For the Love of Emma

by Lucy Gordon

  “I needed Tom to drop us off near the fair and save Emma the walk,” he defended himself quickly.

  “But you added me to the party fast enough, didn’t you? I wondered about that then, but I see why now.”

  He sighed. “Well, what would you have me talk to her about?” he asked. “Shall I tell her all the things I’m thinking and feeling? Don’t you realize that sometimes I’m afraid to talk to my child, for fear of what I might let slip?”

  She touched his arm gently. “I’m sorry. I know you do your best.”

  “But it’s not enough,” he said morosely. “Do you think I don’t know that? Don’t blame me too much, Briony. There are things you can’t understand.”

  She was silent for a moment before saying slowly, “Perhaps I understand better than you think.”

  “I know you love Emma, but you only met her a few months ago. Can you imagine losing a child who’s been a part of your life for years? Of course you can’t.”

  She looked at him. “I don’t have to imagine. I know.”

  Something in her manner caught his attention. He searched her face. “What are you saying? I thought you’d never had a child.”

  “I had a little sister. I raised her after our parents died. She was full of life and mischief until—” Briony stopped as she was invaded by memories.

  Carlyle took hold of her gently. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “She became poorly. I thought it was just a cold, but she got worse quickly, and when I called the doctor he said it was meningitis. They fought so hard to save her at the hospital—but it was too late. She was eight years old.”

  “When did all this happen?” he asked.

  “January this year.”

  “Just a few months ago!” he exclaimed, aghast. “My God! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I meant to—at first—when you wanted me to be here for Emma,” she said haltingly. “I was going refuse, but Emma needed me so much. I did my best not to brood about Sally but—” A tremor went through her as her grief poured out. “I loved her so much, and I failed her—”

  “Don’t say that,” Carlyle interrupted quickly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I’ve tried to tell myself that, but she’s dead and I could have saved her if I’d acted quicker.”

  “You don’t know that. It might have been too late anyway, and meningitis is very hard to spot at first—”

  “But she’s dead,” Briony said desperately. “She’s dead. Nothing’s going to change that.” Tears poured down her face. “It’s so final and irrevocable—no one else can know—”

  “That’s true,” he said quietly, taking her into his arms. “No one else can know what we know. Don’t cry, Briony.”

  “I can’t help it,” she choked. A violent trembling had seized her. She wept for Sally, for Emma, for the pain of the man she loved, and the bleakness of her own life when she would have lost him.

  He drew her closer, soothing her with murmured words, stroking her hair, her face, trying to reach through her grief and console her. Briony felt his tenderness enfolding her, and she relaxed in his arms, feeling that she’d found safety at last. For the first time, here was someone she could cling to, who would be strong for her. Only half realizing what she was doing, she put her arms about him, silently pleading for she knew not what. She wanted him in every way, as husband, lover and friend. It might all be no more than an illusion, but just now she would settle for the illusion if only she could be close to him.

  She felt his kisses fall on her lips, her eyes, her face. “Don’t cry, my dear,” he murmured. “I’m here—I’m here.”

  “Yes,” she murmured huskily. “I’m so glad you’re here. Stay with me—hold me—I’ve been alone so much. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  He silenced her by gently caressing her mouth with his own. His arms about her had the power of steel, but there was only tenderness in his lips. Something gave way inside her. She’d held out against her desire, but she had no resistance to the tide of sweetness that flooded her at his loving compassion. Her body was pressed against his so closely that she could feel his heart beating. Her own was pounding strongly, hopefully.

  His hands moved cautiously over her, touching the swell of her breasts, her waist, her hips.

  “Briony…” he murmured.

  “Hush—don’t say anything.”

  “But are you sure? I thought you—”

  She touched his mouth with her fingertips before he could say more. Words would only spoil the magic. And besides, what could she say to him? That she was sure and not sure, at the same time? That she was doing something she knew would break her heart, but she would pay the price if only she might have this moment? None of this could be put into words. So she spoke to him silently, with the eagerness of her lips, and the willingness of her body, and thrilled as she felt him respond with ardor.

