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Out of the Mist

By: Cromagnonman



Some of the criticism of my past work has been that the stories were too short. This story on the other hand might be too long for some. I must warn you to not make too hasty a judgement on some of the characters. Cm.

Chapter 1: The New Beginning.

I stood and stared at the bronze in front of me. There was something disturbingly familiar about it, something that brought back memories of a time long past but not forgotten.

I looked at the card on the pedestal that told me that the artist, Felicity Cullen, was one of the brightest new sculptors in the art scene, and there was the prediction of great things to come for her burgeoning talent. I didn't recognise the name, I'd been out of this scene for some twenty years, but I did recognise the talent because I had seen it before, many years ago.

"Do you like it?" I turned and looked into the eyes of another memory although these could not be the same eyes as I remembered.

"This is your work?"

"Why yes, why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I just have this feeling in the back of my mind that I have seen this or at least something similar many years ago. I must be mistaken, forgive me."

"No need to apologise, I think all artists are guilty to a certain extent of copying the influences of artists that have gone before them. In my case my teacher is my inspiration and she has some of her work over there." She pointed to some bronzes in the far corner of the gallery.

We walked towards them and the closer I got to them the greater my unease became. I knew the artist but I didn't want to know her, she was a part of my life that I wanted no part of. I turned to walk away.

"Don't you want a closer look?" I could see the puzzled expression on Felicity's face through my de-focussing tears. "What's the matter?"

My panic was getting the better of me. "I can't discuss it with you, or anyone else. I have to get away from here." I caught a glimpse of my manager chatting to a very well groomed woman, he was pointing out the finer points of one of my sculptures to her, obviously, I hoped, trying to sell it.

"Huw, do you mind if we get out of here?" He looked at Felicity and reached a totally erroneous conclusion.

"You two do whatever you want, but before you go, Grantley Benson, this is Margery Branxton, she is the CEO of one of the world's biggest insurance companies, and is looking for a sculpture to grace her reception area. She likes your work and wants to buy at least three, and may be interested in commissioning more, so if you want to leave that's fine by me, but I have work to do."

I turned to leave, ignoring Felicity who had to run to keep up with me. "Wait!" I ignored her. "You're Grantley Benson?" I ignored her again. I had almost reached the door when suddenly I turned around. I had to face my fears and now seemed as good a time as any to do that, but was I strong enough? I walked back over to the bronzes in the corner and looked at them for several minutes, memories, painful memories, flooding back into my head. I reached for the smallest of the statues and lifted it off its pedestal. My hands shook as I turned it over and the last conscious recollection I had before collapsing to the floor was seeing, high up inside the casting, the letter 'C'.

The mists cleared and I found myself in the middle of another painful memory. 

Hospitals are, to my mind, one of the least hospitable environments, and in this I speak from a long and painful experience.

A nurse came in and checked my temperature and pulse. "The doctor will be here in a moment." She said as she recorded my vital signs on my chart. "You've been off with the fairies for some time."

"How long have I been here?"

"Two days. Do you remember anything of what happened?"

"No." Even as I spoke I knew that I was lying to her, the shock that had triggered this was too great to erase from my memory, at least not straight away.

The curtain was pulled to one side to admit a tall, angular man with a shock of red hair that, along with his complexion, was a testament to his Celtic origins. "Good morning Mister Benson, how are we feeling this morning?"

Why is that doctors who know that you are feeling like crap have to come over so jolly. "I don't know about you but I feel like crap."

"That's to be expected after what you have been through, but never fear I am here to help you. There are a couple of people here to see you, do you feel up to visitors?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course you do, we won't force you to see anyone at this time, but these people have been waiting outside ever since you came in, so I think that you should see them for a few minutes."

"Oh all right, send them in, what harm can it do?"

A moment later the curtain was pulled aside to admit Felicity and a blur. The blur flung itself at me, its arms clamping around my neck, and its body pinning me to the bed. "Oh my Darling I'm so very, very sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you but I had no choice, please, please say that you'll forgive me."

It was so hard for me to forgive the blur, the distant memory of a life lost long ago, a love lost long ago. I wanted so much to tell her that she was forgiven but I couldn't, at least not until she took her mouth from mine, then it was easy. "Cassie, how could I not forgive you." Out of the mists of the past my future stood clear and bright.

"You obviously remember my mother." Felicity said, stating the obvious.

 Chapter 2: The Old Beginning.

The sun beat down on the new group of young hopefuls as they entered the bright new world that was the Metropolitan School of Art. They were an eclectic mix of kids, some who thought that to merely look like an artist made them an artist, some couldn't care less about their looks, and one who stood out like a beacon from the rest. She was extremely attractive with an 'old money', sort of Katherine Hepburn, panache about her that brought mixed thoughts from her fellow students. Some of them thought that her position in this class was bought for her by a sizeable endowment to the college by her parents, while others just envied her obvious social status. One person formed no immediate opinion, I was reserving my judgement until I saw some of her work.

It wasn't inevitable, it wasn't in the stars or any other form of divination that Grantley Benson (me) and Cassandra Fielding (she) should gravitate towards each other, it just seemed to happen.

I was impressed by her talent, and the easy way that she conversed with the other students, particularly me, importantly, me. She offered praise when she felt I deserved it, and she also offered criticism when she felt it was warranted. I self-consciously accepted the praise and gratefully accepted her criticism, knowing the she gave it a great deal of thought, and she never criticised unless she could follow up with constructive suggestions.

I returned the favour and it wasn't long before we became inseparable, supporting each other, teaching each other, and loving each other, especially loving each other. We found that we were compatible in every way, we instinctively knew each other's feelings and this translated itself into our love making, we never had to seek for what gave pleasure, it just happened. I got to know every nook and cranny of her exquisite body while she became familiar with mine.

Our first time almost didn't happen and it would have been my fault if it hadn't, in my opinion I was punching above my weight, she was far too good for the likes of me, definitely out of my league. To her I was just another person, when I say just another person I don't mean just another person in an off-hand sort of way but just another person in the I'm the same as you kind of way, no better or worse than any other person, and in this she included herself and it took a lot of persuading on her part along with a lot of kissing and hugging before the final bastions of my self imposed differences succumbed to her. We had been out with friends and I had walked her to her apartment off-campus and was considering how I could work up the necessary courage to try and kiss her when she invited me in for a coffee.

I didn't feel comfortable sitting on her sofa and my stammering attempts at intelligent conversation were making me feel worse until she stopped me mid-stammer with a kiss. "Grantley, listen to me, I love you and I know that you love me and beyond that nothing matters, we are in love. You are now and will always be the love of my life and I want you to be the only lover in my life. I want to show you just how much I love you, so would you be quiet for a minute while I get started." With that she started to show me just how in love with me she was and it wasn't long before I joined in, any perceived differences between us were forgotten and by the time I went home the next morning I was able to talk to her without so much as a hint of a stutter.

By the end of our first year at Art School Cassandra had moved into my apartment, if you could call it that, it was an old storage area attached to the rear of a store that had gone out of business. I had convinced the building owner that renting the area would provide him with a steady but small income, which was better than sporadic or no income, and in return I would maintain the store so that when he found someone willing to lease it he wouldn't have massive renovation costs. It suited my purpose because it had a rear access onto a laneway and I was able to install a large window to provide lighting for my work. It had a cantankerous heating system that needed the occasional well placed kick to jolt it into life in winter and an almost adequate ventilation system for the summer. The kitchen was a collection of mismatched cupboards on which sat a cook-top and microwave, a sink with a single cold tap and an ancient refrigerator. The bedroom consisted of a double mattress in a partitioned corner and racks for clothes. Creature comforts were sparse but it was cheap and it was home.

Our lives were complete, we had Art School, we had our work, we were both sculptors, Cassandra working in bronze while I had chosen to work in sheet metal, cutting, beating and twisting metals, mainly copper because it could be annealed to soften it and make it more malleable, into weird shapes before welding them together to form shapes that had evolved into birds and animals, flowers and more abstract shapes that had all become my art.

While I was doing my thing with metal, Cassandra was moulding her clay into shape ready for the process that saw a mould made of it and then cast into a rough bronze which she then polished into the finished bronze. The final act in this process was for her to engrave the letter 'C' inside the casting. This was her signature, this would authenticate her work for the future when, as it was inevitable, she became famous.

While we spent much of our time together we still managed to have a close circle of friends that we studied with, drank with, went to movies with, and who accepted us as a couple. At the end of each day we were one and the same, we were an artistic partnership in every possible way.

"Honey, Mother rang this morning and has invited us for Christmas dinner. You will come, won't you?"

"Do I really have to?"

"You are going to have to meet my parents sooner or later, they're not that bad, really."

"Okay, I'll go with you."

"You will enjoy it, we are a pretty normal. . . ."

"Stinking rich."

". .family. The money means nothing to me, you know that, I don't get an allowance from my parents, they have tried, and succeeded I think, not to spoil me and I'm thankful for that."

The cab dropped us at the front door of the large house that Cassandra used to call home. As we approached the front door it swung open and a middle aged woman in a black and white uniform stood to one side as we entered. "It's so good to see you again Miss Cassandra."

"Thank you Mary, it's good to see you too. Where are they?"

"In the Library, come with me." She held her hand out for our coats and led the way down the passage to the Library. She knocked softly before opening the door and ushering us inside.

"Cassie, Darling, how good to see you." Her Father engulfed her. 

Her mother rose from her chair and held out her imperious hand to me. "I am Cassandra's Mother and you are?"

"Mother, Daddy, this is Grantley Benson. Grantley, my father Stephen Fielding, and my mother, Sabrina."

