Their Miracle Baby

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘Yeah. You going to Tregorran now?’ Mike asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. If you give me a lift there, I’ve got some stock to check and I’ll walk back. It only takes five minutes across the fields.’

  They pulled up on the drive at Tregorran House, and while Mike stood waiting by the car, Nick handed over the bag of shopping to Ben. ‘There’s some strawberry ice cream in there that needs to go in the freezer,’ he said. ‘Back in a minute. Mike’s just going to show me something.’

  A likely story, Mike thought with a mental snort, but he raised his hand and dredged up a smile for Ben. He liked his neighbours, and he was delighted they’d bought Nick’s old family home, but it would have been easier if Ben hadn’t come to the door with baby Annabel gurgling on his hip and rubbing salt into the wound.

  ‘Mike, I’m glad I’ve seen you,’ Ben said now, coming out onto the drive. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Any chance we could have a chat some time?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure. Give me a call when you’re not busy, or drop round. I’m usually about.’ Mike gave him his mobile number and Ben keyed it into his own phone, then slipped it back into his pocket and smiled.

  ‘Cheers. I’ll call you.’

  Ben waved, lifting the baby’s chubby little hand as Mike himself had done with Sophie so many times, and Mike waved back to them both, his breath jamming in his throat as Annabel’s face split into a cherubic smile, and he turned away.

  ‘Here we are—my ladies-in-waiting,’ he said to Nick, his eyes scanning the field to check that the six cows in there were all looking well. Amber came over to him, her gorgeous coat, fox-red splashed with white, gleaming with health in the summer sun, and he rubbed her poll and spoke softly to her for a moment.

  ‘You love your farm, don’t you?’ Nick murmured, and Mike nodded.

  ‘Can’t imagine doing anything else, but it’s a constant reminder of our own failure. With a dairy herd, all you do all the time is monitor their pregnancies and deliver their calves and manage their lactation. And it’s impossible not to draw parallels.’ He smiled, but he could feel it was off kilter. ‘If we were livestock, Fran and I would be shot. It seems we’re useless together. Giant pandas have more success.’

  ‘That’s not true. Fran’s been pregnant before, and you achieved a pregnancy on your first cycle of IVF.’

  ‘Yeah—which we also lost. We can’t afford another cycle at the moment, and we’ve run out of NHS funding, so where do we go from here? It wouldn’t be so damned frustrating if they could find anything wrong with us! But they can’t, Nick. We’re both well, there are no physical problems, we just can’t seem to get it right. And right now I’m not sure I even want to, the way we are. Well, the way Fran is, anyway. I just can’t get through to her at all.’

  Mike snorted again and shook his head. ‘Not a chance. She might talk to Kate—woman to woman and all that.’

  Nick’s mouth tightened, and then he nodded. ‘That could work. She knows Kate. It’s an idea.’

  One that was growing on Mike by the second. Kate was working as a midwife again now, and Fran had known her for years because of her son, Jem, who was at the school. Maybe she’d be able to get through to her. ‘She could catch her at school,’ he suggested, but Nick shook his head.

  ‘Not really the place. But she could call in—maybe one day after school? On her way to see Ben and Lucy? Kate does drop by from time to time to cuddle the baby. I could make sure she doesn’t have Jeremiah with her, and maybe you could make yourself unavailable?’

  He laughed shortly. ‘That won’t be hard. I don’t have a lot of time to hang around. By the time Fran’s home, I’m usually milking so Kate should be able to talk to her undisturbed between four-thirty and six, and if I know she’s going to be here, I can always drag it out.’

  ‘Sure. Give me your mobile number. I’ll let you know what she’s planning so you’re forewarned.’

  He pulled out his phone and they swapped numbers, and then Mike turned his back on the cattle and stared out over the sea, which was flat and smooth and sparkling, the lazy swell scarcely visible. The surfers wouldn’t be happy today, but the families with little children would be having a great time, just as they themselves had had with Sophie last weekend—just as they might one day be doing with

  ‘Thanks, Nick,’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but thanks for trying.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And you can call me whenever you want a chat, you know. Any time.’