  His kiss changed, became deeper, more searching. The tip of his tongue flickered over the silky inside of her mouth. Tremors of pleasure began to course through her, until her whole body was heated with delight. She felt alive, as though every nerve glittered. She belonged to him heart and soul, and for a brief spell she could dream that he belonged to her.

  The last of her sadness fell away as his lips began to trace a line down her neck, lingering at her throat where a little pulse beat madly, surely telling him of her desire. She gave a long sigh of heated anticipation as she felt him begin to remove her nightdress. His own nightclothes joined hers on the floor. She’d dreamed of lying naked with him, but the reality was far sweeter than her dreams. His body was hard and warm, pressed against hers in gentle intimacy. He touched her carefully at first, caressing her breasts with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue.

  Warmth was streaming through her. Love and desire mingled so perfectly that she couldn’t tell where emotion ended and sensation began. She only knew that each was a part of her response to this man, and each needed the other. When he moved over her she was ready for him, welcoming him gladly, feeling herself made complete at last by their union.

  She whispered his name, looking up into his face, close to hers. In the dim light she could just discern his smile, his look of tenderness. She embraced him, drawing him near, running her hands down the long, springy line of his back to the lean hips. Everything about him made her rejoice, the nutty, masculine smell of his body, the smoothness of his skin, the power of his loins, driving her to heights of pleasure, so that she seemed to stand on the pinnacle of the world, and everything was beautiful.

  She came back to earth slowly, held safe by his arms. “Carlyle,” she murmured.

  “Hush.” He silenced her with a kiss, and turned, still holding her so that her head rested on his shoulder. “Hush now—hush.”

  Lying in the darkness, Briony heard Carlyle’s voice over her head. “You’re very quiet. Are you asleep?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I dozed a little, but I’m awake now.”

  She’d been thinking happily about the tumultuous events of the past hour. To be loved by Carlyle, to feel her body achieve heights of ecstasy in his arms, and to drift off to sleep held safe in his embrace; this was more joy than she had dared to hope for. But it had all happened. And now she was wondering what it meant. Had his feelings warmed toward her? Could a man make love to a woman with such passion and tenderness without loving her a little, in his heart? His next words would tell her.

  “Are you angry with me?” he asked.

  “No. Why should I be angry?”

  “Because I broke my word. I tried not to but—I’m so grateful for all your kindness. And for once you seemed to need a little kindness, too. I guess I got carried away. As long as you don’t mind…”

  “No,” she said with a little sigh. “I don’t mind.” She was silent a moment as her hopes died. “After all—” she gave an awkward little laugh “—we are married—kind of. And…and we need each other’s help in all sorts of ways.”


  “Yes,” he agreed in a voice that she was sure held relief. “No strings, no ties. Just two loving friends helping each other over the thorny places.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She lay still, wondering if he would speak again, but he didn’t. After a while she dozed, and when she woke it was to find him missing. She crept out onto the landing and looked downstairs. His study door was standing open. Moving down a few more stairs, she saw Carlyle, sitting at his desk, staring at the picture of Helen cradling the newborn Emma. In his other hand he held the wedding photo of Emma walking with Briony through the leaves. He was looking from one to the other, as if in a dream. Then he set both pictures down and buried his head in his hands.

  Briony returned to bed with a heavy heart.

  She discovered, however, that one good thing had come out of that night. When Emma found her looking at photographs of Sally, and asked her about them, she was able to talk about her sister naturally. Emma nodded and said nothing, but she put her arms about Briony and gave her a sympathetic hug. Carlyle came in to find them going through the pictures together.

  Later, when they were alone, he said, “You should have talked about Sally before, not kept it hidden. It hurts more that way.”

