Alison Fraser - The Strength Of Desire

‘No, I don’t imagine you did,’ Guy echoed drily, and clearly meant more than his words said.

Jack appeared to understand. He gave his brother a conspiratorial smile. It was not returned by Guy, however. He was stony-faced.

Hope wondered how these two men could be brothers. Jack was charm itself; Guy was charmless.

Their mother decided it was time to move things on. ‘Would you like to see your room? Guy suggested you might prefer some privacy, so we’ve rearranged things to give you most of the west wing.’

‘Thank you,’ Hope acknowledged in a small voice, but didn’t look at Guy. She wasn’t fooled. It was the family that was to have privacy from her.

Caroline led the way upstairs while Guy and Jack went to take in her cases. The west wing, as the name suggested, was almost a separate part of the house. It was reached by a long corridor off the main stairway. As well as a large double bedroom, it boasted an adjoining bathroom and dressing-room. The most interesting feature, however, was a perfectly circular room inset in one of the turrets. It had been turned into a small sitting-room, with a wonderful view over the cliffs and the Atlantic beyond. From it led a staircase that wound down to the back courtyard.

Hope loved the room, and didn’t hide her enthusiasm from Caroline. The older woman smiled in relief, saying, ‘Oh, I am glad you like it. I thought Guy’s taste might be a little functional for a young girl.’

‘These are Guy’s rooms?’ Hope repeated, her face falling.

Caroline realised her mistake and quickly reassured her. ‘Yes, but don’t worry. You’re not putting him out. He’s only really here at the weekends, and he was quite happy to move to the east wing.’

Anywhere, as long as it was away from her, Hope thought for a moment, then told herself not to be so paranoid. Guy Delacroix mightn’t be keen on her, but she wasn’t that important to him.

And so it appeared, in the next couple of months as she lived in limbo in the house on the cliff. Caroline was kind without being effusive. Guy was largely absent. His work was based in Truro and during the week he stayed there. If she saw him at weekends, it was only in passing or at dinner on Sundays. Pleading sickness, she could miss even that contact. If things had not gone so drastically wrong with her pregnancy, they probably could have maintained their distance for her whole stay at Heron’s View.

But things did go wrong. It was six weeks before the birth. She had seen almost as little of Jack as she had of his brother, with him returning only for the odd visit between concert dates. And separation had not improved their relationship. While she was tired from heavy pregnancy, he was running in overdrive from his tour. He longed to be doing, drinking, partying, carrying on as before, only he was chained to her by duty.

‘It’ll be all right after the baby,’ he kept saying, and Hope felt the reassurance was as much for himself as for her.

It actually made her heart sink as she realised the life Jack was planning for them. The tours and the concerts and the travelling would continue. She would go with him. The baby would stay at home with a nanny.

But Hope couldn’t share the vision. No matter how sick or how lonely she felt, she already loved the child inside her. To leave him, or her, would be an agony. But, if she didn’t, she knew she might lose Jack.

She sometimes wondered if she’d lost him already. His visits were so infrequent. Only tears had extracted a promise from him to be at her side for the week before and after the birth.

In the end he didn’t make it. The baby came early. It was terrifying.

She was alone. Caroline had offered to stay in, but Hope had insisted she go to her regular Friday bridge evening. Guy hadn’t returned from Truro.

The storm began at nine. Normally Hope wasn’t scared of a little lightning or thunder. But this wasn’t a little; this was an electric display of pyrotechnics that lit up the sky. She watched at the window of her sitting-room as the waves crashed against the cliff-face and the rain came down in a sheet. She went to another window, looking on to the courtyard, and was in time to see a bolt of lightning flash out of the sky and seem to hit the roof of Heron’s View. She started in surprise.

It was a couple of minutes before she realised it wasn’t just her heart that was contracting with fright. The baby was coming. She tried not to panic. She had rehearsed in her mind so many times what they would do, but it had always been ‘they’. Now she was on her own.

The thought occurred to her that she would always be on her own. It was a bleak prospect. She pushed it away and concentrated on the practicalities.

She went to the telephone to do the obvious—call an ambulance. The line was dead. She couldn’t believe it. She banged down the receiver, as if that might cure some temporary fault. It didn’t.

Once more she told herself not to panic, but it was harder now. What to do? Drive. Drive what? The old MGB Guy kept in one of the garages. Did it work? Where were the keys? Could she get her bump behind the steering-wheel?

A sob escaped her, but she stifled a second one. If she wanted this baby to live, she had to keep her head. Driving to the hospital wasn’t feasible. She had to wait until Caroline arrived home; that could only be two hours away, maybe three. Meanwhile she had to go downstairs while she could still move. If she didn’t, it was possible that Caroline might go to bed without checking on her.

She got to her feet and went out into the corridor and along to the main staircase. She held on tightly to the rail as she descended. She hadn’t become too large in late pregnancy, but she’d remained tired and weak through low iron-levels. She was almost downstairs when another contraction ripped through her body. Clutching her swollen stomach, she sat down on the third step and tried to breathe the pain away.

It seemed an interminable time that she sat on that step, praying for help to come. The contractions were coming every five minutes when she heard the outer door bang open. She could have cried with relief.

With what seemed the last breath in her body, she called out, ‘Caroline,’ then gasped once more as another contraction tore through her. She threw her head back, her brow damp with the sweat of effort and fear.

But it wasn’t Caroline.

Guy Delacroix came into the hall, rain dripping off his black hair. ‘It’s me.’

He took one look at Hope and assessed the situation.

She looked back—in horror. It should have been relief. Help was at last at hand. But her very first reaction was horror.

‘You’re in labour.’ He frowned in disbelief.

She nodded.

‘Have you called an ambulance?’ he added.

‘I tried,’ she breathed out. ‘The line seems to be dead.’ ‘I’ll try again.’ He crossed to the telephone in the hall.

She watched him as he confirmed that the line was dead. He seemed amazingly controlled, but then he wasn’t the one in labour.

He looked at her again, judging the urgency of the situation, before saying, ‘Right. I’ll get my car back out of the garage and bring it round.’

He left her, and Hope struggled to contain her panic. She was scared for herself. She was scared for the baby. It was far too early.

Guy returned shortly. He must have run to the garage. When he appeared at the door, Hope tried to lift herself up, but the next contraction hit her just then. The wave of pain made her sink back on the step.

He walked over to her and waited until the pain subsided before helping her up.

‘Put your arm round my shoulders,’ he instructed quietly, and, bearing much of her weight, took her out to his car. He installed her in the back where she could stretch out.