“Pascal, I have something to tell you.”
“It’s all right my love, I forgive you. I’m sure Rupert put you up to it, anyway.”
“What?” She would have scrabbled off his lap, only his arms, so gentle had turned to bands of steel even as he started trailing a line of kisses across her skin.
“I said I forgive you. It hurt at the time, it hurt dreadfully but I’m good now.”
“Pascal, what are you talking about?”
His mouth stilled, his lips vibrating the words against her neck. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Taking advantage of his slightly looser grip she moved away and he let her, his hands now by his side, his look wary.
Hands on hips, she stared down at him, her face pale in the darkness. “Why the hell do you think I’m in need of forgiveness; because I wasn’t on the pill, because I allowed you to…?” Her voice broke, her fingers struggling in vain to pull off the ring.
“Shush Sarah, calm down. It’s all right now, everything will be all right. We can have more children; we can fill the house with as many babies as you can find room for.”
“Why would I want more children?” Her hand moving to the gentle swell of her stomach, just visible now she’d smoothed her dress against her skin. “What’s wrong with the one I’ve got; the one we made in Paris?”
It was his turn to look pale. She wouldn’t have believed the sickly pallor if she hadn’t seen for herself the way the colour leached out of his face. “But Rupert said.”
“Rupert said?” she queried softly. Where before she’d felt anger, intense unexplainable anger at the man in front of her, now all she felt was love, a deep all-encompassing love. She watched him turn away, his hands hiding his face and suddenly she knew. She knew what Rupert would have said to hurt him the most. She knew what had made him run away.
“You were in hospital, Hopper called.”
“I was bleeding. It can happen apparently, but I wasn’t to know that. I thought I was losing our child, so I panicked.”
Kneeling beside him she pulled his hands away before wiping the tears streaking down his face and then, turning his palm upwards gently placed it over their baby. “It’s a little too soon to feel him or her move but to answer your question: soon.”
“Soon?”
“Soon, I’d like to be married soon, before this little person turns me into an elephant, although,” her eyes sparkling as she placed both hands on his shoulders and pulled him forward on to his knees. “I do think you should propose, in fact I won’t marry you until you do.”
“But, but,” his sudden frown stilling her fingers. “What about you? What about that medical condition. I didn’t think you wanted to risk getting pregnant?”
“Well, it’s all a bit late for that, don’t you think? And anyway,” she added gently. “My mother has had me up and down Harley Street to see some supposed expert. I can’t blink and they take my blood pressure.” Leaning back she ran her hands through his hair before grabbing a lock and giving it a quick tug. “So, Monsieur Builder?”
“So, Lady Sarah, will you marry me?” his voice tender as he withdrew an envelope out of his pocket.
“Of course I will,” her attention now riveted on the piece of paper he was slowly unfolding with all the panache of a magician’s final reveal. “What’s that?”
“It’s a special licence, ma chérie,” holding up the decidedly battered-looking document. “It’s a special licence that I’ve been carrying around now for a month. Your parents didn’t by any chance invite Uncle George to the ceremony did they? I thought we could save them the expense of another party?”
Epilogue
2nd July, The morning after the night before. Pascal promised me the most amazing honeymoon in the most amazing place imaginable. In return I have a few little surprises up my sleeve. Well, in truth only one but it’s worth millions!
“All right, Hen, and it’s a lovely day, so it is. Now what will it be for you both, the full Scottish? I’ve a pot of porridge too or a few kippers?” Mrs McCloud continued her breakfast litany as she fussed over the table, making sure the cutlery was just so.
They’d arrived late yesterday afternoon to be greeted by a traditional Scottish afternoon tea complete with smoked salmon and shortbread, and now with their wedding night under their belt they looked forward to continuing their gourmet break at the hands of what must be the best cook in all of Scotland.
As soon as she’d disappeared with their order, he leant across the table to press a deep kiss on already bruised lips. “A week of this and I’ll have to go on a diet,” his hand wandering under the table and gently massaging their baby. “At least you’ve got an excuse.”
“Stop it,” she laughed, grabbing his hand and placing it on her knee as a pot of tea was placed in front of them. “And anyway,” her eyes following Mrs McCloud as she bustled out of the room, “you’ll be working it off.”
“I’ve married a harlot.”
“I meant the walk you promised, although that could come later,” she teased, rubbing the back of his hand before reaching for the milk jug. “It’ll be nice to see Minou. Who’d you say was looking after him again?”
“Rexi, my spokesman.” His eyes twinkling. “You know; the builder in the beanie? He had to rescue him from the cattery after the other cats started ganging up on him.”
“Poor Minou, we’ll have to make it up to him and to Rexi,” she added, grinning across at him. “I know, we’ll buy him a Tam O'Shanter and perhaps some shortbread.”
“A Tam O what?”
“It’s a tartan cap, my love,” her voice trailing away as Mrs McCloud appeared back on the scene, weighed down with food.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Pascal took the tray and waited while she placed their plates on the table.
“I’m afraid the sausages are a little overdone.” She bustled. “I was listening to something on the radio.”
