Proud Harvest

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Proud Harvest

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘BUT he is Carne’s son, Lesley,’ Mrs Matthews exclaimed in the same tone of frustrated affection she often used to her grandson. ‘Surely that means something to you.’

Lesley finished her coffee before replying, regarding her mother over the rim of the coffee cup with hazel eyes presently darkened to brown with impatience. The long curling lashes did nothing to disguise the indignation burning in their depths, and Mrs Matthews shifted rather uncomfortably under their penetrating gaze.

‘What are you trying to say, Mother?’ Lesley enquired at last, setting down the fragile cup in its equally fragile saucer. ‘Has the idea of babysitting begun to pall?’

‘To pall, no!’ Mrs Matthews was offended now, wrapping the folds of her satin wrapper about her, putting a nervous hand up to touch the immaculately combed set of her hair. ‘It’s just that—well, as I say, he is Carne’s son, and I see no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to spend at least part of the holiday with his father—–’

‘You see no reason!’ Lesley’s eyes sparkled angrily now. ‘And what about me? Don’t I have any say in the matter?’

‘Oh, of course you do.’ Mrs Matthews made a sound of exasperation with her tongue against her teeth. ‘It was just a suggestion, that’s all. I might have expected you would react emotionally instead of rationally. Lesley, people can be practical about these things, you know. Why, if everyone behaved as you do, the world would be in a very sorry state!’

‘And isn’t it?’

Mrs Matthews rose from the breakfast table with a sigh, and went to get herself one of the small cigars she favoured from the carved onyx box on the mantelpiece. Lighting it with the heavy silver lighter that squatted beside the cigar box, she drew on it deeply before turning to face her daughter again.

‘I don’t intend to get involved in reactionary discussion with you, Lesley,’ she stated at last, holding her head stiffly. ‘As I say, I thought you might see reason—–’

‘Reason!’ Lesley bestowed another irritated glare in her mother’s direction and then rose abruptly from the table. She was late. It was after nine already and she still had to get across town. She’d never make it, but with luck Lance wouldn’t be in before ten as it was Monday morning, and there was nothing spoiling.

Brushing the crumbs from the skirt of her brown suede suit, she turned to face Mrs Matthews. ‘Don’t you know those things are bad for your health?’ she exclaimed acidly, but her mother merely pulled a face.

‘Why should I worry about my health?’ she retorted. ‘No one else does.’

Lesley, on her way to the door, halted uncertainly. ‘Now what is that supposed to mean?’ Her brows drew together in sudden concern. ‘You’re not—ill, are you?’

Mrs Matthews sniffed. ‘Would you care if I was?’

‘Oh, Mother!’ Lesley glanced helplessly at her watch. ‘I don’t have time for discussion right now.’ Talking about Jeremy had already taken up far too much time. ‘Can’t we leave this until later?’

‘That’s what I mean,’ declared her mother peevishly. ‘You never have time for anything—or anybody. Why, even your own son is a nuisance—–’

‘Mother!’ Lesley’s angry interjection cut her off in full spate. She reached for her handbag with hands which she found to her annoyance were trembling, and slung the strap over her shoulder. Then she looked at her mother again. ‘I’ll see you around five-thirty, right?’

Her voice was cool and although Mrs Matthews inclined her head in silent assent, she did not reply. Lesley hesitated only a moment longer and then wrenched open the door and left the room, closing it with a decided click behind her.

The lifts were all engaged, and she fretted impatiently until one chose to stop at the fourth floor. Downstairs, she barely answered the hall porter’s greeting as he pulled open the door for her, and his eyes watched her doubtfully as she hastened down the shallow steps to the pavement. It wasn’t like Mrs Radley to rush past him like that, and he hoped nothing had happened to that young son of hers. She had looked upset, and his brows drew together in a sympathetic frown. Always cheerful, that was Mrs Radley, always interested to hear about his wife and his family, never too busy to listen, not like some he could mention. That mother of hers, for example. Thought she was a cut above everybody else, she did. Well, what if her husband had been a brigadier? He was long dead now, and she was just plain Mrs Matthews. Her daughter, she was a different kettle of fish altogether. And that son of hers—regular little tearaway, he was. Pity her marriage hadn’t worked out, but that was the way of it these days. Girls weren’t content to stay at home and look after their families. They wanted a career, too. Equality. He grinned wryly. When were men going to be made equal? that’s what he wanted to know.

