The Perfect Solution

by Catherine George

  He looked up, smiling. 'Polly's going to do the honours, Joanna. We've decided that you shall recline gracefully while Polly dishes out the presents.'

  Joanna obediently settled herself on the worn brocade of the sofa, while Polly, beaming from ear to ear, presented her uncle with her offering, hanging over him anxiously as he exclaimed with unfeigned pleasure over the scarf.

  Polly danced to the tree to get another parcel. 'Look, Marco, this is for you from Jo.'

  Joanna's gift, which had taken some time to create, was a framed water-colour of Polly's head and shoulders. Marc gazed at it for so long in silence that Joanna wanted to fidget as Polly was doing, while they waited for his verdict.

  'Do you like it, Marco?' Polly demanded at last. 'Isn't Jo clever? I sat very still. And I kept it a secret! Look, there's my dimple ‑'

  'It's exquisite, cara. I'm overwhelmed.' Marc walked over to Joanna and raised her hand to his lips, an oddly bleak look in his eyes. 'My grateful thanks. You're very talented.' He turned to Polly, smiling again. 'These are the best presents I've ever had. I shall wear the scarf always, and hang the drawing on the wall in my new flat. You shall choose where, if you like, Polly. Now the painters are finished you can come to stay with me during the holidays.'

  But Polly was more interested in the presents Marc produced from behind the tree. She crowed with delight over a small pair of Levis and some track shoes, too taken up with trying them on to notice Marc's departure from the room until he came back with a small bicycle, complete with balancing wheels. She fairly screeched with excitement, throwing herself at her tall uncle like a missile as she kissed him all over his face.

  'You guessed!' she said, almost tearful with delight as she slid down to perch herself on the bicycle. 'Please come outside. I want to ride it.'

  'Not so fast,' he said firmly, taking a small package from his pocket. 'Don't you think Jo should have her present first?'

  Joanna felt nervous, remembering the porcelain horse, but she smiled with genuine pleasure to find Marc's gift was a relatively inexpensive but pretty antique brooch in the shape of a swan.

  'Oh, look!' said Polly happily. 'Just like in The Ugly Duckling!'

  'It's quite lovely,' said Joanna fervently, and jumped to her feet to thank Marc, only to sit down again with an inelegant thump as the room swam round sickeningly for a moment.

  'What's the matter?' demanded Marc sharply.

  'Just dizzy,' gasped Joanna. 'I'll be fine in a minute. Must be the heat of the fire.'

  'You'd better sit quietly for a bit while I take Polly out on her bike,' he ordered. 'Do you do this often?'

  'No.' She smiled brightly. 'I'm fine, honestly. Do take Polly out for a ride. And thank you so much for the brooch.'

  Joanna was glad of the breathing-space while the other two were outside, gloomily convinced Marc must think her a total hypochondriac. After a while she pinned the brooch to her sweater and got up to put the kettle on for tea that had lately become an addiction.

  When the fading light sent Marc and Polly in at last the latter was sent up to wash while Marc carried a tea-tray into the drawing-room for Joanna.

  'What time do you have to leave?' she asked.

  'I'll wait until Polly's in bed. I'm not going far.' His smile was sardonic. 'You haven't asked where I'm spending Christmas, but just in case you need to get in contact for some emergency of Polly's, I'm indulging in one of those impersonal, everything-laid-on type of Christmas breaks in a Cotswold hotel.' He handed her a card. 'Here's the number.'

  Polly's return ruled out further conversation. From then on until Polly's bathtime and subsequent settling down to sleep, there was no further exchange between them until Marc came downstairs after reading to Polly, his face so hostile that Joanna eyed him in trepidation.

  'What's the matter?' she asked.

  Marc's brows rose slightly over eyes as hard and cold as jet. 'Polly's just let me in on a very interesting little secret. Only she was guilt-stricken afterwards, because she wasn't supposed to tell.'

  'Tell what?' said Joanna, her heart sinking.

  'Apparently Jack and Charlie Lavenham heard their mummy telling their daddy,' he said with deadly mimicry, 'that you are expecting a baby.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Joanna whitened as she faced the sudden blaze of anger in Marc's eyes. 'I—I asked Mary not to tell George.' She hugged her arms across her chest. 'I had no idea Polly knew.'