  “Yes, I guess you know that, too,” she agreed. “I didn’t want Emma to feel she had to share me. But it has hurt, hiding Sally away.”

  “She looks fun,” Carlyle observed.

  “Oh, yes, she was great fun,” Briony said eagerly. “She was full of mischief. Look at this one—”

  She pointed to a picture showing Sally dressed as a conjurer, standing before a Christmas tree. “I gave her that conjuring set,” Briony remembered. “And she went round casting ‘spells’ on everyone.”

  “What is it?” Carlyle asked, seeing a shadow cross her face.

  “She wanted a bike for Christmas,” Briony said sadly. “I told her it was more than I could afford. She was disappointed, but so nice about it. She smiled and said, ‘Maybe next year.’ And I promised.” Briony’s voice grew husky. “If I’d known that she only had a few weeks left to live I’d have got her that bike somehow.” She sighed. “It’s nearly Christmas again.”

  “Oh, God!” Carlyle said softly. “Emma.”

  “Yes. We’ve got to make this the best Christmas she’s ever had. It doesn’t matter about us.”

  He nodded. “Once I would have wondered where I’d get the strength. Now I know I’ll get it from you. But you—where do you get yours from?”

  From my love for you, she told him in the silence of her heart. I didn’t know before how love gives you the strength to do anything you have to do. But I know it now.

  *

  Emma was very definite about what she wanted for Christmas. “Dancing classes, please. I used to go, until I was ill, but I’m better now.”

  “Not yet,” Carlyle said. “Wait until you’re a little stronger. Anyway, dancing classes wouldn’t fit into your Christmas stocking.”

  “Yes they would,” Emma said. “Father Christmas would find a way. He can do anything.”

  “But I can’t,” Carlyle said.

  “It wouldn’t be you. It would be Father Christmas,” Emma pointed out.

  “But—” Carlyle broke off, looking puzzled. “What’s all this Father Christmas talk? Last year you said you didn’t believe in him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did. I remember.”

  Emma’s eyes were wide and innocent. “No, I didn’t, Daddy.”

  Carlyle caught Briony’s warning eyes on him and backtracked hastily. “I must have got it wrong.”

  “Father Christmas comes through the landing window because we haven’t got a chimney,” Emma recited. “I saw him once. Don’t you remember?”

  To Briony’s amusement Carlyle looked suddenly awkward. “Yes—yes, I do.”

  Briony waited until Emma was in bed before asking, “What’s going on? Who did she see coming in the window?”

  “Me. My mother made me dress up for a few years, but I gave it up when Emma stopped believing.”

  “But she hasn’t stopped believing.”

  “I swear to you that last year Emma—oh, well, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Where’s the costume?”

  “In the attic somewhere.”

  “I’ll get it down and clean it.”

  Carlyle looked harassed. “Whatever made her suddenly go back to believing in Father Christmas?”

  Briony thought she could have told him, but judged it wiser to keep her own counsel.

  One evening when Emma was in bed she climbed into the attic to search for Santa’s robe. It was a hard task because the attic light didn’t work. She borrowed Carlyle’s car torch with the neon strip down the side and propped it up on a box while she studied the dusty attic. After an hour of clambering about, unpacking boxes and achieving nothing, she was hot, dusty and irritable.

  “What are you doing?” Carlyle’s head appeared through the floor.

  “Trying to find your Santa costume,” she told him fretfully. “But I don’t think it’s here. You must have remembered it wrong.”

  “No, I didn’t. I know it’s up here somewhere.”

  “Well, where is it, then?” she demanded crossly. “I’m fed up with looking.”

  In the half light she could see him grin. “You’ve got a smudge on your nose.”

  “I feel smudged all over.” She made vague, ineffectual attempts to brush herself down, and he joined in.

  “Now I’m smudged,” he said after a moment.

  “Good. Then you won’t mind getting even dirtier finding that cloak for me,” Briony observed.

  “If I remember rightly it’s in that suitcase over there.”

