Rita Blackthorn’s heart was barren and hard. In all of her life she had never truly loved. But she had hated. She hated now, so deeply she could almost taste it. Beneath the loving gaze of her daughter’s soft green eyes, her heart swelled with dark and dangerous emotions. ‘Don’t stare at me, child!’ she snarled through gritted teeth. ‘Get up from the floor, damn you.’
Curled up like a kitten, Cathy was a slim homely creature, with a nature as warm as her mother’s was cold. She was barely sixteen years old. Since the day she was old enough to realise her mother hated her, she had yearned for one kind word, one affectionate glance. ‘I love you, Mother,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t turn me away.’ The softly spoken words were uttered from the heart.
Rita made on move. She gave no answer. But Cathy’s simle plea burned like fire in her brain. The emotions that swept her then should have been those of joy and belonging. Instead, her loathing clenched like a fist in her breast.
The girl’s voice trembled as she dared to ask, ‘Have I made you angry, Mother?’
Cold and aloof, the woman gave no answer.
Again the child entreated, ‘Why don’t you love me?’ Beside her mother’s chair, Cathy ached to touch those long slim fingers, to curl fingers about them and to press them against her face. In the whole of her life, she had never expreienced any loving response from her mother. Now, it had taken all of her courage to get out of her chair and bring herself this close. Her timid gaze swept the woman’s face. As always, it was cold, forbiding. Her mother was so near, so tantalisingly near, yet Cahty dared not reach out.
Rita Blackthorn appeared not to have heard. Her handsome face was set like stone. Painfully aware that Cathy had come to kneel at her feet, she was almost overwhelmed by the desire to kill.
For a moment it seemed as though she might reply. But then she began rocking the chair in a frenzy, her long busy fingers moving skilfully over the embroidery in her lap. It was not a labour of love. The needle wove in and our with vicious rhythmic movements. For a while, the only sounds that could be heard were the muffled sigh of the rockers against the carpet, and the loud ticking of the mantelpiece clock.
Keeping her fingers clear of the rockers, Cathy studied her mother’s beautiful face. Even now, she should not see the ungliness beneath.
Certainly, at forty years of age Rita Blackthorn was a vibrant, handsome woman. Having borne only one child, she had a firm, attractive figure and, with her flowing dark hair, magnificent green eyes and arrogant nature, she could have had any man she wanted. But she wanted none, not even her long suffering husband, who cherished the ground she walked on. One quiet look, one soft word from her, and he was lost.