  'Nevertheless she does know. As do the Lavenhams. Possibly Swancote en masse as well. Everyone, in fact, except me.' Marc pounced, seizing her by the elbows. 'When, Joanna?'

  'July,' she said hoarsely.

  Marc released her, standing back, his face expressionless. 'Then it's mine, not Paul's. Unless there's someone else in the running, of course.'

  His tone lashed Joanna into sudden fury. 'If you have any doubts on that score,' she spat, 'get out. Now.'

  'Not on your sweet life. I want a few things cleared up.' Marc stood with long legs apart, his arms folded. 'If the date is July, I must be the father. Is that right?'

  'Yes,' she said flatly.

  'Quite a bombshell! I thought you couldn't have more children.'

  Joanna's chin lifted proudly. 'So did I. But it seems my doctor was mistaken. Utterly ludicrous, isn't it? If Paul had been the kind of husband prepared to take me for better or worse as he was supposed to, he might have achieved his family in the end after all. Not that I could have guaranteed him a son, of course. The child I lost was a girl. So is Polly.'

  'For the moment,' said Marc menacingly, advancing on her, 'and just for once, I'm not interested in Polly, and certainly not in Paul bloody Clifford. I'm interested in you, and me, and our baby. When were you going to tell me ‑?' He stopped dead, suddenly white as his shirt. 'Or were you planning to arrange things so you didn't have to?'

  Joanna stared at him in horror. 'You think I'd have ‑?' She swallowed, gulped hard, then brushed him aside and tore from the room to the small cloakroom off the hall.

  When she returned to the drawing-room, ashen-faced but relatively composed Marc was standing in front of the dying fire, his face so masklike that Joanna had no clue as to his feelings.

  'Perhaps you'd go now,' she said distantly. 'But first, purely for the record, you may care to know that I was a coward. I lacked the courage to tell you because it sounded like such out-and-out blackmail. Think about it. I wouldn't marry you before for the sole reason that I couldn't give you a child of your own. I just couldn't bring myself to come to you, cap in hand, just because by some practical joke of fate it seems I can, after all.'

  'Why the hell not? I had a right to know!' he said bitterly.

  'You couldn't have failed to know soon.' She tried a casual smile. 'If my present rate of expansion continues I'm likely to be what is known as "great with child" far sooner than I'd like.'

  They stared at each other in hostile silence for a long, tense interval then Marc picked up his coat. 'I need some time to think,' he said wearily. 'Under the circumstances I find it damned impossible to understand your opposition to marriage. I, unlike Paul Clifford, want my child to know exactly who its father is. Capisce? If you won't marry me that's too bad. But don't imagine for a minute you'll bring up a child of mine in ignorance of the fact that Marc Anstey is its father.' He glared at her. 'I suppose you hate the thought of having my baby.'

  'Do you expect me to be thrilled to bits?' she demanded.

  'No. I suppose not. On which note I'll bid you goodnight, Joanna. Thanks for lunch.' To her dismay he strode past her, grim-faced, then turned in the doorway. 'I forgot,' said Marc, in a tone which flayed. 'Merry Christmas.'

  Afterwards Joanna had very little recollection of how she got through the following day at the Lavenhams'. Looking back on it, she knew that she'd opened gifts, drunk sherry and pulled crackers, eaten turkey and joined in all the merriment and festivities, gone for the ritual walk afterwards, and returned to play silly games and drink tea and hand round mince pies. />
  'Are you all right, Jo?' asked Mary in private when Joanna said goodbye.

  Joanna hesitated, then shrugged wearily. 'You told George; the twins heard; they told Polly; she told Marc.' Joanna kissed Mary's guilt-flushed cheek. 'Don't worry, love. He had to know some time.'

  Once Polly was in bed it was a strange experience to sit alone on the evening of Christmas Day. When her father was alive Joanna had brought friends home for Christmas, the more the merrier as far as Richard Swan was concerned. Then she'd married Paul and Christmas had become a commercial, glossy affair. But at least it was never quiet like this, she thought, feeling so lonely and depressed that at long last she gave up the struggle with her pride and rang Marc's expensive Cotswold hotel, surprised that instead of paging Mr Anstey the receptionist put her through to his room immediately.

