The Prodigal Son by Kate Sedley Read Free Book Online Page A

Three children are hard enough work for any woman.’
    â€˜A good job it isn’t four, then,’ I said without thinking.
    The moment I’d spoken, I could have bitten out my tongue. How, I asked myself, could I have been so crass, so cruel? It was only a little over four months since our baby daughter had died within a few days of her birth, leaving Adela totally devastated. One glance at her face told me that my mindless remark had done more than reopen a wound still raw and bleeding; it had confirmed her in the belief that, far from sharing her grief, I had been relieved to be spared the extra responsibility of another dependent. Moreover, I had a daughter, Elizabeth. Adela wanted one who was truly her own.
    â€˜Sweetheart!’ I gasped, trying to take her back into my arms. ‘Forgive me! I wasn’t thinking.’
    â€˜No,’ she answered in a flat voice that chilled me to the bone. She didn’t repulse my embrace, but endured it in a way that was more indicative of her lacerated feelings than any storm of abuse would have been.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ I kissed her passionately on her unresisting mouth.
    She raised one hand and stroked my cheek. ‘I know you didn’t. It doesn’t matter.’ But of course we both knew that it did. She gently pushed me away. ‘I must prepare the evening meal. Richard’s coming to supper.’
    â€˜So he told me.’ And then, because I knew I was in the wrong, and because I hated myself for having hurt her, I added unkindly, ‘I’m sure he’d be only too pleased to advance you any money you might need while I’m gone. And, incidentally, I’d rather you didn’t say anything to him about my going to Croxcombe Manor. If he doesn’t see me for a week or two, he’ll just think I’ve gone on my travels.’
    â€˜I’m not in the habit of discussing our affairs with Sergeant Manifold,’ my wife replied coldly, turning away to ladle water from the water-barrel into a pan, which she set to boil on the fire. ‘And I certainly shouldn’t dream of borrowing money from him. If necessary, I’d go to Margaret.’ She watched me pull on my boots again. ‘Where are you going now?’
    â€˜To the bridewell to tell Master Wedmore … to tell my brother,’ I corrected myself self-consciously, ‘not to worry if he doesn’t hear from me for a while.’
    Adela reached up and took a bunch of dried sage from its nail on the wall before turning to regard me curiously, insult and injury both forgotten in that open-handed, generous way of hers.
    â€˜You like having a half-brother,’ she said. ‘I can tell.’
    I grinned sheepishly. ‘I’m getting used to the idea,’ I admitted. ‘If it turned out now that he was lying, and his likeness to my father was nothing more than coincidence, I think I’d feel …’
    â€˜Bereft?’ Adela suggested.
    I nodded.
    I set out early the following morning, one of the first to pass through the Redcliffe Gate, taking with me my pack, my cudgel (my trusty ‘Plymouth cloak’) and my dog.
    The latter was full of energy, which was more than I was, Adela and I having made up our differences overnight in the time-honoured manner, not once, but twice; with the result that although I was a happy man, I was also a tired one. My children had waved me goodbye with their usual indifference, Adam punching me in the belly – admittedly the only part of my anatomy he was able to reach – as a parting reminder that he was growing up and not to be trifled with. (As if I’d dare!) Elizabeth and Nicholas were too used to my departures to regard them as anything other than a normal part of life and therefore wasted no time on unnecessary hugs and kisses. They just reminded me, by the simple expedient of patting my scrip, that they would expect a