The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  He was still hurting from arriving in London only to be confronted by the headlines screaming out from every tabloid and broad sheet and then, to cap it all, he’d spent the last two hours cooped up beside a couple of fervent royalists salivating over every word. Looking at her he could still hear their voices throbbing around his head.

  “He’s a bit older than her, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe she likes them experienced.”

  “Mmm maybe she won’t even be able to wear white.”

  “Maybe she had to get married?”

  “I wonder how much he paid for the ring. He doesn’t look the type to buy a fifty quid fake from down the market.” Their pupils dilated as they devoured the photos with all the finesse of hungry wolves gulping their prey.

  His eyes flickered to her stomach in alarm as he remembered all too well what had haunted him ever since that morning. He’d always been so careful, but careful hadn’t crossed his mind that night; any ideas of careful had been suppressed by other more important feelings, at least more important at the time. To allow lust and passion overtake everything was such a stupid elementary mistake; a mistake he hoped to God they weren’t going to have to pay for. An unwanted child. His thoughts stuttered to a halt for, in truth no child of theirs would ever be unwanted; inconvenient maybe, but not unwanted.

  Other thoughts crowded in then only to be ruthlessly quashed. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about her fears over having a child; he couldn’t. He had enough problems without adding illness, her illness to their current difficulties.

  His eyes moved to her hand, her left hand, his heart clenching. She’d said she’d never remove his ring. He frowned at the empty finger, his mind picturing Rupert’s statement diamond as he tried to figure it out. Perhaps he’d got it wrong, and they wore their ring on the right hand, his eyes shifting to catch the glimmer of red just visible under her clenched fist. It was the first thing in the last five minutes that allowed him to hope just a little, but it would take a lot more than a glimpse of gold to rectify the situation.

  “You’re not wearing your diamond.” He’d have to be a very brave man to ask her whether she was going to make him a dad. He was brave, very brave, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “No, it was too big.” She didn’t see his look of disbelief, her eyes focussed on tucking her right hand out of sight.

  “I don’t believe you.” The words escaping before he could stop them.

  “I don’t care what you believe.” Her hand now wearily on her brow, brushing her hair back from her face.

  “Now that I can believe!” He went to her then and, grabbing her wrists smoothed his fingers up over his ring before moving them towards her shoulders, her neck, her chin finally to turn her face to meet his.

  “Why are we arguing, ma chérie?” he murmured softly, kissing her brow, her eyelids, her cheek, his words brushing against her lips. “Why are we arguing when all I want to do is this?” he added, caressing the blush pink skin, his hands cradling her in the gentlest embrace.

  “But I don’t want you to. I’m going to marry Rupert,” pushing him away, her eyes huge in a face as pale as moonlight on a starlit night.

  “But you can’t, my darling,” trying and failing to take her back into his arms.

  “Why can’t I?” Her eyes flashing. “Because the great Pascal de Sauvarin says so?” breath gasping out in spurts. “I’m going to marry Rupert as soon as it can be arranged and live happily ever after.”

  “And what about us?” His hands dropping to his side, his face suddenly as pale as hers.

  “Us, there is no us. There never was any us. I just…” Her eyes flickered briefly. “Rupert is so experienced and I wasn’t. At least now I’ll be able to enjoy my wedding night.”

  “You bitch!”

  He never lost his temper, but now the heat coursing through his veins was so sudden, so unexpected that he had to clench his hands or risk placing them around her neck. “Why are you doing this? I know it’s not true. What we had…”

  “What we had, Pascal was a figment of your overtly French imagination. You men can have any women you want. Well, the shoe is on the other foot for a change. Yes, I’ll admit I wanted you, if it will make you any happier.” Her eyes insolent as she let them wander over his face, his chest, only to pause at his hips, his groin. “Just look at you, in fact I’d quite like a rematch but Rupert has forbidden it.”

  He turned away then, his eyes and then his feet moving to the door. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. He’d been so sure; now he knew he’d never be sure of anything ever again. If she was telling the truth, if it had all been a lie, she’d left him nothing. His pride, his passion, his hopes, his dreams, his love all lay in tatters by her feet.

  * * *

  “There’s something dreadfully wrong with Miss Sarah, Arnie.”

  “I know there is, luv but don’t you go interfering now. She has to sort out her own life.”

  “But that handsome man in there.” She paused, her arms up to their elbows in suds. “They love each other, I know they do and she’s gone and gotten herself engaged to that prat.”

  “Bev, there’s no good upsetting yourself.”

  “She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.” Abandoning the sink and grabbing a tea-towel she turned to face him. “What’s to become of her, married to that pompous...?”

  “Now, now, pet, don’t distress yourself. It’ll all come out in the wash,” he added, taking her hands in his and dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. His lips remained there as they both heard the slam of the lounge door and, turning to the window, watched as her visitor stormed off.

  “Arnie,” her eyes wide. “Go follow him. That’s the least we can do. Offer him a lift or something? His lordship would want us to be civil to what could be his future son-in-law.”

