Alison Fraser - Her Sister's Baby

It was something of a setback when Pen added, ‘The trouble is he’s so sexy, too.’

Cass wasn’t about to argue. Dray Carlisle definitely fell into the sexy category. But should Pen be conscious of this fact when she was about to marry his younger brother the following afternoon? Cass thought not.

Pen caught her sister’s expression and quickly backtracked. ‘Don’t worry. I find lots of men sexy. It doesn’t mean I’d do anything about it.’

‘Lots of men aren’t going to be your next door neighbours,’ Cass felt she should point out. ‘Dray Carlisle is.’

‘So? It’s not me who’ll be sorry,’ Pen claimed, ‘but Dray, when he realises what he’s missing. I can just see him, growing old and wrinkly, carrying a torch for me until the day he dies.’

Cass wasn’t sure if Pen was entirely joking, but she laughed with her, anyway. It was becoming clear that, for all her doubts, Pen was going to become Mrs Tom Carlisle, regardless.

‘Should I take it the wedding’s on?’ Cass enquired dryly.

‘What do you think?’ Pen smirked back. ‘All that money— I’d be crazy not to go through with it.’

‘Pen!’ reproved Cass, but Pen continued to grin as she slipped into bed and snuggled down.

It was Cass who was left to switch off the light and lie awake, long after Pen’s breathing told her she’d fallen asleep. But that was the nature of things. Pen had cleared her conscience by talking to Cass and now it was Cass’s job to do the worrying.

Meanwhile Pen slept like a log and woke bright and breezy the next morning, talking nineteen to the dozen about the wedding, her honeymoon and the house they would one day buy. And later she floated up the aisle of the fine old medieval church where the Carlisles worshipped, trailed by a coterie of attendants, all cousins of Tom’s apart from Pen’s best friend, Kelly.

Pen had asked Cass to be a bridesmaid, too, but had looked relieved when Cass had demurred, citing lilac as not her colour and flounces even less her style.

Cass was content to sit in one of the front pews, proud of her sister’s beauty, doubts quelled by the look of devotion on Tom Carlisle’s face when he turned to his future bride.

Even Dray Carlisle seemed to give the marriage his blessing. Dressed in morning coat and tails, he stood at his brother’s side, acting as best man, solemn until the ceremony was over, then, with a smile, embracing his brother and Pen in a circle.

Cass had mixed feelings at the gesture. She was pleased that Pen was to be accepted into the Carlisle fold but it surely meant a degree of loss for her. Pen was embarking on a new life and Cass already suspected from hints dropped that she wanted to keep it quite separate from her old one.

Cass understood why and was losing herself in the crowd outside the church when suddenly Dray Carlisle loomed in view, head and shoulders above most people, nodding acknowledgements to friends as he went, before coming to a halt in front of her.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ he announced without preamble.

Considering they hadn’t spoken since the day they’d met, it was hardly the politest of greetings, so why had she felt it again, that sharp pull of attraction?

She hid the fact well, muttering back, ‘And it’s nice to see you again, too.’

His brow lifted, registering the sarcasm, then he took her arm and instructed briskly, ‘Come on.’

‘Come on where?’ she echoed as he steered her through the crowd.

‘Photographs.’

‘Oh.’

Cass’s lack of enthusiasm was almost tangible.

He squinted her a curious look. ‘Don’t you want to be included in a record of the happy occasion?’

‘Not especially. I’m a little camera shy,’ she excused lamely.

‘It’s only a couple of group photographs,’ he assured her as they skirted round the corner of the church to find bride and groom posing against a backdrop of a blossoming cherry tree.

Pen was obviously loving every moment, flirting with the camera in a rather unbridal manner.

‘Well, your reticence is clearly not a genetic condition,’ Dray Carlisle added in an undertone.

Cass took it as criticism and replied a little sharply, ‘Pen’s enjoying her day. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ he agreed, choosing to be conciliatory. ‘I was merely remarking on how different you are.’

‘Well, I’m sure if I was drop-dead gorgeous,’ Cass stated dryly, ‘I’d be tempted to show off a little, too.’

Dray Carlisle might have taken the comment for envy, but he was too astute for that.

‘Would you?’ He studied her openly for a moment: dark hair, green eyes, classic bone structure and a mouth that was wide and generous even as she tried to turn it into a disapproving line. ‘No, I don’t think so. Your looks may not be as obvious as your sister’s but many men would find you the more attractive. I suspect you know that. You just don’t care.’

He was right, in part. Cass had no interest in being rated on her looks. All the same, his analysis put her more on the defensive.

‘And you’ve gathered all this from two minutes’ conversation?’ she returned in disparaging tones.

‘Not quite,’ he admitted. ‘Pen has talked about you.’

‘Oh, right.’ Cass could imagine the impression Pen had given of her.

Strait-laced. Inhibited. Repressed, even. Somewhere on that continuum, anyway.

She didn’t get a chance to enquire further, as the photographer called out, ‘Immediate family, please.’

‘Our cue, I believe,’ he prompted, when she made no move to step forward.

‘Doesn’t that mean parents?’ She nodded towards the couple already taking up stance beside Tom.

She’d seen them earlier in church, a tall straight-backed gentleman with grey hair and beard and a rather worldlier looking woman dressed in a lemon silk two-piece and an enormous hat.

‘That’s our Uncle Charles,’ he identified the man with a slight smile, before adding with a grimace, ‘along with our stepmother, Monica, who is insisting on being in this photograph regardless of the fact she and Tom can barely tolerate each other. So, as you see, neither side can field the conventional line-up, and I’m sure Penelope will want you in it as closest family.’

Cass didn’t totally share his confidence but he was already making the decision for her, his hand suddenly clasping hers, pulling her behind him.

The contact was fleeting but her reaction was not. Long after he positioned her by Pen’s side and reminded her with gentle irony to smile—it wasn’t a funeral—she could feel the warmth and strength of his fingers.

It was then she should have run, of course. Had her photograph taken. Wished her sister well. Called a taxi and caught the first train back to town.

But fool that she was, she had to stay. Had to ignore every dictate of good sense just to find out if it was real, that rush of feeling she’d had when he’d touched her hand.

Real enough, she supposed, only now, three years on, she didn’t feel the need to give it a nice name. Maybe it still began with L and had four letters but that was all it had in common with love, that tortured, destructive feeling she’d had for Dray Carlisle.

She thanked God it had ended when it had, in a matter of a few short weeks. Thanked Pen for once having been the wiser sister when her own head had been in a state of mush and her body hurting more than her pride.

It had been like a fever, burning hot and fierce and sending her a little crazy. Then it had suddenly been over. But it had left her weak and fragile for a long time.

She was better now, of course, and immune. Only anger lingered and that was no bad thing. For angry, she was usually cold and detached, and, in that mood, she might just be able to get through another funeral without breaking down.