“Oh, really?” He smiled across at Sarah, only half listening.
“It was wonderful.” She continued, her eyes misty. “Someone’s just donated eighty million to the Battersea Dog’s Home.”
“Oh really?” he repeated, his gaze locked on his wife’s as he struggled not to laugh. “There are some generous people around.”
“There are that. Well, I hope they receive their heart’s desire, that’s the truth. All them poor wee animals.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will,” he said, mouthing I love you across the table. “I’m sure they will.”
The End
Englishwoman
in
Scotland
By Jenny O’Brien
Dedicated to Michelle Driscoll.
‘And round his heart one strangling golden hair.’
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, ‘Lilith’, (1868)
Chapter One
‘I’m going to kill myself!’
‘Well do it quietly, darling. You know how much your father hates being disturbed before his second cup of coffee.’
’Mother...’
‘There’s no point in pleading. You’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it. Your father is adamant this time.’
The Countess of Nettlebridge beckoned to the butler with a carefully manicured hand. ‘More toast please, Hodd, and you might as well bring more coffee; I fear it’s going to be a long morning,’ her eyes now trained on the other end of the table where her husband was barely visible behind The Telegraph.
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘Now, Titania, the announcement of your engagement to Viscount Brayely will be in The Times tomorrow, and I think a June wedding. That will give us three months to sort out your trousseau. Harrods, of course, and then there’s the wedding dress. How do you feel about Alexander McQueen?’
‘Mother, for the last time, I am not going to marry some jumped up squirt of a viscount, especially one I’ve never met.’
‘Why of course you have. You used to play together as children.’ She sighed, picking up her l
ace edged handkerchief and patting it to her forehead. ‘It has always been his mother’s greatest wish. She was my bridesmaid you know?’
‘Yes, I do know. You’ve told me often enough,’ she mumbled, staring across at her father who’d ditched The Telegraph in favour of The Guardian.
She’d always known about the close relationship between Lady Brayely and her mother but that didn’t mean she had any intention of marrying her son, this boffin or whatever he was. All Google had was a brief entry on Edinburgh University’s webpage about his doctorate in physics, or was it chemistry? Whilst far from stupid and a real asset at that quiz her mother had organised for homeless racehorses, she’d been far too busy at school with baking to worry about GCSE’s or A Levels. With a path set out for her from childhood, one sweetened by the security net of millionaire parents, she’d done as little as possible. Watching Countdown was about as far as she went with regards to intellectual pursuits and yet here they were setting her up for life with her worst nightmare. Her and this Lord Brayely might speak the same language but she wouldn’t understand a word.
Leaning forward she placed a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Please, I promise I’ll be good from now on. You can rely on me. You can’t just sell me off the way granny sent the family silver to Sotheby’s. You just can’t.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ she replied, forcing a laugh. ‘Family silver indeed. It was the ugliest epergne imaginable and don’t change the subject, Tansy. The only motive we have is a wish to see you settled with some nice young man.’
‘Some nice young man who just so happens to be loaded and titled. Just tell me this,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘What’s the going rate for an only daughter these days? Is it all about the money, or is the title everything? At the very least I’d have thought I’d be good enough to snag a prince or is it true that these days they really do prefer brunettes? Perhaps if I dye my hair black or even a striking red I might catch the eye of a count or even an earl. Yeah, I can live with that. Us blondes never seem to be anything other than blonde and it’s about time I had a cut,’ she said, smoothing her hand down the length of her hair. ‘I’ve always fancied one of those pixie cuts, perhaps now is the time for a Titania make-over?’
‘Now don’t go and do anything stupid. Everyone, as you very well know, loves your hair. It’s your trademark.’
‘Well, perhaps, it’s time for a rebranding. I wonder if I could sneak in a last minute appointment with Sebastian before this viscount arrives.’
She frowned, her thoughts now on why he’d agreed to such a crazy scheme.
‘You haven’t told me exactly why this lord wants to marry me? Why does he want to get married at all, and to someone he’s never met?’ She caught her mother’s eye before adding, ‘in like twenty years.’ She tried to remember back to the visits she’d used to take with her mother but all she could remember was it was all very green and marshy. She remembered the marsh simply because she’d fallen in and nearly suffocated, or should that be drowned? Could you drown in mud? Not that the drowning part upset her half as much as the stink and the slime and then there were the frogs. She’d always had a soft spot for frogs ever since but that was no reason to go and marry one.
‘Not wants to, Titania. Is going to.’
‘So? Is he poor or something? Is Daddy setting a huge dowry with at least ten thoroughbreds in addition to five thousand sheep…?’
‘Don’t be facetious, darling. The Brayelys are loaded. They have a huge pile up in Scotland although his mother, now she’s a widow, tends to spend her time between Berkley Square and the Riviera. It’s so much easier to get decent staff in France,’ she added quietly.
‘Mother, you’re not doing so badly. Hodd is a darling while Clemmy and Jessica are real treasures.’
‘Treasure is the word. Do you know what the going rate for a butler is these days, darling?’