  Mike nodded, and they strolled back to the house in thoughtful silence. Nick went in, lifting his hand in farewell, and Mike nodded and set off back across the fields to the farm.

  Fran would kill him for interfering, but he couldn’t watch her falling apart any longer. He just hoped that Kate was able to reach her, because frankly he was at a loss, and if something didn’t happen soon, the remains of their marriage would be unsalvageable.

  He tried a little salvage that night.

  They’d had supper, and for once they were sitting down together in front of the television. There was nothing on that either of them really seemed to want to watch, though, so he turned it off, found an easy-listening CD, soft and lazy and romantic, and instead of going back to his chair he went over to the sofa and sat down beside her, giving her shoulder an affectionate little rub.

  ‘You OK, my love?’

  She nodded, but she didn’t meet his eyes and there wasn’t a trace of a smile. ‘Just tired. I’ll be glad when the holidays come.’

  ‘So will I. You can give me a hand—we’ll try that new fresh curd cheese you’ve been talking about.’

  Beneath his hand her shoulder drooped a little, then she

  ‘It’s gorgeous. Maybe it just needs stirring for longer as it cools, and agitating more often. You’ve got it cracked with the strawberry, doing that. Maybe it just needs more of the same.’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll try a few things, see how we do.’

  She stood up, moving away from him, and went out, coming back a moment later with a book. So much for cuddling up together on the sofa. He peered at the cover.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ he asked, and she lifted the book so he could see it.

  ‘CBT—cognitive behaviour therapy. One of my pupils is having it, so I thought I’d read up a bit.’

  And she curled up in the corner of the sofa again, opened the book and shut him out as effectively as if she’d left the room.

  So he did.

  He went upstairs, had a shower for the second time that day and came back down in a clean pair of jeans. He hadn’t bothered with a T-shirt. It was still hot and, anyway, she’d never been able to keep her hands off him when he took his shirt off. All that rippling muscle, she’d say with a smoky laugh, and grab him.

  But she didn’t even look up.

  The CD had finished, so he put the television back on and settled down to watch a repeat of something he hadn’t enjoyed a lot the first time round.

  Anything rather than be ignored.

  * * *

  She raised her eyes slightly from the book and let them dwell on his body. Long, lean and rangy, his muscles sleek and strong, not the muscles of a weightlifter but of a man who worked hard with his body, and it showed.

  Lord, it showed, and there’d been a time not so very long ago when she would have got up and gone over to him and run her hand over that bare, deep chest with its scattering of dark hair, teasing the flat copper coins of his nipples until they were tight and pebbled under her fingertips. Then she’d run her hands down his ribcage, feeling the bones, the muscles, the heat of his body radiating out, warming her to her heart.

  He would have pulled her onto his lap, his eyes laughing, and then the laughter would fade, and he’d kiss her, his hands exploring her body, searching out its secret places, driving her crazy with his sure, gentle touch.

  What was that song about a lover with a slow hand? That was Mike—or
it had been. Just lately he didn’t seem to be interested, and if he had been, she wouldn’t have. Just the thought of him touching her so intimately made her shrink away. She didn’t think she could cope with the intimacy, baring her soul to him as well as her body. Not when her soul was hurting so much and her body had become public property with all the investigations. Even the idea of being touched there…

  And he’d give her a lecture on getting too thin, which probably wasn’t unjustified but wouldn’t make her feel sexy. Right now, she didn’t think anything would make her feel sexy.

  Not that he’d tried recently. He’d been too busy, and

  If you didn’t try, you couldn’t fail, could you?

  The book—interesting under other circumstances—couldn’t hold her attention, so she shut it and unfolded herself from the corner of the sofa and winced as the circulation returned to her foot. ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ she told him, limping for the door. ‘Don’t bother to wait up for me. I feel like a wallow.’