"We're pleased to meet you." My hand was grabbed in the strong grip of her Father, I was being tested. I used just enough pressure to tell him that I wasn't over-awed by him, but not enough to issue a challenge to his dominant position. 

Sabrina held my hand briefly while her eyes probed into the core of my existence. "So you are the young man that is keeping our girl from her family."

"He's not keeping me from anything Mother, we just love to spend time together."

"But you have set up house with him?"

"Yes I have. I could say that Grantley has allowed me to use his studio because he has all of the equipment that I need for my work and am able to work at times when I don't have access to Art School facilities but I won't. I have moved in with him because I love him and want to spend as much time with him as possible."

"What do your friends think of this arrangement?"

"Our friends are fine with it in fact they spend quite a lot of their free time working there as well."

"I didn't mean those friends I meant your real friends, those of your own kind."

"These are my real friends, those others that you call my friends are no longer my friends because they have no appreciation of what I'm doing, of my art," Sabrina was gathering her breath to launch another attack when Stephen stepped in.

"What are your future plans with our daughter?"

"Stephen! I told you not to ask that question."

"But I want to know, and it's better to get it out into the open straight away, then we can enjoy Christmas together."

"We have no immediate plans, we both want to finish our studies before we make any long term plans."

"You are obviously an artist, do you see yourself being able to earn a living with your work, enough to support Cassandra?"

"I'll certainly be trying my best to do that, but art is a fickle market, what may sell one minute won't the next. But if I can't then I'll just have to work at something else and keep it up as a hobby. I'll certainly not give it up altogether. What we are producing is something tangible, something that you can pick up and hold, it is real, its value is in its substance and its artistic creation." The pressure from Cassandra's hand told me that my response had impressed her Father.

After this initial unpleasantness they tried hard I'll give them that, and they came close to succeeding. I felt comfortable most of the time, oh there were the odd moments, like his dissertation on wine, that I found unsettling, but all in all it was a pleasant enough time. Cassandra's mother attempted to persuade us to stay the night, but a hastily invented prior engagement saved us.

They were still waving as the cab pulled out of the driveway onto the street and headed back into town and our private Christmas celebrations. "That wasn't too hard to take, was it?"

"No. It would have been worse if we had gone home to my family, my mother would have fallen all over you trying to impress, she would have been obsequious to the point of nausea."

"Come on, they can't be that bad."

"Would I lie to you? No I suppose they aren't that bad but I don't think that you are quite ready for them just yet."

Compared to the sumptuous meal that we had earlier on in the day, our Christmas evening meal was almost non-existent, but it was so much better. We had store bought chicken and vegetables followed by store bought plum pudding with store bought brandy butter. We had a Christmas tree (plastic) in the corner with handmade decorations that were the finest we had ever seen and we exchanged presents by the glow of several candles before retiring to our own cosy and warm bed. Life was good.

The next year flew by in a frenzy of activity, Cassie and I both had our work accepted for exhibitions, and we both made several significant sales. The critiques in the press were favourable for the both of us, and our creative, as well as personal, stars were on the rise.

Our studies progressed and we were on track for our graduations and had begun to make plans for an end of year study trip to Europe where we would take in the artist environments of Rome, Paris and London, with the view to continuing our studies there.

We had discussions with the building owner about our plans for after we came back from our study trip. What we hoped was that we could lease the store and set up a gallery where we could display and market not only our works, but the works of our fellow students. We had a tentative agreement drafted, all we needed was to come up with the money and sign on the dotted line. 

Then my world came to a sudden, jarring, devastating halt. 

I had an appointment with my manager to discuss a showing of my work at a small gallery downtown, so I left the apartment at around eleven. Cassie seemed to be in a more buoyant mood than normal and, as I kissed her good-bye she hugged me to her. "Don't be late this evening, you and I are going out, we have some celebrating to do."

"What are we celebrating?"

"You're going to have to wait for that. I'm going to enjoy thinking about you trying to work out what it is, but I'm not saying anything until you get home, now go, scat."

I returned to our apartment full of excitement and anticipation only to find it empty of all of Cassandra's things. All of her clothes were gone. All of her art and art paraphernalia was gone. Even her toothbrush was gone. It was as if she had never ever been in my life.

My entire life was gone.

I rang her parent's house. "What did you say your name was?" Her mother asked.

"Grantley Benson, I'm Cassandra's partner."

"I don't know you, Cassandra is not here so don't bother to call again, ever." She hung up.

I took a cab to her parent's house. I had been ringing the doorbell and banging on the door for some five minutes when a police patrol car arrived. "Please come with us sir, we don't want to have to resort to force to remove you." I went with them.

I placed an ad in the local newspaper. A journalist from the local TV station saw the ad and saw a story there so I was invited to appear on their local current affair show. "Mister Benson, let me get this straight, you left home recently to keep an appointment with your agent about an upcoming show and when you returned you claim that your partner Cassandra Fielding wasn't home as expected given that she had made arrangements for the both of you to have dinner that evening?"

"Yes, she told me that it would be a celebration."

"A celebration of what?"

"That she didn't tell me, just that it was good news."

"She left no note, nothing to indicate a reason for her not being there?"

"Nothing and that's the weird thing, the place had been cleaned out and there was nothing to show that she had ever been there, not even her tooth brush."

"We'll take a short break and when we return we'll talk to the parents of the missing girl to see if we can shed some light on this mystery." While the commercials were running Sabrina was led in and took a seat on the other side of the anchorperson.

"Welcome back, with us now is Sabrina Fielding, the mother of Cassandra Fielding who Grantley Benson has claimed to have been his partner and has disappeared. Now Mrs Fielding, do you know where you daughter Cassandra is at this moment?"

"Let me start by saying that this person has made life a living hell for myself and my husband, he has seen hanging around outside our house. . . ."


Out of the Mist



"That's a lie!"

"We have even had to call the police to have him removed, and he has been continually ringing our house wanting to speak to our daughter. . . ."

"That's another lie! I called once on the day that Cassandra disappeared."

"I explained to this person that my daughter did not know him and had no intention of speaking with him and that he should accept the fact that she was living in England with her fiancé." 

I have to admit that I did myself no favours with what happened next, I lost the plot and began raving about a conspiracy to keep us apart because they thought that I wasn't good enough for Cassandra. I think at one stage I might have pushed over a camera I was that angry and it got worse when I looked at Sabrina's smug expression. Security stepped in and I was escorted from the TV station. 

It took me several hours of hard work to fray the acetylene hose so that it looked like years of wear and tear. The tank regulator was turned on but the hand-piece tap was off. I could have just simply turned the hand-piece on but then that would look like a deliberate act and I decided that if I was going to end it all it had to look accidental. I smashed the globe of one of the lights in the studio being careful not to break the filament, and when the smell of acetylene was strong enough I flicked the light switch.

They told me later, much later, that I was lucky that I was standing near the large window that faced the alley. The blast blew the window out and it also blew me through the resultant gap and I landed several feet beyond the broken glass, sustaining only minor injuries.*

It wasn't until I was interviewed at the hospital, firstly by the police and then by a Psychiatrist, that it was decided that I had attempted suicide.

The police attempted to speak to Cassandra only to be told by her parents that she now lived in London. 

*Author's Note: This may seem farfetched, but I have personally witnessed a similar situation. A man had decided to end it all and had sealed the gaps in his kitchen and turned on the gas stove. While he was waiting for the gas to take effect he got impatient and decided to have a final smoke. The blast blew him through the window but the room did not catch alight. The explanation was that the force of the blast extinguished the source of the flame.

Chapter 3: The Mists of Time

My world became a slow moving, misty place where people emerged from the fog only to disappear back into the fog. Nothing was in focus.

My reality became one of "Here take these." followed by a denser fog, that, just as it was about to clear was recharged by more pills. In one of my more lucid moments I thought that I was being deliberately kept in this fog, and that I would never be allowed to emerge into a clear day, a clear world.

My humiliation was complete, I was wheeled to the bathroom and cleaned up by a nurse, I was showered by a nurse and shaved by a nurse. I was fed by a nurse, I was told to go to sleep by a nurse, I was told to wake up by a nurse. My life was no longer my own, my thoughts no longer existed, reality had abandoned me, my desire to live had abandoned me.

Once a month I was taken to see the Psychiatrist, Doctor Stanley Wilkinson, who asked me questions that I didn't understand and wrote my answers, that he didn't understand, in a pad and ordered more pills to keep me from something that I couldn't understand.

No-one came to see me, ever. I didn't know who I expected, but I thought that there must have been someone out there who must have missed me. Then again, maybe in my foggy world people did come and were just another out of focus face in an out of focus world.

My mist was peopled by strange impersonal things that put their faces close to mine and uttered some sort of guttural language that I didn't understand and occasionally poked and prodded me with bony fingers to see if I was real. There was a sameness about these beings, a cloudiness in their eyes and a slowness of movement that mirrored mine. Try as I could I couldn't get my limbs to move in any sort of cohesive manner. My movements were not being controlled by my brain, my brain had failed in its ability to tell my limbs what to do. I was aware that I could consciously send messages to my limbs but they rebelled, they completely ignored me, as far as they were concerned my brain ceased to exist. Even my mouth has rebelled against my brain. I knew what I told my mouth to tell my occasional questioner but the noise that came from my mouth was totally wrong, my brain told the truth but my mouth lied. I wanted to ask just how many pills I should be taking, but my mouth said something like 'Mowheddymillssoketicking?', and when I told them that I wanted to go home, it came out; 'Eyewaddagome.' How these utterances were translated I was never to know, I was just fed more pills and left in my bed until it was time for me to be wheeled to the bathroom to have my arse wiped.

