Christmas Child

by Diana Hamilton

  Although, remembering exactly what Fiona had said, she was pretty sure what that future would be.

  Suddenly, her legs began to shake. She took a step backwards and sank down onto one of the brocade-covered sofas, her mouth dry as she forced herself to ask, ‘When you proposed to Fiona, did you tell her you didn’t want children?’

  He’d been prowling the room, switching on table lamps, drawing the summer-weight gauzy curtains across the long windows because it was dusky outside now. But he stopped, as if briefly frozen, then slowly turned, his expression quellingly cold.

  ‘As it happens, yes.’ His voice was even colder than his narrowed silver eyes. ‘Why ask?’

  ‘Because it happens to be important,’ she got out with difficulty. She had known Fiona had been telling the truth. It tied in so neatly with everything she knew herself. The only difference being that he hadn’t warned her against being sneaky, and accidentally getting pregnant.

  Because the marriage wouldn’t have been consummated so the situation wouldn’t have arisen. Then things had changed and he’d wanted sex. And apart from that first time, when he’d obviously been feeling deprived after a long stretch of celibacy, he’d been meticulous about taking precautions.

  She got to her feet. The rest of her life began right here. She had to start the way she meant to go on. With dignity and courage.

  ‘I want a divorce,’ she told him, the unexpected steadiness of her voice comforting her a little. She did have the strength to do this; she’d been so afraid she wouldn’t, that she’d be weak enough to beg him to let her stay, to love their child even if he couldn’t love her.

  ‘I had my pregnancy confirmed this morning,’ she told him tonelessly. ‘And there’s no need to tell me you wash your hands of me because I’ve broken your precious rules, because tomorrow I’m leaving you. There’s no way I want my child to have anything to do with a father who doesn’t want it, someone as sick, bitter and twisted as you seem to be.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll use one of the spare rooms tonight, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring Fiona here until after I’ve gone.’

  She turned to look at him for one last time. She didn’t know what would happen if he asked her not to go. In all probability she’d cave in. But he didn’t. His features might have been carved from stone, his eyes just as hard.

  He was letting her go without a single word. At that moment she hated him almost as much as she had ever loved him.

  She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  There was no need for him to say anything, not when she’d just done his dirty work for him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ON HER way upstairs to make up a bed in one of the spare rooms, Mattie changed her mind.

  Why wait until morning? If she was leaving she might just as well do it now. James wasn’t exactly pounding up the stairs after her, pleading with her to stay. The formality of divorce aside, their marriage was over.

  In fact, the silence of his complete indifference was deafening.

  Mrs Briggs would be around in the morning, serving breakfast, asking who would be in for lunch and who wouldn’t. Mattie could do without having to tell her that she didn’t want breakfast, wouldn’t be eating another meal in this house. Ever.

  Thankfully, there was no large-scale business entertaining in the offing to worry the elderly housekeeper. And when there was, Fiona would be only too happy to do the organising, she thought sourly.

  In the room she had shared with James she pushed as many of her belongings as she could manage to get into an overnight bag. The rest could stay here and rot for all she cared.

  After hurriedly checking the contents of her handbag, she crept back down the stairs feeling like a thief and was on the pavement a scant five minutes after walking out on James. But her feet felt rooted to the spot, as if the physical effort entailed in walking out of his life was beyond her.

  She was still actually waiting for him to come after her, she thought with a shock of self-disgust. To beg her to stay, tell her he couldn’t live without her, that he’d changed his mind about having a family.

  Waiting for something that would never happen.

  Tugging in a harsh breath, she forced herself to walk on, wishing she’d had the sense to change out of the spindly high heels, no idea where she was going.

  James had never pretended he loved her. Why should he, when he didn’t, when all she was to him was a pleasant, undemanding companion, someone to share his bed and satisfy strong male urges?

  He’d said nothing when she’d dropped her bombshell, just stared at her, his features frozen, not even bothering to call her back when she’d walked out of the room.

  After his conversation with Fiona this evening he would have been relieved to see her go. Her and the child she was carrying, the child he most definitely didn’t want.

  It was almost dark now, the June night warm, the traffic light. She simply walked, not seeing anything, her mind replaying nightmare scenes from this evening.

  Without any conscious mental direction she found herself in front of the apartment block where her father lived with his new wife.

  Somewhere to spend the night, she thought dully when she recognised where she was. In the absence of a mother, she was running home to Father, instinctively trying to burrow back into the womblike existence she’d known before she’d accepted James’ proposal.

  When her father opened the door he was wearing a thin robe over his stripy pyjamas, sloppy old slippers on his feet. And a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘Can I stay the night?’ Her voice sounded rusty, as though she hadn’t used it for years. She walked stiffly past him, holding herself rigid because if she didn’t she could easily fall apart, walked through the pleasant square-shaped entrance hall, into the long, rectangular sitting room. Pleasant, too, decorated in soft shades of sage-green and lighter touches of ivory, furnished with comfortable pieces brought from Berrington.

  She’d visited before, of course she had. But never dressed for a cocktail party, a bulging old canvas holdall hitched over one shoulder, her handbag over the other, her face stiff with the dried runnels of tears she hadn’t known she’d shed.