  He flicked her an enigmatic look, nodded and turned his eyes back to the television, and swallowing down her disappointment she headed up the stairs.

  ‘Kate, have you got a minute?’

  She paused and glanced at Nick, then at the clock. ‘Literally. I’ve got a meeting with Chloe—’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ he said, holding open the door of his consulting room, and after a tiny hesitation she braced herself and went in, wondering what was coming as he shut the door behind them.

  ‘I saw Mike Trevellyan yesterday.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt the tension drain out of her shoulders and turned to face him. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Not sure. He’s worried about Fran. They don’t seem to be talking.’

  She gave a soft snort. ‘There must be something in the water.’

  Nick’s mouth tightened and he looked away, but not before his eyes flicked over her in contempt. ‘You’ve had

  ‘That? It? We’re talking about your son, Nick.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘It was just the once.’

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘How many times have I heard that from a pregnant woman? And you only have to look at him. His eyes…’

  A muscle worked in his jaw, and she gave up. For now. A gentle sigh eased out of her and she squared her shoulders. ‘So—about Fran. What do you want me to do? She had a follow-up appointment with me after her miscarriage and she cancelled it. I don’t know if I can get her into the surgery.’

  ‘No, we thought of that. I’ve got Mike’s mobile number. I thought if you could drop by there after school one day, when Fran’s around and Mike’s milking, maybe you could engineer the conversation.’

  She stared at him in silence for a long moment, and eventually he turned and looked at her.

  ‘Well? What do you think of it?’

  ‘I think it’s a conversation I should have without Jem—your son—since I’ll have him with me after school.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could find someone to leave him with for an hour.’

  ‘Mmm. His father springs to mind.’

  His eyes widened with horror. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Well, then, neither can I,’ she retorted. ‘Not at short notice.’

  ‘I’m sure he does—but I need to save them for emergencies, and my childminder’s not feeling great at the moment so I can’t ask her. Besides, Jem needs me. It’s our time together—so if you want me to do this, and I agree it seems like a very good idea, then I think it would be an excellent opportunity for you to get to know him a little bit better. As his other parent.’

  She watched him struggle, knew the moment he gave in. His jaw tightened, his eyes became shuttered and he gave a curt nod. ‘Just don’t let it become a habit.’

  She laughed. ‘What—dropping in on Fran?’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. ‘Hardly. She’ll smell a rat before I get up the garden path! What am I supposed to tell her, Nick?’

  ‘Tell her you’re visiting Ben and Lucy. Tell her you’re going to the farm shop and wondered how she was.’

  ‘I’ll tell her I was worried about her, because I am. I’ve been watching her at school, and a couple of times when she’s been outside when I’ve picked Jem up, she’s looked very tired. Don’t worry, Nick,’ she said soothingly, with only a trace of patronage. ‘I’m sure I can manage to manoeuvre the conversation in the right direction.’

  He shot her a blistering look and opened his mouth, then clearly thought better of it as a fleeting, rueful smile cracked his face just for a second. ‘Thank you. When were you thinking of doing it?’

  ‘Tonight? I can’t tomorrow,’ she said, thinking ahead. ‘I’ve got a clinic, and on Thursday there’s the school sports day, and Friday’s the end of term.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Now, if that’s all…?’

  ‘That’s all,’ he agreed, opening the door for her with something that could have been relief. Poor Nick, she thought as she walked away. He really, really didn’t like this. The truth was obviously much too much to take, but that was tough.

  He was going to have to get used to it, no matter how unpalatable—get used to the fact that ten years ago this summer, on the very night of the storm that had torn a hole in their community, while his father and brother had lain cooling in the mortuary and her husband’s body was being sucked out to sea and shattered on the rocks, their frenzied, desperate coupling had given rise to a child.

  And that child was their son.

  She looked out of the window, across the bay to the headland where Nick had found her staring out to sea, her body drenched and buffeted by the wild storm, her eyes straining into the darkness. Not that there had been any hope. Even the coastguard had given up, at least for the night, but she hadn’t been able to tear herself away.