There were times when we were taken into a large room and placed in a large chair and told to watch the television. I usually went to sleep only to be woken and led back to my room. I'm sure, now, that the nurses thought that they were doing the right thing, because no-one ever complained which was due to the soporific effect of the drugs and the boring programs that we were forced to endure.

One hour merged with the next, one day merged with the next, one week merged with the next, one month merged with the next until time became irrelevant, there was no way of keeping track, there were no clocks anywhere, no calendars, it was as if the staff were afraid that if we could keep track of time we would realise that we were being given either too many pills or not enough or the right pills at the wrong time or the wrong pills at the right time. It is hard to keep track of what we were given when we have no concept of time, my mind lived in a fog and my senses lived in a blur, I was numb to everything.

There was little for me to do other than stare blank eyed at the ceiling. If I could have remembered how to count I could have counted the holes in the ceiling panels, but then, they didn't stay in focus long enough. Once a sometime I had to sit in a chair while the nurses changed the sheets on my bed, once a sometime I could climb into a bed that smelled different.

There was a highlight of sorts after I had been in that place several years. Several inmates, including myself, were ushered into a small bus and driven to a place where there were strange furry creatures. Along the way to this place several of the passengers waved at people walking down the sidewalk who glanced quickly at the sign on the bus and ignored us. The trip ended in disaster. One of the inmates was petting an animal when it decided to get friendly and licked him. He jumped back, screaming at the top of his voice and it took all of the hospital staff and some of the other staff to usher him from the scene, leaving behind a group of scared and bewildered patients.

The nurses returned quickly and ushered us back to the bus where our fellow inmate sat, restrained in the back seat. I don't think we were ever taken there again.

I was told after I emerged from that world, that I had been there for over ten years and would have remained there but for a series of unconnected events that conspired to liberate me.

It began on the day that I was allowed to stroll, alone, outside my mist shrouded existence for the first time and into a bright world of blue skies, sunshine and warmth. The grass was green, the flowers brightly coloured and the sounds of birds invaded my previously muted world. But that wasn't what caught my attention. I was drawn to a statue on a plinth at the centre of the lawn, something about it brought back memories, memories of happiness, memories of pain. While the mixed emotions troubled me, I was experiencing something that had been denied me for years, many years, emotions.

I stood in front of that statue caressing its shape with hands that remembered a time past when I caressed similar shapes, the touch of the smooth metal brought back memories, but what those memories were I could not remember. 

Later that day I took a cake of soap from the bathroom and by kneading it with a little water I produced a plastic paste that I was able to mould into a close replica, albeit on a smaller scale, of the statue on the lawn. One of the nurses saw it and brought it to the attention of the head nurse who, in turn, showed it to my psychiatrist.

I was given a blood test and it was found that there was an extremely high concentration of antipsychotic drugs. This caused the review of my medications, who administered them and how often. I was immediately placed on a program to reduce my intake of these drugs.

A plan for my rehabilitation was formulated. I was encouraged to join an art group and, while the others were pasting badly cut-out pictures onto a large piece of cardboard to produce a chaotic image, I began making clay models.

At first my busts all had the same morose, introspective expression on their faces, a reflection of my feelings at the time. This, in turn became an expression of deep thoughtful contemplation, as if my people were trying to piece together important information that had been kept from them. That these expressions bore little resemblance to the real expressionless faces of my fellow inmate models caused some concern to my psychiatrist who interpreted it as me imposing my reality on that of the sitters, not, in his eyes, a good sign.

Early in this process, one bust in particular had caught his attention, it was of a woman, a beautiful woman, and the expression on her face was not the usual one that habituated my works, it was softer and different in some intangible way. The work was, like the others, sent away, never to be seen by me again. I had no idea what happened to them after I had finished them. 

Around that time a news item appeared in the American press but it attracted little attention outside the art world. Christies Auction House in London had sold a statue by 'the reclusive artist Grantley Benson' to the financier Christopher Cullen for an undisclosed, but substantial, sum. Two people in particular were interested in it, Huw Williams who, ten years before, had been my manager and Stephen Fielding. 

It was decided that I should be moved, in my best interests, into a half-way house for the perpetually bewildered, where I could, under close supervision, be given a free rein to explore my talents. As each clay figure was completed it was taken away to who knows where, it was as if I was never to dwell on the past. As soon as the present became the past it was whisked away, never to be seen again. I was being trained to think only of the future.

Each figure was a reflection of my rehabilitation. Each figure was an improvement on the previous one, both in technique and in its treatment of the subject. The faces were no longer distorted by doubt and introspection, there appeared, slowly and perceptively, a look that scanned the future with promise and faith.

My life became an ordered but disordered existence, I could sleep for as long as I liked without someone telling me that it was time to wake up and get out of bed, and there were days when I stayed in bed until mid-afternoon. After breakfast, whenever that was, I was taken to a studio and allowed to work, undisturbed, for as long as I wanted. There were times when I worked well into the night and this was not a problem for them, my meals were brought in at regular intervals, but I was never forced to stop work to eat. In fact nothing was ever said if, when the nurse returned, I hadn't touched the food.

I began to seek new subjects for my work, copying from newspaper and magazine photographs of people and, increasingly, animals. It was here that my talent began to really blossom. What I was effectively producing was a caricature of the animal that heightened its features. For instance, when I formed my sculpture of an eagle, I made the eyes slightly bigger and more piercing, the open beak seem more menacing and the talons bigger and sharper, this was the consummate killing machine and the power of its weaponry was brought into exaggerated reality.

I was no longer merely representing the image before me, but I was enhancing that image in a way that exposed its strengths and weaknesses, I was imposing myself on the world as I saw it, I was joining the world again.

"We are really pleased with your progress," Doctor Wilkinson told me one morning during his regular visit, "We are witnessing your personality emerging from the depths, we have reduced your medication and, because of that, have hopefully reached a balance that can allow you to live a relatively normal life again. We feel that it is time to release you, conditionally. We have found a small house for you in the country, you will have a full time Carer who will look after your needs and make sure that you can look after yourself. You will have a studio to work in and will be able to work, when you want, and for as long as you want. The only thing that you won't be able to do, for the time being, is to leave the property."

"Who is paying for all of this?"

"The money is coming from various sources, some from the government, some from monies that you already had in your bank account, but more importantly, most of it is coming from the sale of the work that you have been producing."

So it was that I found myself in a small timber cottage tucked in among a grove of trees a couple of hundred yards back from a rural road. How far it was from the nearest town or other house I didn't know and, for the time being I wasn't allowed to find out.

My carer, Susan Murphy, was a no-nonsense woman in her mid forties, grey hair pulled back into a severe bun, her care-lined face bisected by a pair of large hazel eyes. She was ample of breast and hip, not too tall, around five foot three, but walked with a fluid grace that was totally unexpected.

"Let me set things straight for you Mister Benson, there will be no hanky-panky of any sort while you are in my care. I am here to look after you as a mother would. Not a wife, so any thoughts along those lines you can forget right now."

"I have my own room, which is off-limits to the likes of yourself, but I can, and will, enter your room, at any time that I see fit in the carrying out of my duties as your Carer, if you have a problem with that let me hear it now." She waited for my response, but there was none.

"I will cook your meals for you and clear up after each meal, I will do your laundry for you, I will cut your hair for you, and I will ensure that your medication is taken as prescribed by your doctor, but I will not help you in your ablutions." Again there was no response from me.

"You have your playing with clay to do and I have my quilting, when I am quilting I will not be interrupted, do you understand?"

"Yes." 

Chapter 4: Another Time, Another Place.

"You can't make me do this!" Cassandra was angry, angrier than either of her parents had ever seen her.

"We can and we will. What do you expect us to do when you come here and tell us that you are pregnant, and to that, that art student of yours, fall on your neck and be happy?" Her father was equally angry.

"Who would you want me to fall pregnant to? Timothy Fairweather?"

"And why not? He is perfect for you, he comes from the right family, he has plenty of money in his own right and will inherit much more when his father passes on. He is good looking, he has good manners, and his polite to us."

"But he is so bloody boring! I just can't imagine life with stuffy old Tim, he's old before his time. I would be allowed no thoughts of my own, no personality of my own, no life of my own. He would tell me how to vote, how to dress, how to wear my hair and probably when to breath. I probably wouldn't even be allowed to continue with my Art studies."

"Just what did you intend to do about this child of yours?"

"I intend to marry Grantley and raise this child, and several others in a happy home, maybe not a rich home, but a happy home."

"And what do you plan to use for money, you won't be able to call on us to bail you out, you realise that."

"We have quite a bit saved from our work already, and I'm sure that we can survive on our earnings if we can find a place in the country that doesn't cost too much and we can grow our own food."

"We will not have our daughter living like some hillbilly in the backwoods!"

"You don't have a choice, that is what I, we, want."

"Does he know about this?"

"Not yet, we are going out to dinner tonight and I will tell him then."

"I don't think that is a good idea."

"I don't think that you have much say in the matter."

"What have we done to deserve this from you? Haven't we always given you everything you want?"

"No! Can't you see? You've met all of my material wants and then some, when I was a little girl I was sent to the very best prep school along with all of those other prissy little girls, then on to the best private school with a different group of prissy girls. Did you ever once ask if I enjoyed my life in those places? If you had you would have known that I hated it, I hated all of that and if it hadn't been for the time I spent pouring my heart out to Mary, I would have gone crazy. She showed me the stability one can achieve when one is loved. Grantley has given me love, unconditional love, not the air kissing love that I get from you. You haven't, when I needed it most, given me love." Cassie lowered her voice. "I felt more love with Grantley even though living with him in our apartment, sleeping with him on a mattress on the floor is so far removed from my life here, he loved me totally and I returned that loved, totally." 

