Liz Fielding - The Bride's Baby

Finally, I want to reassure you that you can rely on my discretion. What happened between us will always remain a very special, a very private memory.

I hope the sun shines for you tomorrow and wish you and Jeremy a long and happy life together.

Yours

Tom

Sylvie read the note. Maybe she was tired; she was certainly emotionally drained, but none of it made sense.

She’d seen him just a couple of hours ago. And what the heck did he mean about her having a long and happy life with Jeremy?

She read the letter again, then went back down to the kitchen.

‘What does Tom mean about you never having to leave your home, Mrs Kennedy?’

She smiled. ‘Bless the man, he gave it to us. Said that’s what Lady Annika would have done if she’d been able to and anyway it wouldn’t be missed from the estate when it was sold.’

Sylvie sat down.

He’d given it to them. Just because she’d said…‘And the clothes? You’re to send them to the Museum?’

‘I believe he spoke to someone there just yesterday. He said to tell you that if there’s anything you want, you should take it.’

She shook her head. ‘No…’

He’d been planning this? Why hadn’t he said anything?

She re-read the last paragraph again:

“…I hope the sun shines for you tomorrow, and wish you and Jeremy a long and happy life together.”

Jeremy?

He was always bringing up Jeremy. Had even mentioned seeing them in Celebrity together. Had the entire world seen that? Even her father had said…

Oh, good grief. No. He couldn’t possibly think that all this wedding stuff was real. Could he?

Did he really believe that she was marrying Jeremy while she was carrying his baby? While she had been practically swooning in his arms in the attics? Was that why he’d pulled back from that kiss over the kitchen table?

“…you can rely on my discretion…”

Was that what he thought she’d wanted to talk to him about? To plead for his discretion?

‘Oh, no, Tom McFarlane, you don’t…’

She had his cellphone number programmed into her phone and she hit fast dial but his phone was turned off and all she got was some anonymous voice inviting her to leave a message.

‘Tom? Don’t you dare do another disappearing act on me-not until you’ve spoken to me! Ring me, do you hear? Ring me now!’

But what if he didn’t?

What if he decided to head straight for the airport, put as much distance between them as possible? It was what he’d done when Candy had let him down.

She froze. Was it possible that he’d only just come back? That he’d never received her letter?

No. That wasn’t possible. Despite her promise to him-to herself-she’d cracked, had asked him if he’d got it. She’d never forget his dismissive nod. And a long time later, “I’m sorry…”

None of this made sense. She had to talk to him. She dialled Enquiries for the number of his London apartment, but inevitably, it was unlisted. And there was no point in calling his office on a Saturday night. But she did that too. If he was there he didn’t pick up.

There was nothing for it but to drive to London and confront him, face to face. Scooping up one of the sandwiches Mrs Kennedy had made and grabbing up her keys from the kitchen table, she ran for her car.

Tom let himself into his apartment. It was immaculate. Everything was pristine. Characterless. Empty.

As different from Longbourne Court as it was possible for it to be. In a week that rambling house had become his home. A place where he felt totally at ease.

But it would be forever linked to Sylvie. Everything he touched, every room, would bring back some memory of a smile, a gesture.

He’d never be able to walk into the morning room without remembering what he’d said to her.

Would never see violets blooming in the wood without the scent bringing back that moment when he’d come so close to reaching out to her. Betraying himself.

He tossed the keys on the table. Rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to bring some life, some warmth back to his skin.

Picked up one of the piles of mail that his cleaner had put to one side. She’d clearly tossed everything that was obviously junk mail and had sorted the rest into two piles. The stuff she knew was important she’d put in one, anything she was doubtful about in the other.

There wasn’t that much, considering how long it was since he’d been home, but all his business and financial stuff went to the office and most of his personal stuff too.

He began to shuffle through the envelopes, lost interest and tossed them back on the table, where they slithered on the polished surface and fell on the floor.

About to walk past, leave them, he saw a familiar square cream envelope, took a step back and then bent to pick it up.

It might have been coincidence that it was exactly the same as the envelope that he’d taken to the post office for Sylvie. It might have been if the handwriting hadn’t been the same.

When had she written to him?

There was no stamp. No postmark. No way of knowing how long it had lain here waiting for him to return. She must have delivered it by hand. She must have come here, pushed it through his letter box, waited for an answer that had never come.

She’d asked him if he’d got her letter and he’d thought she’d meant the one returning the money but he knew that it was this letter she’d been talking about and, with a sudden sense of dread, he pushed his thumb beneath the flap and, hand trembling, took out the single sheet of paper and opened it.

Dear Mr McFarlane

I’m writing to let you know that as a result of our recent encounter, I’m expecting a baby in July…

‘No!’

The word was a roar. A bellow of pain.

He didn’t wait to read the rest but grabbed the phone, put a call through to the house. It rang and rang and then the answering machine picked up. ‘There’s to be no damn wedding tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Do you hear me, Sylvie? No wedding!’

Then he tried her cellphone, but only got a voicemail prompt. He repeated his message, then added, ‘I’m coming right back…’

Then, in desperation, he called the Kennedys’ cottage.

Her car refused to start. Her beloved, precious little car that had never once let her down, chose this moment to play dead. The lights. She’d driven through a patch of mist and had turned the lights on. And had forgotten to turn them off.

It took her ten minutes at a trot to reach the Kennedys’ cottage.

‘Don’t you fret, Sylvie,’ Mrs Kennedy said. ‘You just sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Mr Kennedy’s at a darts match, but the minute he comes home he’ll get his jump-leads and fix your car for you.’

‘I can’t wait. I’ll have to call a taxi.’

‘I’ll do that while you get your breath back.’

There was a half an hour wait and, while Mrs Kennedy went off to make ‘a nice cup of tea’, she decided to try and call Tom again, but her phone, which had been working overtime all day, chose that moment to join her car and give up the ghost.

‘Stupid, useless thing,’ she said, flinging it back into her bag, too angry to cry.

It was nearer an hour before she heard the taxi finally draw up outside the cottage and she didn’t wait for the driver to knock but just grabbed her bag, kissed Mrs Kennedy and ran down the path to the gate.

And came to a full stop.

Leaning against the fearsome Aston, arms folded, was Tom McFarlane. And he didn’t look happy.

She opened her mouth. Saw what he was holding and closed it again.

Apparently satisfied, he straightened, opened the car door and said, ‘Get in.’