  ‘Of course you can stay.’ Edward Trent had followed his daughter, but slowly, as if he were negotiating a minefield. ‘You can stay for as long as you like. But may I be allowed to know why?’

  She turned to face him, letting the bags she was carrying slip to the floor. ‘I’ve left James.’ Saying it aloud made the muddled nightmare of this evening real. Gave it a sharpness and clarity that hurt unbearably. She dragged her hand over her eyes. ‘It didn’t work out. It was never going to.’ How could it have done when he couldn’t stop loving Fiona?

  ‘Why don’t you sit down before you keel over?’ Edward suggested worriedly. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, or would you like something stronger?’

  She ignored his question, as if she hadn’t taken it in, her eyes looking bruised as she scanned the room. ‘Where’s Emily?’ She’d known and liked her new stepmother for what felt like for ever. Over the years she’d taken the place of the mother who had deserted her. In the midst of the emotional storm that was engulfing her she craved the comfort of the familiar.

  But her father said, ‘She turned in early. We planned on driving up to York tomorrow. Staying a few days and taking in the sights. But that can be postponed, it’s not important. What appears to be happening with you is.’

  ‘No.’ Abruptly, with all the determination she possessed, she pulled herself together. What right had she to inflict her miseries and messes on her father and his new wife? She wouldn’t disrupt their lives with her problems. She could handle them herself.

  ‘Just tonight,’ she assured him, more life in her voice now. ‘I’ll be leaving London tomorrow, too. I’d hate you to change your plans on my account. Besides, there wouldn’t be any point. Tea,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I’d like a cup, would you?’

  S
he walked through to the clinically perfect kitchen without waiting for his reply. She felt strangely calm now, almost as if nothing could touch her, as if she were living inside a glass bubble where she was safely beyond reach of anything that could hurt her.

  After filling the kettle she plugged it in and her father said uncomfortably, from just behind her, ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s gone wrong if you don’t want to. And it may seem a silly question, knowing James as well as I do, but has he hurt you? Been unkind?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was flat. Her father meant hurt in the physical sense. And yes, that was a silly question because James wasn’t the violent type, except where the passionate depth of his emotions regarding Fiona were concerned.

  And was it ‘unkind’ to be unable to love someone? She didn’t somehow think so. He couldn’t help not loving her, loving Fiona instead. Love made you blind to everything, love made the beloved the focus of your entire existence, the rest of the world peopled by cardboard cut-outs, having no real relevance.

  As she knew from her own bitter experience.

  ‘It’s just not working out,’ she offered, to soften the bleak monosyllable. ‘And you really mustn’t worry about it, or me, or let it affect the good relationship you have with James.’

  She spooned loose leaves from the caddy into the teapot and lined up two cups and saucers on the work surface, reaching the milk jug from the fridge, her movements smoothly automatic. It was remarkable, really, the adult way she was handling this, she thought objectively. She felt vaguely detached, as if she were watching someone else go through the motions, listening to another woman talk such sound, good sense.

  The tea made, poured, Edward took his cup to the table and sat down heavily. Mattie joined him and he asked, ‘Where will you go? What will you do?’

  ‘The agency will find me enough to do, I can work from anywhere, you know that. And as for where—’ she shrugged her slight shoulders ‘—I’ll let you know when I know myself.’

  ‘You’ll need help,’ Edward said decisively. ‘Emily and I will be only too glad—’

  ‘No,’ Mattie said again. She had to stand on her own feet—she needed to if she were to come out of this with her self-respect intact. She had to order her own life, her own future. ‘Financially, I’m fine, as you know. Hopefully, I’ll find somewhere I like to rent fairly soon. I’ll keep in close touch and, as I’ve already told you, you really mustn’t worry about me.’

  ‘How can I help it?’ Edward grimaced. ‘I admit, I did have a few private doubts about your marriage at first, coming so soon after that Fiona whats-her-name fiasco, and James’ unnecessarily prolonged absence in Spain. But when you came back from that delayed honeymoon I knew everything was OK. James had lost some of those sharp edges of his and I’ve never seen you look so radiant.’

  He took her hands across the table and held them tightly. ‘And now you seem set on throwing it all away. Mattie—’ he dragged in a huff of breath ‘—all marriages go through bad patches. The thing is, you stay right with it, you don’t just walk out on something that’s basically good, you work to get it back on track. Why don’t you go back tomorrow, sit down with James and talk? Try to sort out whatever problem you have? I dare say you don’t think much of that idea right now, but will you at least promise to think about it?’

  Gently, she extricated her fingers from his fierce grasp. She stood up. He looked so concerned. She really shouldn’t have come here and dumped this on him. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she promised.

  If she thought about it for ever, it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference, the circumstances wouldn’t change, but he wouldn’t know that. At least she’d been guarded enough not to blurt out the truth of the situation.

  She managed a weary smile. ‘I will think it over, but only if you promise me something in return.’

  ‘And that is?’