"How can you say that! We love you, you know that."

"Have you shown me love this afternoon? No! All you are concerned with is your image, your status in this world. You couldn't care less about what happens to me as long as I do as you say. Where do my feelings come into this? They don't! And that's the cruel part of this whole episode."

"Why don't we sit down and have a cup of coffee and calm down." Sabrina rang a small bell and Mary came into the room. "Coffee for the three of us please Mary. No, wait a minute, I'll come and give you a hand."

Cassandra took a sip of her coffee, "Is this a new blend?"

"Yes, don't you like it?"

"It's alright, just a little on the bitter side, that's all." She picked up a cookie from the plate in front of her and dunked it into her coffee. This brought a frown to her mother's face, another bad habit that she had learnt from that ghastly friend of hers. That will have to be stopped.

"I don't feel well." Cassandra took a tissue from her bag and mopped her brow. "It can't be morning sickness already, can it."

"Why don't you lie down for a minute or two."

Several hours later a large Diplomatic package passed through London Gatwick on its way to the American Embassy. It was not inspected, it was loaded, unchecked, into a van that headed into London.

"Where am I?" Cassandra woke in a strange room, her head was spinning.

"You're awake are you?" The voice came from a woman in nurse' uniform seated beside the bed in which Cassandra lay. "I'll let them know." She got up and left the room. 

Cassandra tried to sit up and survey her surroundings but found herself restrained.

A large man in a white coat entered the room. "It's good to see that you are with us again, how do you feel?"

"Where am I, what is this place?"

"You are in England and this is a private Sanatorium, You apparently had some sort of psychotic episode on a plane crossing the Atlantic and you were brought here. It was lucky that your parents have friends in high places otherwise you might have ended up in a public psychiatric institution, and we couldn't have that, could we?"




Out of the Mist



"How did I get here? What is going on?"

"All in good time, now that you are out of immediate danger I think you can go home."

"Home? I don't live here, I live in New York."

"We know that my dear, but you came to London to further your studies and home for the next year is in Knightsbridge with friends of your parents. They are outside waiting to take you there now."

A middle aged couple entered the room, he was tall, handsome and well dressed, she was his female equivalent. They made a handsome couple and one that Cassandra could see socialising with her parents.

"Welcome to London Cassandra, I am Sir Timothy Cullen and this is my wife Juliette. You will be staying with us for the next twelve months while you study at the Royal Academy. We hope that you enjoy your stay with us. Now shall we be going?" He signalled to a wards man to pick up Cassandra's bag and another to position a wheel chair beside the bed.

"Here give me your hand Love." The wards man helped her into the chair and wheeled it down the corridor after the disappearing Cullens. 

They were whisked down to the basement car park and into a large black Daimler limousine.

The Cullens occupied two floors of an apartment building in Knightsbridge. The limousine entered the under croft car park via a rear lane. They were met by a maid and a porter who helped Cassandra into the wheelchair and into the lift.

The Cullens obviously had a lot of money if the furnishings of this apartment were any indication. It was furnished in Edwardian opulence and on the walls were a series of family portraits painted, obviously, by significant artists of their time.

Cassandra was taken to what was to be her room. It was dominated by a large bed and matching wardrobe and dressing table, there was a comfortable chair in the corner by a window that overlooked the back lane. Cassandra noticed the bars on the window, it felt like she was to spend the next twelve months in prison.

"Why don't you have a rest for a couple of hours, dinner will be served at seven."

Try as she might Cassandra was unable to sleep, her mind was continually trying to remember the past couple of days, but nothing emerged, it was as if she had lost this time, as if a whole section of her life had been effectively erased, and she wanted it back.

By six thirty she had given up on the rest thing and walked down to the kitchen. "Did you have a good rest?" Juliette asked between cutting and dicing.

"Not really, it seems as if I've had enough rest over the last couple of days to last a week. Can I do anything to help."

"All under control, why don't you go into the living room, there might be something on television."

"Hullo there. You must be Cassandra, I've heard so much about you." A young man stood and advanced toward her, he didn't have his hand out to shake, instead he took her in a hug and bestowed a couple of air kisses on her. "I'm Christopher, the son of the family, I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise I'm sure." Cassandra looked at Christopher and decided that there was something not quite right about him. She couldn't put her finger on it, he was well dressed in a pin-striped business suit complete with what appeared to be a school tie, his shoes were brightly polished, his hands manicured, his hair impeccably cut and styled. She couldn't fault his appearance at all.

"Would you like a drink?" He asked, moving to the bar. "You name it, we have it."

"Can I have a scotch and dry, no ice."

"Your wish is my command. Do you want to turn on the idiot box and see if there is anything worth watching?"

Cassandra obliged and flicked through the limited channels before settling on a news service. The news reader was a far cry from those she had become accustomed to back in the States, he was stiffly formal and read the good news and the bad with the same lack of expression, probably in fear of being accused of placing his slant on the story.

"I hear that you are staying here for the next twelve months. What are your plans?"

"It appears as if I'm studying at the Royal Academy of Art, I'm a sculptor. What do you do?"

"As little as possible. No that isn't true, I work for an investment bank on their foreign currency desk, basically what that means is that I buy and sell money."

"Do you like that?"

"Yes and no. The money is great but then it is a highly stressed job and the burn-out rate is quite high."

Juliette came into the room. "Dinner is served, we won't wait for Tim, he has been held up at work, he is meeting me at the Opera. Do you like Opera my Dear?"

"Not really, I probably would if I understood Italian."

"We are going to hear Pavarotti in 'Figaro', we hear he is fabulous."

Dinner was pleasant enough, the food was good, the conversation stimulating, the only thing that spoilt it for Cassandra was this nagging feeling in the back of her mind that something wasn't right.

Juliette left shortly before seven forty-five. She was wearing an expensive evening dress, a diamond necklace and matching drop ear-rings, a matching bag and she had a pair of opera glasses in her hand. The very epitome of an opera aficionado.

"We have got ourselves in a mess, haven't we?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't tell me you don't know?"

"I know nothing, I can remember nothing."

"Well Darling, you were shipped over here with enough readies to pay for your visit to a certain clinic where a small growth will be removed, and then you are to enter into a marriage with, Moi."

"What? What are you talking about? Small growth removed, marriage?"

"You have been a very naughty girl and you have found yourself in the family way, preggers Dearie, and you are to have an abortion. Then you and I are to be married so that you can't rush back to the States and marry the father of your unborn child against the wishes of your parents."

"How could they, how could you?"

"Don't look at me Dearie, it isn't my idea. Any marriage between us will be strictly a marriage of convenience, a keeping up of appearances."

"You don't mean?"

"You guessed it in one, clever you. Yes, I bat for the other team, but Mother and Father are none too pleased at that so, when your parents contacted them about your problem and their solution to it, they jumped at the idea. So here we are."

"So, what you are trying to tell me is that my parents had me kidnapped and flown over here to get rid of the unwanted grand-child and to find a suitable husband so that I won't be able to marry..." His name was on the tip of her tongue for several minutes. "Grantley.....Oh Grantley, what have they done to you, what have they done to us? You've got to help me, please."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I have to get back to America and Grantley, can you help?"

"Do you have your passport with you, because if you don't how are you going to get back into the States?"

"I don't know, I guess if I went to the embassy they would issue a temporary passport."

'"Think again my dear, if your olds have enough clout to get you into this country they'll certainly have enough to prevent you from ever getting back into yours. Face it, you're here for the duration."

"In that case here are my conditions. I want to have this baby, there is no way that I'll go ahead and have an abortion. How can we get around that small problem?"

"Let me think now, yeah, this might work, tell me if you don't want to do it and I'll try to think of something else. What say we go ahead with the marriage and then tell our respectives that, because of medical complications you were unable to go through with the abortion and that I will be quite happy to raise the resultant child as my own. You will be able to continue studying for as long as you can before settling down to life in a small cottage in the countryside."

"You would do that for someone who you have only just met, and will never be able to love?"

"Of course I will. I'll also love you, as a sister, never anything else. You will be doing me a huge favour as well. The parents will be off my back about my sexual predilections and we will become a thoroughly respectable couple."

"I'm not sure if it will work. I don't know if I'll be able to fit into your world."

"Look, many of my friends are artists so you will have that in common and believe me you will have half a dozen surrogate mothers who will absolutely adore this child. I know I will."

"You have to understand that I'm very much in love with Grantley and if you ever get any ideas of the sexual variety you can forget them. I will never be able to love you in that way. Apart from that, you make it sound so perfect. Let's do it. But I have to try and get word to Grantley and let him know that I'm safe and well, and he doesn't even know about this baby, I should at least tell him about it, maybe he can come over here."

Ten days after this conversation a letter was returned to Cassandra in London marked 'No longer at this address'. 

 Chapter 5: Another Beginning.

It was a quiet wedding, or at least part of it was a quiet wedding, immediate family only, Registry Office, small notice in the Times, that sort of thing. But it didn't end that way. Christopher's friends all wanted to be bridesmaids and there was hell to pay until Cassandra made an arbitrary decision that there would be no attendants at the wedding ceremony itself, or the small family reception that followed it, but at the private friends only celebration afterwards they could all be bridesmaids.

The Pink Pearl Club that was their regular haunt was booked out for the occasion and it was an absolute hoot, everyone said so. The bridesmaids all wore very elegant evening dresses that made Cassandra envious because they carried it off so well. Admittedly their makeup was a little overdone but not out of place, sort of a cross between Royal Ascot and theatrical, but applied beautifully. Cassandra overheard a few bitchy comments such as, 'would you look at her, red is so not her colour' or 'haven't the hormones improved her boobs', but there was never anything that was likely to cause trouble.