‘You’re avoiding my question.’ She sighed in exasperation at the thought of ever getting a straight answer out of her mother. Whilst she loved her dearly there was nothing and nobody more infuriating than her mother when she set her mind on something. Usually she’d just let it be; anything for a quiet life. If she did what her mother said, what time left was her own to do with as she wished. The fact she spent it messing in the kitchen was her business. Most mornings would find her wrapped in a large snowy white apron mixing, kneading and experimenting with a variety of results; some successful, some inedible. She had a tentative plan to write a recipe book on baking, but not just any old baking book with flans, quiches and cakes; a speciality bread book comparing and contrasting a variety of sourdough and traditional yeast breads from around the globe. The last time her mother had deigned to wander down to the kitchen on some pretext or other she’d been dismayed at the sight of the top shelf of the larder cupboard and all the containers filled to the brim with all the different starter kits but, apart from slamming the door shut on her way out, she’d said little.
‘What question, darling?’ her mother asked, finally lifting her head from the Daily Mail, and the article on a six week bikini body. ‘Do you think fifty is too old for a bikini?’ she added, running a bejewelled hand over her rounded stomach.
‘If I can be filmed topless there’s hope for you yet, Mother.’
‘Now you’re being flippant, Tansy.’ Her eyes still glued to the photo of Helen Mirren resplendent in red. ‘You don’t realise what hurt you’ve caused.’
‘Really?’ Her face pale. ‘And what about the hurt to me. Have you even considered what it’s like being followed 24/7 by camera toting paparazzi shouting ‘get your titties out, Titania’?’
‘Darling!’
‘No.’ She curled her hands around the arm of her chair as anger simmered just behind her eyes. She never lost her temper, perhaps it was time she started. Maybe it was time she did a lot more than lose her temper. Maybe it was time she put herself first for once.
‘Mother, do you know why this man wants to marry me? Do you know why anyone would want to marry someone with the whole of the British media on her tail; someone whose photograph has been stamped across every rag mag from Lands’ End to John O Groats? You say he’s rich and titled so it’s not the money or the prestige. Is he ugly, is that it? It must be something?’
She watched her mother squirm when squirming wasn't really her thing, her eyes still carefully perusing Helen’s many assets. ‘He’s not interested in women.’
‘He’s not interested in women,’ her voice silk soft. ‘What do you mean he’s not interested in women? You mean he’s…’
‘Oh, he’s not gay or anything. It’s just, he’s not interested in anything unless it’s in a petri dish.’
‘In a petri dish?’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand. So he’s not ugly. He’s weird. To be honest I’d have been happy with ugly. What man spends their life with a… What’s a petri dish again?’
‘Oh you know, one of those agar plate thingy’s. If you’d concentrated more in school and got yourself into university like your brothers, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
‘Here we go again. Tell it to someone who’s actually interested. So you’re happy to sell me off to the only bidder, someone who’s not interested in women…’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Yes you did. In fact those were your exact words.’
‘Well, just think of it like this. As soon as you’re pregnant with an heir he’ll go back to his dishes and leave you alone.’
‘Ah. The crux of the matter. So I’m to be mated like some cow in a field? I believe the term is artificially inseminated although there’ll be nothing artificial about it. I’ll have to put up with him slobbering all over me, buck naked until the job’s done.’ But her question would forever remain unanswered as her father’s voice hollered from the other end of the table.
‘Titania, are you still here? I thought I told you to stop badgering your mother and go to your room?’ her
father boomed.
‘But father…’
‘No buts, my gal. No daughter of mine can expect to appear on the front page of the press with everything hanging out and expect to get away with it. You’re just lucky the viscount is a man of letters and therefore probably unaware of your recent debacle.’ He lowered the paper with a sharp rustle. ‘As far as he is concerned, you are still some sweet little thing in plaits and not some champagne swilling harpy with a large chest.’
‘But they spiked my drinks, I know they did. One minute I was the designated driver and the next I knew I’d been bungled into the back of a taxi minus my blouse and shoes.’
‘A likely story.’
‘But a true one all the same,’ her voice now only a whisper.
‘Titania, you have embarrassed your poor mother and I for the last time.’ He paused, running his eyes up and down her slim form. ‘Your explanations don’t matter. Your opinions don’t matter. You don’t matter. You’re actually getting long in the tooth for all this gallivanting. You should thank your dear mother for arranging it. Twenty-six is shelf material you know.’
‘Now hold on a minute,’ her eyes flashing. ‘What about Hamilton and Isaac? They’re both older than me and I don’t hear you nagging them to get married? In fact, I don’t hear you nagging them at all.’
‘Leave your brothers out of this. Men are different as you very well know.’
‘Oh yeah, here we go. Men get to do what they like, when they like with whomever they like, while women are meant to suck it up with some pretentious git and get locked away to have babies. Bloody great!’
‘Mind your language in front of your mother. There’s no way out of this, Titania. I’m warning you. If you’re not here to meet Lord Brayely for lunch, and in something other than denim, there will be hell to pay.’ He shot a quick look across the table at his wife. ‘You’ll find we’ve temporarily cancelled all your credit cards just in case you’re thinking of doing something stupid.’
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 17