  'Joanna,' she said tentatively when he answered.

  'Joanna?' His voice sharpened. 'What's the matter? Is it Polly? Or are you ill ‑?'

  'No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted a word with you.'

  There was a long, unbearable pause.

  'So talk, then,' he said at last.

  'I wondered,' she said coolly, 'if you'd have time to call back here before returning to London.'

  'Why?'

  'There appears to be something wrong with Polly's bike.'

  'I see. Stupid of me. For a moment I hoped you wanted to discuss our little mutual problem.'

  Joanna scowled. Marc was right. She did. There was nothing at all wrong with Polly's bicycle. 'We could,' she said colourlessly. 'If you wish.'

  'Since when were you so magnanimous about my wishes?'

  'I agree there are things to discuss ‑' she began stiffly.

  'You bet your sweet life there are!' There was a pause. 'All right, Joanna. I'll come tomorrow afternoon. I'm committed to lunch with someone here first.'

  'Thank you,' said Joanna formally.

  'I can't stay long. I've got an appointment later in London.'

  'I'm only too grateful you can fit a visit to Swan House into your busy schedule at all,' she said sweetly. 'Goodnight.'

  'Wait,' said Marc peremptorily. 'Don't hang up. How was Polly's day?'

  'On the whole very good. She cried a bit first thing, when we opened her Christmas stocking together in bed.

  'Because she always did that with Rosa.' Marc's voice grew huskier. 'All day I've been thinking I should have been there too.'

  In my bed? thought Joanna. 'It was your choice to stay away,' she pointed out. 'But don't worry, she was fine the rest of the day. The noise and commotion at the Rectory were just what she needed.'

  'It was pretty lively here, too,' he said heavily. 'But it was no substitute for a family Christmas with Rosa and Polly.'

  'No,' said Joanna, sighing. 'I don't suppose it was.'

  'I'll see you tomorrow, then.'

  'Thank you for sparing the time. Goodnight.' Joanna put the phone down very carefully, then, unable to face televised Christmas jollity alone, she went out for a brief, chilly stroll in the garden with Sunny before retiring to bed with the latest bestseller, her gift from Mary.

  The morning of Boxing Day passed very pleasantly. Several neighbours called in from time to time for a drink and a chat, kind in their efforts to cheer Joanna up in her first Christmas alone at Swan House, and later, glad to repay Mary's hospitality for the day before, Joanna invited Jack and Charlie to lunch. After a boisterous, noisy meal in the kitchen, she played a fast and furious game of Snap on the drawing-room carpet with the children, took them for a short walk afterwards with the dog, then suggested they draw for a while on the kitchen table. When George Lavenham arrived to collect his sons he was astonished to find peace and quiet reigning at Swan House, as the three children vied with each other to create the best likeness of Sunny.

  Agreeing to his sons' demands of a few extra minutes to finish their masterpieces, George admired the artists' work, then accepted Joanna's offer of a glass of sherry in the drawing-room.

  'I'm rather glad of a chance for a quiet chat, Jo,' said George, leaning an arm on the chimney piece, just as Marc had done.

  Joanna eyed him, resigned, thinking how handsome he looked with his windblown fair hair above the heavy white sweater knitted by his mother, the silk scarf Mary had given him knotted at his open collar. George Lavenham in mufti looked more like a movie actor than a man of the cloth.

  'About the baby, you mean.'

  George nodded. 'I just wanted you to know that if you don't want to marry the chap, it won't make any difference to Mary and me. We'll give you any help and support you want, Jo.'

  Joanna, fully expecting a homily on why she should persuade Marc to do the decent thing, burst into tears.

  George put down his glass hurriedly and pulled her up into his arms. He held her close, smoothing her hair, undismayed by the torrent of scalding tears soaking his new sweater. 'There, there,' he said soothingly. 'You've had a rotten time of it lately.'

  These kind words, far from drying Joanna's tears, made her cry all the harder, and George fished in his pocket for the large clean handkerchief Mary always provided for use in emotive situations among his parishioners. He scrubbed at her face energetically, winning a wobbly smile as reward. He smiled back encouragingly, then hugged Joanna hard, giving her a smacking kiss, whereupon an ungentle hand hauled him off and hit the Reverend Mr Lavenham square on the jaw with a blow which felled him to the floor.