The champagne flowed freely, Cassandra sat on one glass all evening, she may have been tempted to have a second, but the 'girls' kept a close eye on her, there was no way the baby's health was going to be jeopardised if they had any say in it. They danced, they drank and during the evening a band of transvestite musicians came in and played for them. 

It was the early hours of the morning before a taxi dropped Christopher and Cassandra off outside their apartment.

Later that day they left for their honeymoon in Paris. Cassandra had broken the news about her lack of success with the planned abortion. The news was not well received but the 'respectives' were somewhat mollified by the news that Christopher was prepared to accept and raise the child as his own.

Christopher couldn't have been a more perfect expectant father, he fussed over Cassandra, bought absolute heaps of baby clothes, dolls and baby furniture. He attended the pre-natal classes with her and became a dab hand at nappy changes and bathing. Cassandra was planning to breast feed for as long as possible so that was one area where he was not able to help, although he did suggest that, if she were to express some milk during the day he would get up for the night feeds so that she could get a good night's sleep.

Felicity arrived on time and without drama. Cassandra was in labour just long enough for the 'girls' to assemble and descend en masse on the maternity hospital where they caused a great deal of confusion. The staff were barely able to control the onslaught of strangely dressed men all claiming to be the aunt of the new arrival, but they took it all in great spirit, deciding that this sort of thing would only happen once in their lifetime.

Taking Felicity home from the hospital should have been a joyous occasion but the joy was overshadowed by an undercurrent of animosity. Cassandra's parents came over from New York hoping to repair the lost relationship with their daughter but, try as they might, lavish as many gifts as they could, plead as often as they did, Cassandra was in no mood to forgive them for the interference in her life, the sadness that interference brought into her life, and the hurt that it brought down on Grantley, and she was not backward in letting them know it. "What makes you think that you can merely waltz over here loaded to the gunwales with largesse and expect me to forgive you for what you have done to me, what you have done to Grantley, wherever he is and I don't even know if he is all right or even alive, and what you wanted me to do to Felicity. As far as I am concerned, you have forfeited the right to be my parents and Felicity's grand-parents."

"But we were only doing what we thought was in your best interests." Sabrina spoke softly and placed her hand on Cassandra's arm, a conciliatory move she thought would bring her daughter around.

"You didn't really know me and you had absolutely no idea what was in my best interest! All that you were concerned about was your own reputations, how it would look to your circle of friends if they found out that your daughter had actually shown enough interest in another person to fall in love and want to have a child, more than one child, by that person who had the misfortune to have been born with a plastic spoon in his mouth." This was the first in several conversations that formed a circular argument with no concession and no resolution.

She tried, on several occasions, to extract information from them as to what had happened to Grantley, only to be told, in no uncertain terms, that she should forget all about him and concentrate on making a perfect life for Felicity, and to being a good wife for Christopher, who they praised at every opportunity. The relationship remained strained, it became even more so when her father announced that he would set up a trust fund in Felicity's name as well as endow Cassandra with an annual income that would encourage her to forget about her artistic ambitions. Cassandra refused the offer. "You don't get it do you? You have broken the law! You kidnapped me and shipped me against my will over here where you had arranged for me to break the law in seeking to terminate my pregnancy and if I could prove any of this do you think that I wouldn't got to the police? You gave no thought whatever to what was in my best interests. You gave no thought to what I wanted for my life, my future. You gave no thought to what Grantley wanted for our future. All that you were interested in was protecting your precious image and now you expect me to forgive you. Well I've got news for you, there is as much likelihood of me forgiving you as there is me flying to the moon. I no longer want you in my life!"

"Cassie." Stephen motioned for her to follow him into the next room. "Cassie, believe me I knew nothing of this until it was too late but I couldn't do anything about it, your mother had made her mind up that it was best for you and you know what your mother's like, once she makes her mind up nothing will change it. I want to help you, I truly do, but my hands are tied."

As they left his family's home Christopher felt that he needed to calm Cassandra down, she was seething with anger. "How would you like a spin in the country?"

"Anything to take my mind off my parents I'm angry with my mother for what she has done and angry with my father because he's too weak to do anything about it. I feel so down at the moment, I tried to feed Felicity just before we left but I was so tense that nothing happened. She was able to feed beautifully in hospital but, suck as she might she got nothing and all that I got out of it was sore nipples."

They drove for some time before turning off the motorway and driving into a small village that consisted of a pub, a general store cum Post Office and a dozen or so small cottages. "Wow, this is amazing!" Cassandra exclaimed. "I thought places like this existed only in picture postcards."

Christopher stopped his car outside one of the cottages. "Come, let's have a look."

"Won't there be people in there?"

"Not at the moment.' He took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

Cassandra walked in and looked around the room. "Are you sure that the owners won't mind us being here?"

"Not in the least. Welcome to your new home."

"What! When did you buy this?"

"A couple of weeks ago. I felt that we needed somewhere peaceful for Felicity to grow up, and for you to get back into your sculpting. Follow me." He led the way through the kitchen into the back garden. At the far end was a large wooden shed and, taking another key from his pocket he opened the door and ushered her inside. It was set up as an artist's studio.

"I don't know what to say, this is amazing." Cassandra, for the first time planted a spontaneous kiss on Christopher's lips.

A week and several trips later they had fully moved into their new home and Christopher had explored the wonders of the rail system and discovered that it took him less time to commute into the city than it did to drive from their home in the city, and he didn't have the worry of parking his car and fighting his way through peak hour traffic.

Life should have been perfect, but it wasn't. Somewhere in the back of her mind Grantley hovered, she couldn't find out what had happened to him. A letter from his agent, Huw told her in no uncertain terms that any attempt to contact him would be contra-indicated, and that no mail from her would be forwarded, ever.

The three of them settled into country life. Christopher was able to commute to the city by train that took him to within a hundred yards of his office and delivered him home again in time for a relaxing drink before dinner. 

Cassandra walked into the general store with Felicity in her pram. "What a beautiful baby." Mrs Sturridge the shop keeper clucked, "We haven't seen you here before, you're new then." She walked from behind the counter and knelt in front of the pram to get a closer look at Felicity, "A little girl is it?"

"Yes, her name is Felicity and I'm Cassandra Cullen, we just moved into the old Thompson place a week ago. It has taken a little while to get everything sorted, so I guess that you could say that our new life starts as of today. I need some groceries."

"Cassandra, that's a beautiful name and it suits you. There has been a rumour that a handsome couple with a wee infant have just moved into the area, I'm Mary Sturridge, I'm very pleased to meet you. We were wondering when you would come in, we've seen your husband heading for the train each morning, something in the City is he?"

"Yes he's a Financier. He getting used to the commute into the city each day, he says it takes less time to get to the office than it did when we lived in the city."

"You're an American aren't you."

'The accent gave me away didn't it, and here I was hoping to blend in around here. Yes I was raised in New York and I must tell you this place is somewhat different and will take some getting used to."

"A word to the wise, don't be a stranger around here or you'll always be a stranger. There is plenty to get involved in around here, there's a garden club that will help you get the garden back in order at your place, there's a cooking group that will introduce you to the pleasures of the local cuisine, there's even an art group if you can call it that, I think a lot of what they produce is rubbish but they keep telling me that I'm no expert."

"An art group, that's interesting."

"You're interested in art then, are you a painter?"

"No, I studied art in the States, mainly sculpting. I might just take it up again, this art group, do they sculpt?"

"They claim that they do but I wouldn't give tuppence for the rubbish they make."




Out of the Mist



"I might just join, who do I talk to?"

"That would be Dorothy Jenkins, her card is in the window. I could mention that you are interested to her and get her to drop by, she'll be dropping by in about an hour."

"Would you? I would be interested in talking to her. Now, the groceries, I need some eggs, milk, bacon, potatoes, pumpkin,"

"Why don't you give me your list and I'll get the stuff together and I'll get my Henry to deliver it to you, I think you've got too much here to be lugging it home, what with the baby and all."

The first visitor to their cottage was Henry Sturridge with the groceries. "Good afternoon Mrs Cullen, Mary asked me to drop around with your groceries. Next time you're in the shop you can fix up the bill. It's a nice cottage this one, old Bert Thompson lived here all his life, he was born in the main bedroom and when his parents died he moved back in with his new wife and all three of their children were born in this cottage. It was a pity that none of them wanted to live here, but then I suppose this place has little attraction for young people of today."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, we find it suits us just fine. It's within an easy commute to the city and the relaxed atmosphere here is just perfect for raising Felicity."

"I best be getting on then, It's been a pleasure meeting you. You'll have to bring your husband down to meet us, maybe Saturday morning?"

Later on that afternoon there was a hearty knock on the door. Cassandra opened the door to be confronted by a hearty middle aged woman, her ruddy face bisected by two rows of massive teeth. "Hullo there! I'm Dorothy Jenkins, and Mary tells me that you may be interested in joining our little art group." This exudation ran a close second to her out-thrust hand. Cassandra found her hand pumped enthusiastically for several seconds before it was released.

"Well yes, I am interested. It has been some time since I last did any art work so I might be a little rusty. What sort of art do you concentrate on in this group?"

"A bit of everything, we dabble in oils and water-colour, pen, ink and charcoal drawing, we have our own supply of charcoal one of the chaps makes it for us, we also do some pottery and clay sculpture, ceramics, china painting, you name it and we'll have a jolly good crack at it." This statement was delivered at a breathtaking pace and it took some time for it all to sink in.

"When do you meet?"