Meanwhile, Lesley was reversing her Mini out of the underground parking area that adjoined the block of flats, totally unaware of having aroused such strong feelings. Her own feelings occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and in consequence she almost ran into the back of a grey Jaguar parked opposite. Jamming on her brakes, she took several calming breaths before making a second attempt to turn, and her delay was heralded by several irate horns from other commuters baulked by her incompetence.

‘All right, all right,’ she groaned frustratedly to herself, as a cream Cortina nudged closer, and most ungentlemanly signs were made to her to move on. ‘What a start to the week!’ she muttered, and glancing in the rear-view mirror bestowed a smile of annoying tolerance on the driver of the vehicle behind.

But as she cleared the garage and joined the press of motorists streaming towards the underpass, her brief moment of stimulation passed and she found herself worrying over the things her mother had said. Perhaps she had been hasty. Perhaps she did expect too much of her mother. But without her assistance, what could she do? She couldn’t afford a full-time nanny, even for holidays. The school fees alone were disastrous, and without Carne’s contribution, Jeremy would have to have gone to a day school, which would have caused more problems. Of course, that was what Carne would have preferred, but she refused to admit that his feelings had played any part in her determination to send her son to boarding school.

Anyway, Jeremy was there now, and had been for almost a year. He hadn’t seemed to take any harm from it. He was certainly a self-possessed little boy, but weren’t all children nowadays? In any case, there had been no alternative, so that particular aspect of the matter was not worth considering. Holidays were something else again.

Lesley chewed unhappily at her lower lip. What would she do if her mother refused to look after Jeremy? Who could she turn to? They had no other relatives, not on their side of the family anyway. And she could hardly ask one of Carne’s sisters to have him while refusing his own father the opportunity. She sighed. She would not let him go to Carne, though. She couldn’t! Ploughing through cow-pats all day long, mucking out stables, rolling about in the hay! His clothes would be ruined in no time, and she had no money to buy him new ones. No—somehow she had to make her mother see that proposition for what it was. Besides—a small expletive escaped her as a taxi swerved across her path and turned his thumb up at her—it was extremely doubtful that Carne would even consider it after not seeing his son for almost three years.

The Mini swept down the underpass and joined the jam at the other side. But it was gradually moving and she dropped down into bottom gear and allowed the wheels to maintain a steady roll forward. In spite of her preoccupation with her own problems, she became aware of someone watching her. Turning her head, she encountered the admiring stare of a young man in an exotic sports car cruising beside her in the next lane. Having attracted her attention, he kissed his fingers to his lips in an extravagant gesture, and she guessed he wasn’t English. But it was good to know that in spite of her harassed feelings she could still attract the admiration of a handsome man, and her fingers went automatically to touch the honey-gold strands of hair that lay over her shoulder. Straight hair it was, but expertly cut to accentuate the oval shape of her face and tilt gently beneath the curve of her jawline. Her lips parted in a faint smile, and then there was a sickening crunch right ahead of her and she realised she had run into the back of the car in front. At the same moment the second stream of traffic surged ahead and her handsome admirer left her to face the purpling countenance of the middle-aged owner with the dented fender.

‘Women drivers!’ he grumbled, as she got out to face him. ‘Well? I’m not paying for this.’

Lesley assured him that it was all her fault and he was somewhat mollified. She gave him her address, and the address of her insurance company, and then examined the damage to her own car. One of her headlights was broken, and her own fender dented, and as the man drove away she reflected that as usual she had come off worst. In addition to which her insurance premium was bound to be increased next time, and she got back behind the wheel wondering whether it wouldn’t be simpler just to use a cab. But one could never get a cab at this hour of the morning, and besides, when Jeremy was on holiday she liked it for getting about …

Jeremy.

Depression swamped her once again. Whoever would have thought that one small boy could cause so much heartache? But she loved him desperately, and she was determined to keep him. Somehow she would make arrangements for the holidays, even if it meant bringing him to the office with her. That wouldn’t go down too well, of course, and it would be hard on Jeremy having to keep quiet for hours on end. But she was confident that Lance would not sack her out of hand, she was too valuable to him, and if it was a matter of one or the other, she was sure he would not object. Eight weeks was not so long, and three of those she would be on holiday herself. She found her fingers crossing on the steering wheel. It might never come to that. Her mother would not refuse to have him. Just because at Easter he had broken her Chinese vase … and poured salt into the sugar bowl … and played Red Indians with her ostrich feathers … and smuggled that disgusting little mongrel into the flat and hidden him under his bed …

