Page 39 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
“How do thee think I am, lass? About to die. Ready to.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna said quietly. She had no other words.
“So am I,” Peter replied frankly. The words were clear, although it was obvious he had to take his time saying them, fishing each one out of the deep pool of his consciousness. “So am I, Anna.”
She gazed at him uncertainly, sensing the import of his words but not sure how to respond to them.
“I wasn’t fair to you,” he stated flatly. “I know it.”
That jolted her, because she’d never expected him to say it, and yet looking at his resolute expression, the sorrow and resignation so evident in his eyes, she didn’t feel gratified or vindicated, the way she’d expected to feel…just sorrowful and full of pity for a man who clearly felt so much regret as he looked back on his life.
“No, you weren’t,” she said at last. “But maybe I wasn’t fair to you, either. I resented you the whole of our marriage, in one way or another.” Once she’d found out about Ruth it had been like a stone in her shoe, a thorn in her side. As well it should have been—Anna wasn’t about to sanction any sort of infidelity whatsoever.And yet…if she’d been prepared to accept it and live with the man, then maybe she should have actually accepted it. She never had.
“You had cause to, though, didn’t you?” Peter replied. He closed his eyes briefly, the act of speaking having clearly exhausted him. “You were such a pretty little thing when we first married,” he remarked, a smile in his voice, his eyes still closed. “All eyes and hair. I could have picked you up in one arm.” He opened his eyes. “I loved you, you know.”
“I know,” Anna replied quietly, a soreness starting in her throat, an ache in her chest.
“Not enough, though,” Peter said slowly, each word laboured. “I…I shouldn’t have been so…stubborn…about Ruth.” He paused, his face screwed up from the effort of finding the words, forcing them out. “About a lot of things.”
She’d never expected him to admit to any of this, and Anna knew she couldn’t let the opportunity pass. “Peter, you do know Harriet is your biological daughter, don’t you?” she said, her voice low and insistent. She knew, from Harriet, that Peter had acted as if she wasn’t, whether from times past or as a result of his brain tumour, she didn’t know. “I know,” she continued, “when we were having a fight, all those years ago, I said something to make you think she wasn’t, but she was. Is. She always has been.”
She remembered the moment well and had kicked herself a thousand times for it. She’d been heavily pregnant with Harriet, and Peter had gone to see Ruth. Again. He’d come back unrepentant, indifferent, and that had hurt most of all. In a temper, which had felt better than tears, she’d flung at him,“And what if this baby isn’t yours? When the cat’s away the mice will play, after all, and you’re away a bloody lot of the time, Peter.”
His face had frozen, his expression turning stony, and then he’d turned away without a word while Anna had tried to hold back her sobs. They’d never spoken of it again. And in all that time, she’d never actually believed that Peter thought Harriet wasn’t his. It had been heart-wrenching to learn that he might have acted that way because of her, but who was to say? Maybe it had just been a belief born in the muddle of the brain tumour.
Harriet claimed he’d always favoured Rachel rather than her, but he hadn’t been the cuddliest of fathers, and Anna had gravitated towards Harriet anyway. She’d been feeling so needy, and as a baby and toddler Harriet had been all smiles and cuddles, a balm to her soul. But until Harriet had confessed what Peter had thought a few weeks ago, she hadn’t believed he’d really taken that pain-filled remark to heart.
“I know that,” he said now, closing his eyes again. “I’ve always known.”
Then why did you cause her so much pain?Anna wanted to cry. Was there any point now? Peter was dying. “You should tell her, Peter,” she said quietly. “Because she believes you don’t think she is, and it has caused her a lot of heartache.”
He grimaced, and she decided to press the point. “You still have a chance to make things right. To be at peace with those who love you, before…” She couldn’t finish the thought.
With his face still in a grimace, he nodded slowly. “I know.”
Anna let out a long, low breath. What more could she say, orshouldshe say?
Peter angled his head to gaze at her directly. His eyes looked faded, as if the life was draining out of him as they spoke, his grizzled cheeks hanging slackly, his face full of pain that she suspected was both physical and emotional. “Anna,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
His words caused her to feel a settling inside herself, a surprising sense of peace along with a sorrow too deep for regret. Somehow, they existed together, entwined, one feeling giving life to the other. Slowly she nodded. “So am I,” she told him. “For a lot of things. But we have two beautiful daughters, and that’s something, Peter.”
A smile flitted across his lips and then faded. His face was now grey with fatigue and pain, and she felt as if she could see his energy, his very life, ebbing away. “I should go,” she said, starting up from the bed. “Let you rest.”
“Wait.” The word came out in a croaky command, and he flung one hand out to her before letting it fall to the bed.
“Peter…?” Anna prompted uneasily when he didn’t seem capable of saying anything more.
“Anna…I need to ask you something. Something…”
“What do you need to ask me?”
His gaze turned bleak but determined as he looked at her. “I need you to contact Ruth. She doesn’t know… We haven’t… She ought to know.”
Anna stiffened.Contact Ruth…!As much as she instinctively recoiled against such an idea, she realised it didn’t cause her the pain it once might have. She didn’t love Peter anymore. And he was right, she supposed; Ruthshouldknow, even if some part of her still rebelled against the notion.
“You haven’t been in contact?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“She ended things years ago,” he admitted, the words coming now with slow, laboured breaths. He really needed to rest. “I haven’t seen her…or Daisy…in years.”