"We have a get together tomorrow morning at nine, would that be suitable for you?"

"Yes, I'll see you then. Will I need to bring anything with me?"

"A smock if you have one and a plate of something for morning tea. Tomorrow is charcoal sketching so all the necessary materials are on hand."

"Great! I'll see you in the morning then."

"Jolly good show! I'll see you then. By the way we meet in the church hall on the main street, you can't miss it and there will be a sign out although why we bother with that I don't know, everyone knows where it is and when we meet."

Cassandra rummaged through all of her clothing but was unable to find a suitable smock, so she borrowed an old shirt of Christopher's.

"How was your day?" She asked as he walked through the door.

"Much the same as always, although I did have lunch with Nigel and he told me that Jeremy and Julian were no longer an item and that Jeremy was seen with Jonathon at a cocktail party last Saturday. Julian is quite distraught about the whole thing so the rest of the girls are organising a weekend trip to Gay Paree."

"Do you want to go too?"

"No, I want to get stuck into the garden on the weekend."

"Don't make too many plans we have a sort of invite to go down to the general store, Henry Sturridge wants to meet you. I think he might have an ulterior motive. By the way, I'm checking out the local art group in the morning and I need to borrow one of your old shirts to wear as a smock, will that be okay?"

"Sure it will. You don't waste any time getting to know the locals do you?"

"All I did was to go to the store for some groceries. There all so friendly here." 

The next morning saw Cassandra hauling the pram up the front steps of the church hall. The hall contained around ten people, mostly women, seated in a semi-circle around a dais. Around this group bustled HMS Jenkins, handing out paper and charcoal sticks to the group. She caught sight of Cassandra as she pushed Felicity through the door. "I say everybody, everybody, a little shush please. I'd like you to meet our newest member, Cassandra Cullen, she's just moved into the old Thompson place and is interested in our little group. So I would like all of you to give her a hearty welcome!"

As one the group stood and applauded Cassandra, milling around her, the men shaking her hand and the women giving her a welcoming peck on the cheek before squatting in front of the pram and clucking maternally over Felicity.

"You can sit here, next to me." Dorothy said as she handed Cassandra her paper and charcoal, "We are just waiting for the model to get here." 

The back door opened and a young man in a dressing gown walked in and took his position on the chair at the centre of the dais. He dropped the dressing gown as he sat down. "Where do you want me?"

"Anywhere you like, you hunky young thing." One of the group gushed bringing laughter from the group. 

"Now, now Jenny, just because you fancy him there is no need to be so forward." Dorothy remonstrated.

Silence settled on the group, a silence that was punctuated by low exclamations of frustration as a line didn't go where it was supposed to. Cassandra worked swiftly, her mind going back to art school and sketches for busts. After about half an hour she sat back and looked closely at her work, 'I've lost none of my touch' she thought.

"Oh I say that is jolly good! Have a look at this everyone. we have a true artist in our midst."

"Why did you only do the head?" Jenny asked, "After all the body is the best part."

"I'm just used to doing heads, I find bodies can be a little distracting."

"That kind of distraction I'm happy to have." 

"Jenny, if you keep that sort of talk up I will have to exclude you from life classes involving male models."

"Spoil sport. But it will be no great imposition, I have him all to myself when he is not here posing for you."

Cassandra's sketch was correct in every detail and the shading was as she envisaged the finished bronze bust. She felt self-conscious at the fuss being made over what was after all just a preliminary sketch.

She began to draw again, this time a profile sketch, her stick of charcoal skimming with ease over the page until profile was complete. "I would like to work this up in clay and maybe if we have the facility hereabouts, have it cast in bronze."

"Gosh, I don't know, we've never had anyone who did bronzes, I'm sure that we can find someone who can do the casting for you. Leave it with me, I'll ask around and get back to you on that." 

"You caused quite a stir with Dorothy, she didn't know what was happening." Mary Sturridge gushed as Cassandra and Christopher entered the store. "She's been top dog in the art scene around here for as many years as we care to remember and has everyone firmly convinced that she is so brilliant, then you arrive and in one morning not only is she doubting her talent but so is everyone else in the group."

"I certainly didn't mean to do that, I suppose that once I had that stick of charcoal in my hand I got carried away. Do you think I should apologise to her?"

"Don't you dare! It's about time she was put in her place."

"Now Christopher, I don't suppose that you play cricket, do you?" Henry Sturridge asked.

"I did at Cambridge, don't worry, I wasn't in the first eleven or anything like that."

"I had to ask you because we are getting a little short on numbers, and any new person in town gets asked the same question. I don't mean to rush you but, are you free in about an hour?"

"Are you that desperate? I suppose I could help out if you're short of numbers. I don't have any pads or anything like that, not even a bat."

"Don't worry about that, as long as you have a whitish shirt and trousers we can supply the rest. I'll see you on the green at eleven then."

"Now you're going to have to explain this cricket game to me, all I know of is baseball and football."

"I suppose by football you mean that gridiron game that you play in the States. Football around here is soccer, we have another football game called rugby, but to the purists football is soccer."

Christopher and Cassandra were introduced around before the teams assembled for the game. "We have two teams of eleven players, the batting team and the bowling team. The team that wins the toss elects whether it wants to bat first or field first." Christopher was attempting to teach her a game that, to the uninitiated, defies logic. "The batting team sends the batsmen out two at a time and when one of them gets out he is replaced by another until ten batsmen are out, or the team declares the innings closed. The method of dismissals are, bowled, that's where the batsman misses the ball and it strikes the stumps behind him, caught, that is where he hits the ball and a member of the fielding team catches it, stumped, where he misses the ball but it misses the stumps and goes through to the keeper, if the batsman is out of his ground the wicket keeper can remove the bails and the batsman is out, LBW or leg before wicket, that is where the batsman misses the ball and it strikes him on his pads, if the referee deems that it would have, had it not hit the pads, carried through and hit the wicket, the batsman is out, hit wicket, where the batsman hits the stumps with either his bat or foot and dislodges the bails, and finally run out which is where either batsmen is out of his ground and the ball is returned either to the strikers end or the non-strikers end and the bails are removed." 

When the game started, the local team was batting, Cassandra needed more clarification. "In baseball the pitcher stands on a mound and throws the ball, here the pitcher runs and when he reaches the sticks at his end he then throws it."

"He doesn't throw it, he bowls it. If you watch him his bowling arm must be straight, if it is bent he's ruled to have chucked it and that bowl is declared a 'no ball' and has to be bowled again, the batting team is awarded a run as well."

"But if he's running when he bowls the ball it must travel really fast, what if the batsman gets hit?"

"The idea is not to get hit because it can hurt, especially if the bowler delivers that ball as fast as some of the West Indian and Australian bowlers at around a hundred miles an hour. But not all bowlers bowl fast, we also have spin bowlers who put spin on the ball so that it deviates both through the air and off the pitch."

Just then there was a cheer from the players on the field as the dreaded death rattle announced to the hapless batsman that the ball had missed his bat but not the stumps. "You're up next Christopher, you'd better pad up." Henry said.

Christopher picked up a set of pads and a box, that piece of equipment so vital to protect that part of the anatomy so important to reproduction. He stuffed it down the front of his trousers and adjusted it until it was relatively comfortable, then he sat with his new team-mates and waited for his turn at the crease.

Meanwhile Cassandra was something of an instant celebrity she was quickly included in the women's circle who sat around and watched the game, nibbling on sandwiches, drinking tea and talking about anything and everything, which included the happenings in the local art scene. "Dorothy's nose is out of joint because of you. She has queened it over us for so long, if any of us showed any talent she was put down, but you arrive showing genuine talent and she found herself clearly out of her depth, not knowing what to do. I think she may have to visit a sick relative for an indefinite time and we will be left to our own devices. The last time she did that it was three weeks before she decided that we weren't coping without her and returned."

A cheer from the fielding team announced Christopher's turn at bat. As he passed the outgoing batsman he was told to watch the in-swinger, but other than that he was a stock bowler. Christopher took guard and prepared to face the first ball in a few years. The bowler was quick but Christopher managed to lay bat on ball and it flew to the boundary. A four off his first ball had him wondering how the bowler would react. He expected a short ball and swaying towards the off-side he helped it on its way to the fine-leg boundary. The batsman at the other end walked down the pitch. "He'll probably bowl his in-swinger next, watch out for it."

It turned out to be good advice, it was an in-swinging yorker that was just a little too short pitched and Christopher was able to hit in on the up and clear the fieldsman at Long On, a third four in a row. It was the end of that over and Christopher was at the non-strikers end for several balls before a single put him in strike. He didn't hit a four and a groan came from the spectators who had almost come to expect a boundary from every ball faced. 

After an hour at the crease Christopher had compiled a creditable half century before he mistimed a pull shot and was caught behind Square Leg. The spectators gave him a round of applause as he walked from the field. Henry shook his hand as they passed each other, "Well done Lad, good show." 

Cassandra didn't really understand the finer points of the game but was aware, from the conversation around her that Christopher had performed well in his first game, the suggestion being that there would be no opposition to him becoming a regular member of the team. At the end of the innings lunch was taken. This consisted of food brought down from the hotel washed down with beer from a keg, also from the hotel. Little consideration seem to be given to the sobriety or otherwise of the players, although Cassandra did notice that the home team was holding back somewhat on the beer.

The home team bowlers made steady rather than spectacular inroads in the opposition top order batsmen and three wickets had fallen when Christopher was called in as first change bowler. He bowled at a fast medium pace with his main focus on maintaining line and length thus limiting the scoring opportunities for the batsmen. His stock ball was a fullish length outside the line of off stump that kicked up and swung sharply towards the rib-cage of the batsmen. By his fourth over he had two batsmen caught behind attempting to fend off these balls. 

