Lucy Gordon - Wife By Arrangement

‘I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter. As long as you love me a little. Where you are concerned, I have never been as proud as I seemed. I can live on crumbs.’

It was true. His pride was gone, replaced by a trust in his beloved that made pride needless. She saw it in his eyes, heard it in the gentleness of his voice.

‘Not crumbs,’ she whispered. ‘But a feast.’ She took his hand, led him to their room and opened the door. ‘Come,’ she said as she drew him inside. ‘Let me tell you about it.’

The last piece in place.

Lying quietly in her bed that night, Baptista listened until she heard the sound of two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs and going along the corridor. They moved slowly, as if the owners were drifting contentedly, their arms about each other. Outside Heather and Renato’s room they stopped. Baptista’s sharp ears caught the soft murmur of voices, then the click as the door opened, and another one as it closed.

She smiled to herself in the darkness. She had been right all along. When her time came, she could go in peace, knowing that her son had found deep, lasting love.

But perhaps her time wouldn’t come so soon after all. She had much to live for, including the child that Heather was carrying. Not that Heather knew yet, but she, Baptista knew. A grandson would be nice, but perhaps a little girl would be better. A girl, to wind herself around her father’s heart and teach him about love.

And yet, already he’d shown that he knew more about true love than either his mother or his wife had guessed. Who would have imagined that it would be Renato who brought Fede back to her, that he would have understood…?

However much time she had left, Fede would be there. He had promised to visit her every day, and they would sit together talking, or just holding hands. Like hers his body was aged and his face wrinkled, but she had looked into his eyes and known that he was still Fede.

This she owed to Renato, who’d been rescued from harshness and cynicism by the one woman who’d known how to reach him.

And then there was Bernardo, her son and yet not her son, a man with a wild, dark heart that allowed nobody inside. She thought of Angie, the young English woman who had loved him but been defeated by his pride. At least, men called it pride. Baptista called it stupidity. Angie might have saved him. In fact, she still might if certain plans of Baptista’s worked out as she meant them to.

A knowing gleam came into her eye. Death could wait until she was ready. There were things to do. Arrangements to make. Heads to knock together. She was feeling stronger every moment…