as he damn well
saw fit.
 
I was afraid that if I
stayed any longer we'd come to blows, so I left.”
 
He paused, then added bleakly, “I never saw him again --
alive."

           
I
reached out and touched his hand.
 
“Geoffrey, I’m sorry.” His fingers curled around mine.
 
"Do you think your brother really
meant to disinherit Michael?"

           
He
said wearily, "At that moment, yes.
 
Eventually, though, I think he would have seen reason and
reconsidered."

           
"Does
anyone else know about this?"

           
"I
don't know.
 
I can't believe
Demetra does, or she'd be trying to use the information to contest Michael's
inheritance.
  
But if Skouras
was in the house that day and heard us arguing --"

           
I
shook my head unhappily.
 
"It
wasn't Spiro who told me about the argument.
 
It was Michael."

           
For
a long, frozen moment he stared at me in chagrin.
 
Then we heard the sound of a car coming up the drive.

           
"Who
--" I began.

           
"I
don't know.
 
Stay here!"
 
He disappeared through the doorway
toward the front of the house.
 
The
engine stopped and for a moment everything was still, then with a stifled
exclamation Geoffrey threw the front door open and ran out.
 
I followed.

           
A
boxy green Fiat was parked in the drive and a man facing away from me was
slowly getting out it.
 
He had a
rifle gripped tightly in one hand, and I was about to call out a warning when I
saw Geoffrey hug a small, familiar figure to his chest.
 
I realized belatedly that the man with
the rifle was Paul.
 

           
Geoffrey
saw me and let Michael slide down from his arms to the ground.
 
Michael turned and, seeing me, came
running.

           
"Oh,
Miss Stewart, you'll never believe what's happened!" he exclaimed
excitedly.
 
"Someone fired a
shot at us through the window, and it hit Paul in the shoulder, but he managed
to get his rifle from the cupboard and fire back, and whoever it was drove
away.
 
Then Paul and I tried to
follow, but we never even caught a glimpse of the car, so we drove to a
monastery where a monk bandaged Paul up, and then we drove back here and here
you are!
 
It's awfully nice to see
you, by the way."
 
He flashed
a brief, accusing glance at Geoffrey, then turned back to me, "I thought
you'd gone back to California."

           
"Not
yet," I replied, smiling at his breathless narrative.
 
He was obviously relishing the memory
of his most recent adventure with boyish gusto.

           
"It
is indeed a surprise to find you here," echoed Paul, as he directed a
long, inquiring look Geoffrey's way,
 
"but then this has been a day of unexpected visitors."

           
"And
unexpected events," added Geoffrey, "of which we've all had our
share.
 
Michael, why don't you take
Miss Stewart into the house and find her something cool to drink, while I talk
to Paul."

           
I
was irritated to find myself so cavalierly dismissed, but then Michael slipped
his hand in mine and said coaxingly, "There are two bottles of frightfully
good lemonade left in the fridge."

           
The
lemonade was good, and Michael, eager to fulfill his role as host, also brought
out a roll of creme-filled cookies and a slightly melted chocolate bar to round
out our repast.
 
As we sat munching
away, I found myself sneaking glances across the table at him, wondering what
it was about him that seemed so different.
 
With a start I realized the truth: for the first time since
I'd known him, he seemed completely happy and content.
 
Considering all that had happened to
him the past few days it didn't make any sense, unless . . .

           
"Michael,
you're fond of your Uncle Geoffrey, aren't you?"

           
Slowly,
warily, he nodded.

           
"From
what he tells me it sounds as if he used to visit you at school fairly
often.
 
I suppose you must have
gotten pretty used to those visits, pretty used to being with him and knowing
he was around to look out for you.
 
If it had been me, I suspect I would have started thinking of him almost
as a second father."

           
Michael's
eyes fell and his cheeks went pink.

           
I
said gently, "There's nothing wrong with that, you know.
 
It would be a perfectly natural way to
feel."

           
He
shook his head and mumbled, "You don't understand --"

           
I
reached across the table and caught his hands in mine.
 
"Yes, I do.
 
Your uncle told me what he and your
father quarreled about the day of your father's accident."

           
He
looked up, his eyes large and vulnerable and so like Geoffrey's that my heart
lurched painfully against my ribs.
 
"He did?"

           
"Yes."

           
"And
it doesn't matter to you that I'm a b-bas--"

           
I
interrupted forcefully.
 