  “You mean the one at the bottom of everything else?” she said faintly.

  “That’s the one.” Meeting hostility in her eyes he said, “Well, since I’m already in a mess—” He made his way gingerly over to a heap by the wall, and, after some grunting, managed to extract the suitcase without bringing everything down on top of him. When he’d hauled it over and got it open they found that his memory had served him well. An ancient Father Christmas robe was folded inside. It was the old-fashioned kind with voluminous skirts that swept the floor. Briony regarded it with delight.

  “Fancy you buying a thing like this,” she said.

  “Helen bought it while she was carrying Emma. She had it all planned that I was going to wear it the first Christmas after the baby was born.” He sighed. “Wellthat didn’t happen.”

  “What was Helen like?” Briony asked.

  He seemed to become awkward. “Pretty,” he said at last. “The same way Emma is. Helen was mad about ballet, too. She wanted to be a dancer, but she gave it up to marry me. She was like that. She always made me feel I came first. She transformed my life…”

  He was staring into the distance. Briony watched his eyes grow soft with memory, and wondered what was the matter with her that she tormented herself like this. Obviously Carlyle had never got over Helen’s death. He valued Briony’s friendship, and sometimes he desired her, but it was Helen that he loved.

  “I’m glad you made me do this,” he said at last, looking down at the red and white robe.

  “It’s what she’d have wanted you to do.”

  “You know everything.” He smiled at her. “You understand Emma and me, and you get everything right by instinct. I think Helen would have liked you. Thank you, Briony, with all my heart.” He took her hand in his. “I hope this Christmas won’t be too hard on you, remembering Sally.”

  Impulsively she said, “I can cope with Sally’s memory now. No one can go on looking back forever. The past has to become the past, Carlyle. We have to be strong enough to let it.” She stopped. She could hear the note of dangerous intensity in her own voice, a subtle pleading for him to give the past to Helen and the future to herself.

  He frowned, and she wondered if he’d detected her underlying meaning. But if he had
, it displeased him. He gave a brief, uneasy smile and dropped her hand.

  “I’m afraid this robe has got pretty dirty up here,” he said lightly.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of time to get it clean.”

  “Fine. Well, let’s get on, then.”

  They left the attic together.

  The week before Christmas Carlyle and Tom put up a huge tree in the garden, and hung it with lights. Emma watched, shining-eyed, from the window.

  “Do you think it will snow?” she asked Briony for the hundredth time. “I love snow.”

  “Then it’ll snow,” she promised, hoping that Emma’s last Christmas would be made perfect in every way.

  She festooned the house with garlands, red and gold, blue, green and silver. Then there was another tree in the big room downstairs, hung with fairy lights that winked on and off, their reflections gleaming in the baubles that hung from each branch.

  Day followed day without snow. There was the rush of shopping, buying in the mountain of food that would be needed for all the guests, choosing presents. Emma pondered long over Carlyle’s gift, turning the pages of the catalogue Briony had brought from the store to save her having to make tiring journeys.

  “What about that?” she said, pointing to an elegant leather dressing case. “Daddy’s always going on trips abroad to sell things to people.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Well, he stopped when I wasn’t well. But I expect he’ll be going again soon now I’m better.”

  “Let’s get him that, then.”

  “What do you want for Christmas, Mummy?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought.”

  “But you must,” Emma said earnestly. “I have to tell Daddy.” At once a guilty look came over her face and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

  Briony chuckled. “So you’ve been sent to spy out the land? All right. I’ll do some serious thinking.”

  Mentally she applauded Carlyle, who’d remembered her advice about drawing Emma into a benign conspiracy. She couldn’t tell Emma that what she really wanted for Christmas was Carlyle’s love, gift-wrapped for the occasion; she told her that she was fond of musical shows, and her collection still had some gaps. Emma noted down the recordings Briony already possessed, and went away looking solemn with responsibility.