The home team made short work of the tail and the opposition was dismissed still twenty runs short of the winning total. There were congratulations all round and Christopher received quite a few of these. The gear was packed up and the players all adjourned to the pub where a rowdy celebration was soon in full swing. Christopher seemed perfectly at home in this crowd of locals. 

Cassandra sat quietly in the corner with some of the other women but her thoughts were not with them. She was remembering her student days, not so long ago, of Grantley and their friends and how they all seemed so comfortable in each other's company. "You must be proud of your husband." One of the other women asked.

"Sorry, I was thinking about something else. Yes I am, I didn't know he had it in him, he showed no interest in sport when we lived in London."

"He seems to be enjoying himself over there, so I guess we'll be seeing more of you this summer."

"I guess so, I enjoyed myself today, I can't say I understand this game, but the company was good, it seemed as if we'd been accepted as 'locals' already."

"You have, and let me warn you, my husband is already sounding him out for the rugby team so it would seem that your Saturdays will be fully booked from here on in. If you think cricket rules are hard to follow, wait till you see a rugby game, I've been watching them for years and I still can't work out if there are any rules, although they do have a referee who blows a whistle and tries to control the mayhem."

They became involved in community activities and Cassandra returned to her sculpting, entering works in local art shows and, not surprisingly, winning many first prizes.

When Felicity began school Cassandra volunteered to teach art to the students. Her offer was accepted and she soon became busy, five days a week, teaching classes in painting and clay modelling, as well as ceramics and china painting.

This activity should have been enough to keep her thoughts from wandering back to Grantley and wondering what had become of him, but it wasn't. She couldn't practice her art without the memory of the time with him intruding into her work and her bronzes became a reflection of her changing mood. Christopher had mentioned to an acquaintance that his wife was a sculptor, and that acquaintance just happened to be a close friend of the owner of a trendy boutique gallery in the city, so an exhibition of her works was planned.

Cassandra spent a week assembling works for display and then travelling into the city to assist in mounting the exhibits for the showing. Anyone who was anyone was invited and attended to enthusiastically 'ooh' and 'aah' over the bronzes on display, and by the end of the first week red stickers signifying that the work had been sold appeared on all of them.

The Times art critic was less than enthusiastic about the work. Although he could not fault the work technically, he was less than complimentary about the, as he put it, 'depressing expressions on the faces of the subjects', and he commented that they would only be suitable for the waiting rooms of psychiatric clinics.

Christopher tried to cheer her up, telling her that the critic was supremely jealous of any artist that could demonstrate anything greater than a rudimentary level of talent, but even he was despairing of lifting her spirits.

Felicity, meanwhile, was blossoming into an artistic talent in her own right, enough so that she was enrolled into Art School as soon as she was old enough. Her time at school was well spent in producing works of considerable merit, but the finer points of the craft were still being learnt from her mother. This tuition time was the happiest for Cassandra, she could see that Felicity was developing into an artist of equal or better talent than herself, and she vowed that nothing should stand in the way of that talent being developed to its full potential. The mistakes her parents made with her would never be repeated.

"We thought we had found him." Gabriel Priestly, Christopher's solicitor said, "We found out that he had been in a psychiatric facility for many years and has only recently been released. It was purely by accident that we were able to locate him. There was something of a scandal involved, it appears as if one of the nurses had been coerced in some way into administering a much stronger dose of his anti-psychotic medication than was deemed necessary, or safe. This had the effect of keeping him in a vegetative state for some ten years. The nurse was charged with administering the drug but before he stood trial he was spirited away and the police have been unable to trace him. There were rumours about who was responsible but there was never enough evidence to charge anyone."

"It was pure coincidence that this was discovered and he has his art ability to thank for that, if he hadn't been allowed out into the grounds and he hadn't seen a bronze bust of the founder of the facility in those grounds and made a soap replica of it, this whole episode probably never would have been discovered.."

"Where he has been taken after that we have been unable to find out, but it seems as if he has made some sort of recovery. He has started working again, although he is working in bronze and not his chosen medium. A piece of his work has shown up in a catalogue of works that are to be auctioned at Christies shortly. I think that you should take a look at it." He took a catalogue from his desk drawer, the appropriate page marked.




Out of the Mist



Christopher stared open mouthed at a bust of Cassandra. There was no mistaking the model, but there was something different, something that he had never seen, in her expression, it was pure, unadulterated love. He had never seen a bust that was able to project such an emotion so clearly and unambiguously. This was a work of genius. Christopher made a decision there and then that he just had to have that bust.

The auction room was abuzz with anticipation, there were many important works on offer this evening and there were many important people present. Christopher waited patiently while several other lots were paraded and bid for, and then the lot he wanted was placed on a plinth at the front of the rooms. "Lot number fifty-seven is a bronze bust by the reclusive American artist Grantley Benson. Little is known of this artist and this is the first of his works that we have listed. I have a telephone bid of ten thousand dollars, do I have eleven?"

Christopher tapped the side of his head with his finger. The auctioneer looked at the person taking the telephone bids, she nodded. "Twelve thousand is bid." At the other end of the line at Christie's New York auction rooms the prospective buyer sat with the person making the bids on his behalf. A monitor was focussed on the auctioneer. Again the finger. Again the glance to the telephone. "Fourteen thousand." Finger, look, finger, look, finger, look "Twenty thousand is the bid". There seemed to be no hesitation from either Christopher or the telephone bidder. Finger, imperceptible pause, nod, immediate finger, nod, immediate finger, the camera panned around the room and stopped on Christopher. The New York buyer spoke for the first time. "Let him have it." All eyes were now on the phone person in London. A shake of head, it was Christopher's "Any further bids? Going once, going twice, for the third and final time. Sold to number," Christopher held up the card in his hand, "Three eight five. Congratulations Sir."

The bust was taken to Gabriel Priestley's office where it was placed in a small wooden box and stored in a secure cupboard.

"You will never guess who was bidding against you at the auction. It was Stephen Fielding, Cassandra's father. I think we should approach him and see what he knows."

"Let's do it." Christopher was anxious for closure. He could sense that the only way Cassandra would ever be happy again was for her to find Grantley and seek reconciliation with him, even if it meant losing her.

The catalyst for change was as unexpected as it was devastating.

 Chapter 6 The beginning of the Emergence.

"What on earth is that strange thing?" Susan looked at the animal that I was forming in clay.

"I've gotten attracted to some of the strange animals in Australia, for instance, did you know that the only two monotremes in the world are to be found there?"

"No I didn't know that. I don't even know what a mono-whatever is."

"A monotreme is an egg laying mammal, an animal that lays eggs instead of giving birth to live young. They are this one, the platypus, and the echidna or spiny ant-eater." I pointed to the work. "What I'm trying to do with this is to create a water feature where this platypus will be almost submerged by water running over these stones to give the impression of it swimming. To achieve this I'm going to have to ask for a welding torch, do you think that you can do that for me?"

"I'll ask, but I won't guarantee anything." Susan and I had been living in this platonic relationship for almost five years now, and it was the most settled time for me. I didn't have to worry about anything other than my work, I didn't even have to go out and buy the clay that I used, there just always seemed to be a supply on hand. 

But something was missing in my life, something that I was never able to put my finger on. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had a vague recollection of a different life, a different world, but try as I might, I could not penetrate the mists that had shrouded my past. This feeling was manifesting itself in my work. I sensed rather than knew that I had either done this sort of thing in the mists or I had watched someone else doing it. I could take a lump of clay and almost as if by magic I could push and pull, squeeze and stretch it until I produced something that, no matter how many times I looked at it, I knew that I couldn't improve on it. Working in this way was almost a second nature to me, but there was still something missing. Although it was second nature it was not my medium of choice. Every so often a clearing of the mists reveal a twisted and distorted medium that had a grace and flow to it. What it was I didn't know, all I could recall was that it was mine.

There was another bothersome aspect to my existence, and that was what happened to the sculptures that I did. When they were completed Susan would make a phone call, using her cell-phone, there was no land-line into this house, and a courier van would arrive and the work would be whisked off to who knows where. That was the last that I saw of it.

I once thought of using Susan's cell phone to contact the outside world, but as soon as I got my hands on it I was faced with several problems. Firstly; I found that I couldn't use it, she had a lock code on it that I couldn't get past, and even if I could, who would I contact, I knew no-one, I had no phone numbers that I could call, I was trapped in this prison, these prisons. I was trapped in the prison of my mind, there was no escaping from it and it was just as effective as if I was shackled to my bed. Then there was the physical prison, I didn't know where I was, I didn't know where it was, the only people that I ever saw were Susan, the driver of the courier van, and that was never the same driver more than once, and my psychiatrist who came on an irregular basis in response to a call from Susan when she thought that there was something that was either causing concern or had the propensity for concern.

It was on that basis that I received a visit from Doctor Wilkinson. "Why do you need a welding torch?"

"This work that I'm working on, if it is to be cast in bronze and my other works will have been, won't they?" I didn't pause long enough for a response, "If it is to be cast in bronze then it will have to be cast in three sections that will need to be welded together, along with the plumbing, to form the whole. It will not work unless it is done in that way."

"Yes, we have had your other works cast in bronze, but there is another way for this to be completed."

"And that is?"

"We can cast it and get someone to weld it together and then we can bring it back to you to finish. How would that be to you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, you do not."