Lesley hunched her shoulders. Perhaps he was too high-spirited for a woman of sixty to handle. Particularly a woman who had already worn herself out looking after her own child, or so she said. Lesley sighed. Had she been such a trial? She had quite fond memories of her youth. Of course, her father had been alive in those days and he and she seemed so much alike. Perhaps it was the later years, after her father was dead, when she had been at university. Her mother had hated all the sit-ins and demonstrations she had joined. Mrs Matthews’ politics were so arbitrarily conservative and she had been appalled by the left-wing young Socialists Lesley had brought to the house. She had not realised that it was all a phase. That an active mind demanded activity, of whatever persuasion. But in one respect her anxieties had been realised. Lesley had remained staunchly independent in her attitude towards men and Mrs Matthews had been convinced she would never get married. It would have been better if she hadn’t, Lesley thought now, not without some bitterness. Then Jeremy would never have been born, never have become the problem he was today. And yet … She drew the Mini to a jerky halt at the barrier marking the precincts of W.L.T.V. and forced a smile for the security officer as he raised the barrier for her. If she was honest with herself she would admit that she did not entirely regret those years with Carne. They had been an experience she was not likely to forget. And should she ever be tempted to do so, Jeremy—her darling Jeremy—was there to remind her.

She had still not got over the thrill of seeing her name on her parking lot. Mrs Lesley Radley, it read, right alongside Lance Petrie, Controller of Programmes. Her official designation was Personal Private Secretary, but she was more than that. She was his right hand, his assistant, the person everyone came to who wanted an audience with the big man. She was fortunate, she knew that. If she hadn’t worked at W.L.T.V. years ago she would never have stood a chance of getting where she was today after only two years. But Lance remembered her, and forgave her for walking out on him.

As she crossed the concrete apron of the car park to the swing glass doors of the executive building, she remembered how aggressive she had been when she first came here eight years ago—twenty years of age, straight out of university with a degree in both arts and languages, confident that she could change the face of civilisation. Lance had been the producer of a current affairs programme in those days, and she had applied for a job as his assistant. When he had asked her what she knew about news and broadcasting she had arrogantly maintained that she had what was lacking in television today—a fresh eye, an unbiased view, an original approach. He had been amused by her ignorance, she realised now, flattered by her determination to work for him, and willing to give youth a chance to prove itself. Within six months, he had changed her whole outlook on life, showing her the cracks in both the socialist and capitalist systems, making her aware that government in any form was ultimately a victim of its own prejudices. She had learned with him and from him, until that fateful day they drove north to Yorkshire to interview a young farmer with radical views on Britain’s entry into the European Common Market …

The wide, chequerboard tiling of the hall reflected the watery rays of a sun just struggling to clear the clouds that lingered after last night’s rainstorm. Lesley smiled at the receptionist, asked Albert, the commissionaire, how his arthritis was faring in this damp weather, and took the lift up to the penthouse floor.

Lance had done just as well as she, she thought now, entering the panelled outer office where she had her desk. From current affairs producer to Controller of Programmes in seven years was not bad going. Still he deserved it, she decided generously, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the stand. He was well informed and well liked, and no one else at W.L.T.V. would have taken her back after abandoning her career like any lovesick schoolgirl.

Her boss was not in, as she had hoped, and she had sorted through the pile of mail on her desk and laid aside those requiring his personal attention before he put in an appearance. Lance Petrie was a big man, both W.L.T.V.-wise and physically. Easily six feet in height, he rarely took any exercise, and in consequence years of liquid lunches and business dinners had put on several inches of girth. He had bristling ginger eyebrows and a voice that could strike fear into the strongest constitution, but Lesley had long learned that his bark was worse than his bite. He never did anyone a bad turn, unless they had done him one first, and his friends at W.L.T.V. numbered larger than his enemies, which was quite something for a man in his position.

Now he ambled into Lesley’s office with deceptive deliberation, and after answering her proffered ‘Good morning’ he looked over his shoulder at the letters she was studying.

‘Anything interesting?’ he enquired, and she cast a swift look up at him before replying: ‘Only this invitation to speak at the Guild Luncheon. They must have enjoyed your speech last year to ask you to make a repeat performance.’

‘Hmm.’ Lance sounded doubtful. He leant over and flicked the invitation aside. ‘Car going okay?’

His change of subject was so abrupt that the sound Lesley was about to make became strangled in her throat. When she could speak, she said faintly: ‘My car?’