  Joanna dropped to her knees beside George, blazingly angry as she turned to glare up at Marc Anstey, who bent to haul her back up again while George leapt lightly to his feet, his face alight with amusement.

  'What in heaven's name do you think you're doing?' demanded Joanna in a rage.

  'Dr Morley, I presume,' snarled Marc, advancing on George, who made things rather worse by trying hard not to laugh.

  'Don't be stupid, Marc!' said Joanna, incensed. 'This is George Lavenham.'

  'Hell—you're not the vicar?' asked Marc in dismay.

  George grinned, fingering his jaw. 'That's me. But if you think I'm going to turn the other cheek you're mistaken!'

  Colour surged in Marc's dark, arrested face. He spread both hands in apology, stifling a curse. 'Lord, I don't know what to say. Seeing the lights in the kitchen, I came in that way, and Polly sent me straight in here. I thought Joanna was resting. When I found you together I just saw red.' He eyed George ruefully. 'I've had a few scuffles in my time, but I've never hit a clergyman before.'

  'You only managed it this time because you took George by surprise,' observed Joanna nastily. 'He boxed for his college.'

  'Comes in handy at the youth club,' said George cheerfully. 'Any time you fancy lending a hand we could use you. That's a punishing left.'

  Marc smiled remorsefully. 'You're taking this very well.'

  'George may be, but I'm not!' snapped Joanna. 'I don't see what business 'it is of yours who you find in my drawing-room.'

  'It is when the man's kissing you!'

  They confronted each other like gladiators, oblivious of George, who looked on with deep enjoyment as he finished his sherry.

  'I happen to think that what I do, and who I do it with, is entirely my own affair,' said Joanna bitingly.

  'Oh, do you! In my opinion the fact that you're expecting my baby makes it very much my affair,' returned Marc.

  'Rubbish! Besides, George was kissing me purely by way of comfort. Being pregnant seems to have affected my tear ducts. I started crying when he assured me of combined Lavenham support whatever I decide to do.'

  'You know bloody well what you're going to do. You're going to marry me, you maddening woman.' Marc turned to George in appeal. 'Surely you agree?'

  'Have you asked her?' queried George casually.

  'Of course I've asked her!' Marc raked a hand through his hair violently.

  'No, you haven't!' contradicted Joanna.

  Marc gave her a look which brought the blood to her cheeks. 'I don't want to embarrass Lavenham
here, but if necessary I can recall the exact time and place of my proposal!'

  She sniffed. 'You haven't asked me since you heard about the baby.'

  There was silence for a moment or two.

  'I thought,' said Marc with care, 'that you would realise, without my having to repeat it, that the proposal still stood. I've never withdrawn it. You were the one against marriage. Not me.'

  Joanna's eyes blazed with scorn. 'How like a man! Can't you see that finding I was pregnant changed everything? Of course I needed to be asked again! Besides,' she added truculently, 'I thought you might have changed your mind. I don't want you tied to me against your will—I've had enough of that.'

  'When will you get it through your head that I am nothing like Paul Clifford?' He ground his teeth impotently. 'The bastard wrecked your confidence and gave you such a jaundiced view of men in general you can't trust anyone, most of all me, as far as I can see.'

  'But in a roundabout way,' put in George peaceably, 'he was actually instrumental in bringing you two together.'

  Marc's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 'You're right. He was. For that, at least, I suppose I should be grateful.'

  'By which I gather you love Joanna.' George smiled. 'It's all that matters, really, you know.'

  Marc turned slowly to meet Joanna's startled eyes. 'He's right, of course. It is all that matters. I love you. These past few weeks have taught me that as long as you let me play a part in your life— preferably the lead,' he added with a wry grin, 'I'll accept your terms.'

  Joanna stared at him dumbly, wondering how to find a way to let him know she preferred his original idea.

  'Um—look,' said George apologetically, 'tell me to push off and mind my own business if you like, but my experience as Mary's husband emboldens me to suggest that Joanna may have changed her mind. About marriage, I mean.'