"I guess that's it then. I just wish that you could be honest with me and explain just why it is that I can't have a welding torch. I have this feeling that clay is not my medium of choice, even bronze is not my medium of choice. I look at a piece of metal and I can see so much potential in it, but I can't do anything about it. It is so bloody frustrating that I just want to give up on this whole exercise, to just sit around and do nothing, think nothing, be nothing. You are using my art as a rehabilitation from I don't know what, but for that rehabilitation to succeed I am going to, at some time, face up to what it is that I'm being saved from."

"All in good time, we don't want to rush this process for fear that, if we do, you will have a relapse that you may never recover from. You are just going to have to trust us."

And so it was for another three years. I moulded clay, it was whisked away, I ate, I slept, I listened to music on a CD player, there was no radio, there was no television, there were no newspapers, there was no contact with the outside world. This place was my world and there was no escape, at least not in the physical sense, but very slowly I was remembering snatches of my past. I knew now that sheet metal was my medium of choice and I had vague recollections of some of the shapes that I had created and I began to sketch them.

I also had vague recollections of another person and that person's work. The more that I thought about it the more that I was convinced that the other person was a woman and that we were very close, in a very different way to my closeness with Susan. The more that I tried to remember that person the more that my mind put up barriers, it was as if that person was responsible for my problems and my mind was protecting me from further hurt.

I said as much to my occasional psychiatrist who had made an unscheduled call because Susan had detected a change in my attitude that had disturbed her.

"Your mind is doing strange things at the moment. You are remembering some great times you had in the past, but those times came to an abrupt end and that was the trigger for the cathartic experience that has led to your being here. Your mind has adopted a screening process, it is not allowing you to remember the bad times, only the good. In its own good time it will allow you to remember the hurt that triggered this, and that will be when it knows that you are strong enough. Just give it time, relax and that time will come quickly, try to push it and the time will be slow coming and, worse still, it will seem much, much slower."

"That's easy for you to say, you don't have to live with the frustration of knowing that, while the work that you are producing is good, there is something even better there, something that was your life, and I don't mean the other person in my life, I have had glimpses of her in the past and I even created an image of my memory of her, but I didn't at the time have any knowledge who this person was. Now I know, I feel, that what I am doing, what I am producing is not really me." I took some of my sketches out of a folder on the workbench. "Have a look at this, this isn't something that I can produce in clay or bronze, this is a totally different medium, and that medium is me."

"I totally agree that you should be working in sheet metal, and yes, you are making progress, and yes it is almost time when we can allow you to move to the next phase, but take my word for it, there is a good and valid reason why we cannot allow you to move on just yet. You are going to have to trust me on this."

"I suppose I will just have to trust you, you have been right so far."

Back to playing with clay, back to seeing my finished model disappear into some void somewhere, never to return. Actually they did return now, the castings came back and I finished them myself to my satisfaction, grinding and sanding them to a smooth finish and then patinating them so that the features stood out. They were works of art, but not my art.

It was during this that I produced another image of the face that was my recurring dream and as I finished I lavished more attention to it than I had to any of my previous works and in the days before it was removed forever I sat for hours caressing it, touching it, tears welling up in my eyes and falling onto the bronze.

Mary mentioned it to my Doctor who made the decision that it was nearing time when I would be allowed to return to sheet metal sculpting. 

Chapter 7: The Search Begins

July 7th 2005, a date that will be forever etched in the minds of Cassandra and Felicity Cullen. Christopher had set out, as usual, by train for the office. Some time after he left Felicity burst into Cassandra's workshop. "Mummy! I've just heard on the radio that there have been several explosions on the underground. I think we should try to contact Daddy's work to see if he arrived safely."

Cassandra tried the office number only to get the company recorded message telling her that the office was unattended and that she should call during office hours. The office should have been open for at least half an hour.

She switched on the television to be greeted by scenes of utter chaos. Scrolling across the lower edge of the screen was a message advising families of people who may have been on any trains at the time of the explosions to contact a hot-line number and leave as many details as possible to enable authorities to trace that person. She called the number and left a detailed description of Christopher and what he was wearing.

Then began the long and agonising wait for a response. "I'm sure that he's okay." Felicity was trying hard to be re-assuring. "I imagine that the rail system is in total chaos and he's probably walking in from some outlying station. It could take him forever to reach the office.

"Then why doesn't he use his mobile phone and call us?"

"I think I saw something on the screen telling us that mobile phone traffic is being restricted to emergency service use. Would you like me to make us a cup of tea?"

"A cup of something a little stronger than tea might be in order I think."

The day was spent watching the television and waiting for the telephone to ring. Cassandra couldn't work, she was in two minds, on one hand she didn't want Christopher to be one of the victims of this wholesale slaughter, while on the other hand it would release her from her promise to him. It wasn't as if the intervening years had been any great hardship for her, she enjoyed his company and appreciated that, not only did he honour his promise to her, he remained true to her, not actively pursuing any love interest outside the family. He was a good provider for her and Felicity, he took an active interest in not only what they did, what their interests were, but in the local community. He was universally loved by all in that close knit community.

When it eventually came, it wasn't the sound of the telephone that broke the tension but that of the front door bell. "Mrs Cullen?"

The local Sergeant of police stood on the porch, his cap was in his hand, the look of bad news written all over his face, if it had been good news the contact would have been by phone.

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid it isn't good news, I'm sorry to inform you that a body believed to be Christopher's has just been pulled from the wreckage. We need you to formally identify the body, you being the next of kin. If you like I will drive you into London in my car, that way we can get in and out quickly. It's still chaotic in town,"

"Very well, can Felicity come too?"

"Certainly, if you feel that is the right thing."

"It's up to her but I'm sure that she will want to."

The trip into the hospital morgue was quick, the siren and flashing lights helped, and having pushed their way through the crowds milling outside the mortuary, Cassandra and Felicity were soon walking down the corridor to the examination room. Sergeant Morris showed his warrant card and ushered them into a room where several bodies were laid out on tables, sheets covering them. The attendant checked several toe tags before he pulled the sheet far enough down to reveal Christopher's head. He looked so peaceful, laying there, it was almost as if he had died peacefully in his sleep. Cassandra had the feeling that the attendant had not pulled the cloth further down the body because of the damage.

"Yes that is my husband." He was covered and Sergeant Morris led them from the hospital.

"Do you mind, I would like to break the news to Christopher's parents. Could you drop us in Knightsbridge?"

"Certainly. Look Mrs Cullen, if there is anything that I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, you have been most kind, I'm sure that we'll be alright."

Cassandra rang the door bell of her In-laws' apartment. It was a resolutely stoic Sir Timothy who answered it personally. "I presume that you are not the bearer of good tidings."

"I'm sorry, no. We've just come from the morgue. Christopher was one of the victims."

"Come here child." He held out his arms to Cassandra. "I know that this is hard for you, given the circumstances of your lives together I can understand it if you are angry at this turn of events, but we will help you in any way possible to get over this. We know it couldn't have been easy living the sham that was your marriage and we are thankful that you were willing to give it a try."

"What does he mean?" Felicity asked. "What is going on here?"

"Sssh. Leave this to me." Cassandra turned to her Father-in-Law. "My life with Christopher has been a good one, he was the perfect husband and father to us and any problems that could have arisen because of his sexual preferences didn't intrude on our lives. We were a happy family and for that I am extremely grateful. When we have the funeral service I would insist that we concentrate on our full and rich lives together and not make any big deal of the fact that he was homo-sexual. We will have the funeral in our village church and, if you have a family plot where you would like the body to be laid to rest that is fine by me. But the service, I think, should be held where we lived and where he had become such a strong community member."

"Very well, we will respect your wishes because we believe that they would also be his wishes. What about his other friends?"

"I am going to organise a memorial service for them where they can grieve in their own way, without the fear of public dis-approval, in much the same way as they celebrated our wedding."

"Are you staying in town tonight, or would you like us to drive you home?" Juliette asked.

"I wouldn't want to put you to any inconvenience, we can find our own way home."

"I won't hear of it, we'll drive you because, from what I hear, the transport system is still in chaos."

"What are your plans for the future?" Sir Timothy asked as the Daimler, having cleared the congestion of the city, loped along the motorway.

"I haven't really thought about it, yet. My life has been here for the last fifteen or so years and it will be hard to drag myself, us, away from that, but, my family is in the States and I think we should at least dip our toes in that water to see what it is like."

"We will support whatever your decision is, you should know that we love the two of you very much, and wouldn't want to lose you. Remember, if it doesn't work out in the States you are very welcome to come back here to us."

"Thank you for that. I know that we didn't get off to a very auspicious start but I have grown to love you too, and appreciate the way that you have taken me into your family."

There was a deputation of village people waiting for Cassandra's return, each of them armed with food of some description and a word of genuine sympathy. Before long the small cottage was bursting at the seams with people coming and going, all offering sympathy and support. That they included Sir Timothy and Juliette as their equal was a little disconcerting until the genuine way that Cassandra and Felicity were included and accepted demonstrated that class distinctions were non-existent in this part of the world.

"I know what you are going to ask." Cassandra and Felicity were alone at last. "Yes Christopher was gay, and no, he is not your biological father, that honour goes to a man called Grantley Benson. We were students together in New York and we were planning to marry when we finished our studies. My parents didn't like him, he didn't have the right breeding for them, so when they found out that I was pregnant with you they arranged for me to be brought over here, against my will, and for me to have an abortion, find a suitable husband and forget about him."

"Things didn't go as they had planned, firstly there was no way that I was going to abort Grantley's child, and I'm glad I didn't, and while, in Christopher, I found a 'suitable husband', I didn't ever forget Grantley. Christopher and I were husband and wife in the legal sense but we were never husband and wife in the Biblical sense in that we never had a sexual relationship. I love him as a companion, but he was never able to replace Grantley in my heart, and he knew that and accepted it."