"That
you're fortunate enough to have had two fathers instead of one?
 
No."

           
He
sighed softly.
 
"Whenever
Uncle Geoff came to visit, I hated for him to leave.
 
I used to imagine what it would be like to live with him in
his flat in London instead of at school. Sometimes I even wished he were my dad
instead of Father.
 
Then I heard
them arguing and realized he really
was
my father.
 
I couldn't believe it.
 
It was upsetting at first, but then I
was kind of glad -- at least, I was until I heard about Father's car
crash."

           
His
small fists clenched against the table.
 
"It was awful then.
 
I
was afraid the crash wasn’t an accident.
 
Father was such a careful driver, you see, and I just couldn't believe
he would drive along that cliff in the fog unless . . . unless he
intended
to go over."

           
I
stared at Michael's small, grave face unsure what to say.
 
I longed to assure him his father
hadn't committed suicide, but it was entirely possible William Redfield had, in
a fit of anger or self-loathing, done precisely that.
 
And if it wasn't suicide, would it be any kinder to Michael
to hold out the possibility, up to now, unprovable, that his father had
actually been murdered?

           
"Even
careful drivers make mistakes," I finally said, "and if everyone
accepts that it was an accident, perhaps you should, too."

           
Michael
shook his head.
 
"Last night I
overheard Uncle Geoff and Paul talking when they thought I was asleep.
 
Uncle Geoff doesn't think Father's
death was an accident and he doesn't think Father did away with himself
either."
 
His relief at this
second conclusion was evident; the haunted look was suddenly gone from his
eyes.
 
He leaned closer and said in
conspiratorial whisper. "You won't believe it, Miss Stewart, but he thinks
Father was killed -- by Uncle Spiro! -- and that now Uncle Spiro’s after
me!"

           
I
didn't have to feign being startled by this pronouncement, though it was
actually his calm and almost cheerful acceptance of the situation that caused
my eyes to widen and my mouth to drop open so effectively.
 
He was boyishly gratified by my
reaction, and hastily proceeded to assure me that I needn't worry about
him.
 
"Paul's a ripping
bodyguard, and I'm certain Uncle Geoff will find all the evidence the police
need to arrest Uncle Spiro."
 

           
"And
you're not frightened, not even a little bit?"

           
"Well,
perhaps a little bit," he admitted, "but it's rather exciting as
well, rather like being the hero in a film."

           
Only
in the movies, I thought anxiously, heroes -- especially little boy heroes --
aren't in any real danger of being killed.

           
Suddenly,
his expression clouded.
 
“Of
course, it’s a bit of a jolt to find out Uncle Spiro wants to kill me.
 
I thought he sort of liked me and that
we were, well, friends.
 
Still,” he
said, with a small smile, "at least now I know Uncle Geoff hasn't washed
his hands of me."

           
"Of
course he hasn't!
 
What made you
think he had?"

           
"After
Father died, I kept expecting him to come and take me to live with him, but he
never did.
 
Then when Stepmama and
I left to come here to Corfu, he didn't even stop by to say goodbye.
 
After a while, I began to wonder if he
really
was
my father, or whether it had all just been a mistake, but I
didn't know how to find out for certain."
 
He paused and regarded me shyly from behind his lashes.
 
"That's why I wanted to hire a
detective."
 
Once again my
mouth fell open.
 
"I'm sorry I
didn't tell you before," he apologized.

           
I
snapped my mouth shut and said gently, "It doesn't matter."

           
"Miss
Stewart, may I ask you a question?"

           
"Of
course."

           
"Do
you think it's disloyal of me to want to go live with Uncle Geoff now that
Father is dead?"

           
"No.
 
I think it's only natural for you to
want to be with him, just as it's only natural for him to want to be with
you."

           
He
flashed me an anxious look.
 
"But some fathers don't care tuppence about being with their
children."

           
"True,"
I admitted, thinking of my own.
 
Strangely, the thought held no sting.
 
"But he’s not one of those.
 
Otherwise he wouldn't be fighting so hard to get custody of
you."
 
Seeing Michael’s look
of surprise, I exclaimed, "Didn't you know?"

           
He
shook his head dazedly.
 
"No."

           
"Oh,
Michael!
  
Even before he
found out the truth he wished you were his son.
 
After the accident he went to your stepmother and asked her
for custody, but she refused.
 
When
he tried to take her to court to force the issue, she brought you here to
Greece.
 
He's been trying ever
since to get you back to England."