‘Whose else?’ He straightened. ‘Well? Is it?’

Lesley sighed. ‘By that I gather you know it’s not,’ she exclaimed, and the heavy brow furrowed.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It was an innocent question. I just wondered why you were late this morning as well as Friday.’

‘Oh!’ Lesley’s cheeks went pink. ‘You were in earlier.’

‘I was here at nine-thirty, yes,’ Lance agreed, thrusting his big hands into the pockets of his jacket and consequently pulling it all out of shape. ‘So what’s happened with the Mini? Don’t I pay you enough to keep it in working order?’

Lesley moved her shoulders apologetically. ‘I had a bump,’ she confessed. ‘I ran into the back of one of those foreign cars. I don’t know what it was, but I bent the fender.’

‘And that’s why you were late?’

Lesley hesitated. ‘Well—no.’ She looked up at him honestly. ‘It’s Jeremy, actually.’

‘Jeremy?’ Lance looked concerned. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’

‘Oh, no. No.’ Lesley made a rueful sound. ‘If only it were that easy! No, he’s due home for the holidays in ten days’ time, and—my mother has decided it’s too much for her to have him around the flat all day.’

‘I see,’ Lance nodded. Like Lesley, he too had been married, but perhaps fortunately his wife had been unable to have children and when they split up, no one had been hurt but themselves. ‘I guess he is a bit of a handful for a woman of her age.’

Lesley fiddled with the papers on her desk. ‘Yes.’

‘And there’s no one else who could care for him while you’re working?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘What about his father—–’

‘Oh, please …’ Lesley felt she couldn’t go through all that again. ‘Carne doesn’t want him. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to ask him. Not after all this time.’

‘Why not? Jeremy’s his son, too.’

‘I know, but—well, Jeremy would be unhappy.’

‘Why should he be? With animals to care for and all those acres to run free across! My God, it’s any boy’s dream, Lesley. He’d soon adapt, you’d see.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean—no?’ Lance stared at her consideringly for several unnerving seconds, then he uttered an astonished laugh. ‘Dammit, you’re scared!’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t want to ask Radley because you’re afraid the boy will enjoy himself.’

‘Oh, don’t talk such nonsense!’ exclaimed Lesley, forgetting for the moment to whom she was speaking. Then: ‘I’m sorry, but—please, Lance, this is my affair. Let me handle it my way.’

Lance gave a disgruntled snort. ‘You’re getting possessive, do you know that?’ he told her provokingly. ‘If you’re not careful, you’ll turn into one of those jealous old women who cling to their sons like leeches, and try to pretend they don’t need a husband!’

Lesley gasped. ‘What a rotten thing to suggest!’

‘But apt, wouldn’t you say?’ he countered, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels and toes.

‘I’m twenty-eight, Lance. Not exactly in my dotage yet, you know.’

‘And Jeremy’s seven—I know. But in thirty years’ time, you mark my words …’

Nodding annoyingly to himself, he went into his office and closed the door, and Lesley applied herself with unnecessary aggression to her typing. But her fingers kept hitting the wrong keys, and she was glad when Elizabeth came round with the tea-trolley and she could give herself a break before continuing.

There was a production meeting at eleven, and as Lance’s secretary she was expected to take notes, so that filled the rest of the morning in. Then, in the afternoon, Lance gave her some dictation, and finished by apologising for criticising her that morning.

‘It’s all right,’ insisted Lesley stiffly, but Lance was determined to make amends.

‘It’s not all right,’ he argued. ‘I don’t have any children, so how the hell can I pass judgment on anyone who has. Look, if it’s any help, you could bring him into the office a couple of days every week. So long as he sat quietly while you were working—he could bring books and crayoning pencils, couldn’t he? I guess you’re not working all the time, and maybe it would be possible for you to take an extra day off here and there …’

‘Oh, Lance!’ His unexpected understanding was disarming. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything,’ he advised gruffly. ‘I’ll probably regret it bitterly. Now, will you get Manders on the phone? I want to know why The Mike Harris Show has dropped out of the top ten ratings.’

For once there were no last-minute problems to attend to and when Lance came into her office at four o’clock it was to tell her that she could go and see about getting her car fixed, if she liked.

‘Go to Henleys and mention my name,’ he said. ‘Tell them you need it urgently. And I’m not joking. I expect you to be at your desk on time in the morning, car or no car.’

‘Yes, Mr Petrie.’ Lesley hid her smile, but for all that, she knew he meant it. Punctuality was one thing he demanded.