  He looked brighter now, a touch of relief in his answering smile. Mattie breathed more easily. She loved her father and hated the thought of worrying him. ‘That you and Emily take off, as planned, tomorrow, and forget my problems. They’ll get sorted, one way or another.’ She managed a small smile. ‘I know you think I’m hopeless when it comes to anything calling for common sense, but, believe me, I’ve changed. Now, when are you due back here?’

  ‘Next Friday, at the latest.’

  ‘Then I’ll phone that evening. OK?’

  ‘Right.’ Edward got to his feet. ‘Time we both got some sleep. And remember your promise—you think long and hard before you do anything drastic.’

  Mattie kept her promise. It didn’t do any harm to think about seeing James, sitting down with him and talking things over. But that was as far as it would go. Translating thought into action would be a waste of time. The truth was the truth and nothing could change it.

  She fell into a troubled sleep at dawn and woke again when she heard her father and Emily moving around. Six o’clock and the promise of another hot summer day.

  Suddenly remembering the look of worried concern on her father’s face the night before, she slithered out of bed and stumbled into the guest room’s en suite. By now Emily would have been told what was happening and she’d be worried, too. She, Mattie, was in danger of wrecking their jaunt to historic York.

  It simply wouldn’t do. She was loved by both of them, she knew that, but it didn’t give her the right to heap her problems on their heads.

  She showered quickly and towelled her face violently to put some colour in it. In her emotional haste to leave she’d left her make-up behind.

  Emotional haste?

  Pulling garments out of the holdall, she paused, recalling everything she’d said to James the evening before. Had she overreacted, spoken wildly, because her hormones were all over the place? She’d heard, or read somewhere, that pregnancy could play havoc with a woman’s equilibrium. Certainly, the way she’d acted had been totally out of character.

  Thoughtfully, she pulled on a pair of white cotton jeans, tucking a sleeveless, lemon yellow blouse into the waistband. Some of the things she’d said to him made her feel ashamed of herself.

  Besides, what had happened had been as much her fault as his. She should never have accepted his proposal in the first place and she certainly shouldn’t have allowed him to use her to slake his desire for sex. Loving him for so long had robbed her of all her common sense, made her believe that one day he would love her too.

  Pushing her feet into flat leather sandals, she pinched some more colour into her cheeks, straightened her shoulders and walked through the apartment to the kitchen.

  Her father and Emily, still in their dressing gowns, were sitting at the table, the teapot and cups in front of them.

  Mattie pulled in a sharp breath, remembering the day they’d been married. Emily had looked lovely, her father so proud and content. They were making a good life together, she wasn’t going to spoil it for them.

  She could tell them the truth about her marriage of convenience, of course, and they would understand, be on her side. And worry even more. Best to say nothing about that, let them know what had really happened, bit by bit, when they knew she was settled somewhere, and coping.

  ‘Mattie—oh, my dear!’ Emily rose immediately and folded her arms comfortingly around her. ‘Edward told me. Now what can we do to help?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mattie said as lightly as she could, returning her stepmother’s hug. ‘Except get ready for your trip while I make breakfast.’

  ‘We couldn’t possibly!’ Emily held her at arm’s length, concerned eyes searching her face. ‘Not while you’re in such trouble.’

  ‘Yes, you could,’ Mattie said firmly. ‘I feel a whole lot calmer this morning. I shouldn’t have come here. I should have gone to an hotel and got my head straight there, not come whingeing to you!’

  ‘You do look better,’ Edward said uncertainly. ‘Can I take it you kept your promise and thought about talking things out with James?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go ho
me after you leave—remember the promise you made me? It’s Sunday, so he won’t be at the office.’ Subconsciously, she must have made the decision while she’d been dressing. She couldn’t leave him like this, not having given him the opportunity to tell her his side of the story, draw a firm line beneath the end of their relationship.

  And she hadn’t told him she would expect nothing in the way of a divorce settlement, or that she wouldn’t expect him to pay for the maintenance of a child he didn’t want. That she could cope as a single mother more than adequately on her own. Tell him that if he ever wanted to know the sex of their child, ever wanted to see it, claim his visiting rights, then he would only have to ask. He probably wouldn’t, but the offer would be there.

  She’d apologise, too, for the things she’d said. Telling him he was sick, bitter and twisted had been well out of order. Above everything else, they’d always been friends. Their marriage may have been doomed from the start, but she didn’t want it to end in hatred and bitterness.

  ‘Well—’ Edward glanced at his wife ‘—I did promise. And you’re sure you’re going to sit down with James and talk, sensibly?’

  ‘Quite sure. Now will you two please go and get dressed?’

  They went, but with a marked reluctance. Mattie told herself she had to try harder in the reassurance department. She made fresh tea, scrambled eggs and toasted bread, more and more convinced that seeing James again was the only right thing to do. That they should part amicably was now desperately important to her.

  She wouldn’t let herself think that he might ask her to stay, tell her he wanted their baby, that he didn’t want to put Fiona in her place.

  She was realistic enough to recognise that allowing herself to hope for that would only lead to further heartbreak.

  The ten-minute walk seemed to take for ever. She tried to hurry but her legs wouldn’t go any faster. What if he’d been so unperturbed by her self-admittedly manic departure that he’d decided to put in a few hours at the office, undisturbed by telephones or faxes?