  So Nick had taken control—taken her back to her house, stripped off her sodden clothes, dried her—and then somehow, suddenly, everything had changed. It could have been put down to that old affirmation-of-life cliché, she thought, but it had been more than that. She’d loved him since she’d been fifteen, had wanted him for ever, and it had seemed entirely natural to turn to him for comfort.

  Like it or not—and he clearly didn’t—Nick Tremayne would have to acknowledge the result of their actions that night, and learn to live with it every day of his life, just like she had for the past ten years. After all, it had given her a son, a child she’d never thought she’d have, and he’d brought her so much joy.

  So she’d learned to live with herself, with the shame she felt at having given in and taken comfort from Nick at that dreadful time, and she’d slowly, painfully, learned to forgive herself.

  Now it was Nick’s turn. He’d have to learn to live with himself, too, and maybe, with time, forgive himself.

  And perhaps, in the end, he could even learn to love his son.

  ‘Fran!’

  She heard the knock, heard the voice calling and went to the window, leaning out and seeing Kate there, to her surprise. ‘Kate, hi! Come in, the door’s open. I’m just changing Sophie’s sheets—Come on up, I’m nearly done.’

  And then she wondered why on earth she’d said that,

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pleasure. It’s always easier with two.’

  Fran plumped up the pillow and straightened up. ‘I only did it yesterday, that’s the frustrating thing, in time for Sophie’s next visit, but the dog sneaked up here last night with filthy feet, and I didn’t realise till this morning. So—what brings you here on a Tuesday afternoon?’ she asked, finally voicing the question that had been in the forefront of her mind ever since she’d heard Kate calling her.

  ‘Oh, I was just passing. I’ve been to see Ben and Lucy and I popped in at the farm shop. I thought I’d say hello and see how you are. It’s always so busy at school and I haven’t seen you for ages, not to chat to.’

  Not since before the miscarriage but, then, you didn’t rea
lly need antenatal care when there wasn’t going to be any natal to worry about, Fran thought with a sharp stab of grief.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She scooped up the washing and carried it downstairs, leaving Kate to follow. She ought to offer her a cup of tea, but that would open the door to all sorts of things she didn’t want. A cosy chat. A more penetrating ‘How are you’. A ‘How are you really, now your dream’s been snatched away’ sort of ‘How are you’.

  But the teapot was there on the side of the Aga, and the kettle was next to it, and without being offered, Kate went

  She gave in.

  ‘Of course. I’ll make it.’

  ‘No, you deal with the washing. I can make a cup of tea. I spend my life making tea and drinking it. That’s what midwives do—didn’t you know that?’

  ‘Really? I thought they interfered.’

  Kate met her eyes and smiled. So the gloves were off, their cards were on the table and they could both start being honest.

  Kate lifted the hotplate cover and put the kettle on the hob. ‘Fran, I haven’t seen you for ages—not since the miscarriage. I’m worried about you,’ she said gently.

  Fran looked up from the washing machine, slammed the door on it and stood up. ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘I am. You’ve got a lot of pressures on you. Sometimes talking them through can help.’

  ‘Kate, I don’t need counselling,’ she said firmly and a little desperately.

  ‘I never said you did. But a friend who understands the pressures you might be under and the choices open to you might be a help—a sounding board, someone to rant at that isn’t your husband?’

  Had Mike been talking?

  ‘I don’t rant at him.’

  ‘But maybe you want to. Maybe you need to—not because he’s done anything wrong but just because you need to rant, to let out your anger. It’s all part of the grieving process, Fran. And you have to grieve for your baby.’

  ‘But there was—there were two, and you loved them,’ Kate said gently, and that was it. The dam burst, and Kate took the washing powder out of her hands, wrapped her arms firmly around her and held her tight. At first Fran could hardly breathe for the wave of pain, but then it got easier, just slightly, so she could actually drag in the air with which to sob.