  “What about the chickens?”

  “What about them? Go on now, or you’ll miss him,” she said, shoving keys and phone into reluctant fingers as she pushed him towards the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  1st June. The worst types of liars are the ones that lie to themselves. Whatever my motives for sending him away I should have been able to come up with some sort of plan for us to be together. Now I’m going to have to put up with the consequences.

  Sarah watched him go. She watched him go and her heart went with him. He’d called her a bitch; she was all that and more. But it was the only way if she wasn’t going to saddle him with an unwanted child. It was the only way if either of them were to survive this mess. It was the only way…

  Heading back to her bedroom she closed the blind against the glare of the June sunlight streaming through the window. She’d had enough of the world for now. Now she needed rest. But there was no rest to be had.

  Her mind tumbled backwards and forwards over their conversation, her hand finding her stomach. Smoothing her palm over the still flat surface she tried to find some way out of her situation but all she could think about was running away.

  She’d finally realised, standing there telling him all those lies that the one person she’d been lying to was herself. She couldn’t disguise the fact she was pregnant with another man’s child. She could have an abortion, her hand stilled before continuing its rhythmic massage. But she would never do that, her thumb curling up past her palm to feel the cool edge of his ring before removing it back to her left hand where it would stay.

  She couldn’t marry Rupert, she wouldn’t marry him. Pascal was on his own with regards to his finances and so be it if her pictures were splattered across the gutter press.

  Her eyes closed, her hand now a heavy weight of apology across her baby for her, albeit fleeting thoughts. She’d ask Mr Pidgeon about how best to break off the engagement, but not now; later, much later.

  It was dark. She must have slept, slept for longer than she’d intended, her eyes finally adjusting to the blackness to make out the familiar shapes of her room. The rocking chair she’d had si
nce a child and the wardrobe with its matching bedside cabinet. The pine bed with its pretty Laura Ashley covers, all comforting in their familiarity. And then there was the smell, the familiar smell of her father’s Havana cigar.

  Jumping out of bed, she raced to the door and, jerking it open, ran towards the lounge and straight into the arms of her dad.

  Capturing her in a brief hug, he manoeuvred her back with a laugh. “And I’m pleased to see you too, but do mind my whiskey, won’t you,” he added, waving his Waterford glass high over her head.

  “When did you get back? Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Oh, hours ago, darling.” It was her mother that answered, her father now settled in front of the television, trying to catch up with the football scores. “I popped my head in but you were sound asleep.” Her mother, lounging back against the starkness of the leather surveyed her critically. “Rupert did say he’d kept you up late?”

  “Yes, well…” But she was interrupted.

  “We had the most marvellous time in St Tropez, darling. The Peters have a new 155 foot Sunseeker, it was glorious.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “And I was a little naughty,” she twittered. “I bought you a few trifles for your trousseau from a delightful little lingerie shop along the Rue Gambetta.”

  “Mother, I don’t need…”

  “Oh yes you do. Rupert’s a man of the world. He’ll be expecting more than the tat you normally wear and there’s nothing like a bit of satin and lace on your honeymoon.”

  “Yes Mother.” Staring across at both her parents she suddenly wished she were anywhere else in the world. It was as if she wasn’t even their daughter, her eyes glazing as her mother carried on discussing negligées and knickers. Perhaps she was a foundling after all, someone they’d found sitting on the doorstep along with their pint of milk. She loved them, of course she did. But at this moment, with her father grunting at the TV and her mother now discussing the gleaming steel and glass interior of the Peters new super ship, she finally realised they had nothing in common and they never would.

  “I’m off to bed,” she interrupted, bending over to place a kiss on her mother’s perfumed cheek.

  “But, darling.” Her mother paused, suddenly noticing her pale face and heavy eyes. “You haven’t eaten anything; the Hopper’s have left you some soup…”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh, all right then, but if you’re no better in the morning, I’m phoning the doctor.”

  But sleep wouldn’t come. Lying in the increasingly dark and silent house there was nothing to stop her from sleeping except her own thoughts, and they wouldn’t leave her alone: her thoughts and then the pain. At first a niggly type of pain, just a cramp that would go away when she turned over only it didn’t. Scared now; scared and alone she headed into the bathroom.

  Although she’d expected it, the sight of blood seeping thought her knickers was a shock. The one thing that would get her out of her current situation was happening. The one thing, the very last thing she wanted, and all she could think about was her mother.

  “Mum, wake up mum.”

  “Mmm, can’t it wait till morning, darling.” Her mother’s only response.

  “Mum, you must wake up. Please wake up,” her voice dissolving into tears. “Mum, I need you.”

  Later, much later, found her lying against another bed, but this time the soft Laura Ashley bed set and down duvet swapped for harsh hospital linen and even harsher blankets. The doctor had gone, and the pain had been washed away by the drip pumping God only knew what into her right arm. She wouldn’t let them use her left arm, she wouldn’t let them remove her ring. Hopper had called the ambulance while Beverley, dear kind Beverley, had gathered everything she might need and her parents; her parents started questioning her.

  “Food poisoning? Appendicitis? When did you last eat?”

  “Oh for Heaven’s sake! I’m pregnant.”

  “Pregnant, but I thought Rupert had the snip after he’d had the fourth?”

  “Don’t be so thick, Mother.”

  “Oh you mean it’s not…” Her eyes wide. “It’s that Frenchman, isn’t it? Oh poor Rupert, he’s going to be so upset.”

  She eased her shoulders off the trolley the kindly ambulance man had just helped her on to. “He doesn’t need to know I’m…”

  “You’re father’s already phoned him.” She caught her daughter’s look of reproof. “Well we thought you had food poisoning, and you are engaged to him after all.”

  “I’m breaking it off.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Mother, I can’t marry him, all right. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

  “I suppose not. I hope he doesn’t sue you for breach of promise.”

  “Let him try, it hasn’t been formally announced in The Times yet.”

  “That’s true.” She shook her head in near disbelief. “I thought I’d brought you up better than that, darling. Couldn’t you have used one of those rubber thingies?”

  “Mother! It’s bad enough having to tell you I’m pregnant, let alone you advising me about my love life.”

  “What about the Frenchman, Pascal? Did you want me to…?”

  “On no circumstances are you to phone him. I forbid it.” Her eyes wild in her face.

  * * *

  Pulling into the hospital car park on a screech of tyres, he abandoned the taxi at a run, pressing a bundle of scrunched up notes into the alarmed taxi driver’s hand as he raced across the tarmac, leather jacket flying open behind him.

  Please let her be all right. Please let her be all right. Please let her…

  The repeating mantra had reverberated around and around his head ever since the phone call. He’d been just about to pay his hotel bill in time to catch the first flight back to Charles de Gauille when the bottle blonde receptionist, squeezed into something at least six sizes too small, held out the hotel phone to him.

  He’d nearly refused to take it for surely it must be a mistake? No one knew he was here. No one knew where he was staying and much less cared. Looking at the phone in horror he finally lifted it to his ear, his mind in turmoil as he suddenly remembered being persuaded to accept a lift back up to town by Hopper. Hopper knew, only Hopper: Hopper who in some ways reminded him of his uncle, with his stiff manner concealing a kind heart.

  He must have handed the phone back after hearing the news. He must have remembered to pay his bill and even pick up his rucksack and find a taxi. He must have sat in the back, retracing the same journey for the third time in two days but he could remember none of it. All he could think about was the same line repeating itself over and over again.

  Please let her be all right.

  He wasn’t allowed see her. He wasn’t allowed to have his questions answered. He was allowed nothing.

  “I’m sorry, and you are? Oh you’re a nobody, not even a friend. It’s family only at the moment. No, I can’t tell you how she’s doing, after all you’re not important are you…? In fact you’re nothing, a nonentity just cluttering up my pristine white corridor and making it messy. There’s a coffee machine over there, if you can be bothered, and don’t ask for any change because even if I had any I wouldn’t give it to you. And your accent; it’s not English. French is it? I would have said Austrian. I went there on holiday once; Salzburg, wonderful bread. Come along now, no dawdling, I don’t have all day, Blah blah blah,” her words slamming into his head as she directed him to a small waiting room with hideous orange chairs and naff paintings of cloudless summer days.

  He watched her retreating back, her bottom huge in oversized scrubs. He would have laughed but he couldn’t. It seemed he’d have to wait for her family to arrive, the people who loved her the most. Well, that was a joke for a start, his hand flicking through a copy of Country Life, four years out of date.

  He felt his stomach rumble but he couldn’t eat. He’d be sick if he ate, his eyes wandering over to the drinks machine in the corner
. He shuddered as he remembered the last time he’d been foolish enough to purchase coffee from a drinks machine. However desperate he was for caffeine he was never that desperate. Closing his eyes against the harsh lighting he tried and failed to reach any degree of comfort from the tacky, stained plastic chair; his mind, his body, his soul with her in the room at the end of the corridor.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice, overly harsh, overly loud or was it just because he’d drifted off into a semi-dreamlike state, the only way he could shut down his thoughts. It was shut them down or go mad. Snapping his eyes open he found himself being glared at by Rupert, and forced himself to smile.

  “Bonjour Rupert.”

  “Don’t you bonjour me, sonny - I asked you a question?”

  “I’m here to see Sarah, why else?”

  “How did you know…?”

  “Well, if she didn’t tell you…?”

  “Don’t be cheeky,” his eyes glinting. “Especially as you’re the reason she’s in here.”

  He felt cold where seconds before he’d been too hot in the overly stuffy room.

  His fault, how could it be his fault? He’d done nothing. His eyes, now glued to Rupert’s self-satisfied face, his mind shifting back over what he knew. What had Hopper said? He’d said nothing, only that she was ill, and they’d had to get an ambulance.