A Suitable Groom

by Liz Fielding

  It was silly stuff; it was supposed to make her laugh. Instead, the floodgates opened. She must have been bottling up the tears for a long time, because they poured from her in a silent tide that seemed to go on for ever before she was finally shaken by a great racking sob that broke the last shred of her self-possession, reserve, and she clung to him as if afraid she might drown.

  He held her, rocking her against his chest while the storm of tears raged within her that he thought would never end. He gentled her, murmured the soft, meaningless words of comfort, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, feeling her pain, hurting all the more because he could not ease it.

  But, like the storm that had passed over them in the night, hers too gradually subsided, dwindled to involuntary little sobs and hiccups. Then she reached for the corner of the sheet and dried her face, gave a little sniff. ‘I’m sorry.’ He said nothing, merely tucked the quilt around her more tightly, held her close so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. ‘It wasn’t you … anything you did.’

  ‘I know. It was Cassie, the baby …’ Something else.

  ‘I can’t have babies, Fergus …’ She spoke so quietly that for a moment he didn’t quite catch what she’d said. Then the words sank into his brain like a firebrand.

  She had known that, and had accepted it, and had forged a career for herself and never let the world see how much she was hurting. Then, tonight, fate had thrown a spanner in the works and all that careful poise and control had snapped.

  ‘But your mother … the biological clock … ’

  ‘Broken beyond repair.’

  He sat back, stared at her. ‘My God, your mother doesn’t know, does she?’

  She shook her head. ‘This way she can blame me for not getting married, for not being a proper daughter, a proper woman …’ Her words ate at him. This was what she had been feeling, holding in? For how long?

  ‘Instead of blaming herself? Why would she do that?’

  ‘Because she travelled the world with my father and left me at home in boarding school. She loved him, Fergus. I don’t want her to feel guilty for wanting to be with him. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference anyway … ’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  The still light from the candles was reflected in her silver eyes as she raised heavy lids to look at him, testing his sincerity. Then she gave a little sigh. ‘I told you I was going to marry a man called George Glendale.’

  ‘The guy with the title?’

  ‘We met at university, but I was a first-year, he was just graduating—older, glamorous and moving on. Then we met again in London. I’d just started my own marketing company. He was bright, clever, with a meteoric career in banking ahead of him. We were a golden couple, our lives a shining path ahead of us. Then he was given an overseas posting—New York—and because he couldn’t bear to leave me behind he asked me to marry him.’

  She looked up at him, as if uncertain whether this was something he wanted to hear. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He took me to Scotland to meet his mother, the Countess Glendale.’

  ‘At the castle?’

  ‘At the castle. It should have been daunting, but it wasn’t.’ She managed a smile. ‘It wasn’t a very big castle.’ Another small sigh escaped her. ‘The Countess was charming and we did the whole family thing—you know, the photograph albums, stories of the scrapes George had got into as a boy … the day he had been rushed to hospital with appendicitis.’

  Something in her voice warned him that this was where it had stopped being a pleasant weekend. ‘Appendicitis?’

  ‘I thought it was funny—you know, cute—because the same thing had happened to me.’ Except it hadn’t been quite the same. Her parents had been overseas, she had been at boarding school, and when she had gone to Matron, clutching her stomach with pain, the woman had just dosed her up with syrup of figs and told her not to make a fuss. And she hadn’t. Instead, she’d collapsed very quietly in class two days later with a ruptured appendix.

  ‘George’s mother didn’t say anything until we were on our own, but then she insisted that I go to a gynaecologist and have a check-up.’

  His face creased in a frown. ‘Why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I didn’t understand either. At the time, no one had thought to mention that I might have problems when I wanted to have children.’ But the countess had known. ‘Apparently there was a risk that because of the rupture I might have sustained damage to my Fallopian tubes.’ She was saying this very carefully, so that he would understand that it was serious, that she wasn’t making a fuss about nothing. ‘That would mean my eggs couldn’t be fertilised.’

  ‘Would that have mattered? If he loved you?’

  ‘George was—is—an earl. Countess Glendale made it quite clear that without the possibility of an heir, marriage to her son would be impossible.’

  It was hard to suppress his anger, but he did it, for her. ‘Children are not guaranteed, Veronica. And even when they arrive they have a fifty-fifty chance of being girls.’

  ‘An even chance, Fergus. That’s all she wanted for George. Not no chance.’

  ‘And if you hadn’t found out before the wedding? How long would she have waited before she ordered a divorce? What century is she living in, for heaven’s sake? And didn’t sweet George have anything to say on the subject?’

  ‘I didn’t mention it to him. I didn’t for one moment think there would be any reason for him to ever know. I went back to London after the weekend, told my doctor the whole story and he arranged a special test—an HSG, he called it—to check if I’d have problems. The countess, it seems, knew her stuff.’ She shivered.

  ‘You’re cold.’ He fished beneath the pillows for a nightgown, then put it over her head, threaded her arms through it, but she was still shivering. It wasn’t the temperature that was chilling her. He pulled her down beneath the covers and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Come on, you might as well tell me everything.’

  ‘There’s nothing more to tell. I explained the situation to George and then offered him the chance to walk away.’

  ‘He took it?’ The words came out on a hiss of breath. He couldn’t believe any man could be so cruel. ‘Dear God, weren’t you enough for him?’

  ‘Don’t be hard on him, Fergus. In his position—’

  He put his hand over her mouth. Then, as she stared up at him with wide, startled eyes, he said, ‘Don’t even mention him in the same breath as me. I love you. I want to marry you. You, Veronica. Live with you, share your life and whatever goes with it, good and bad.’

  ‘Marry me?’

  ‘I’m in love with you,’ he said. ‘It seems the logical thing to do.’

  ‘But your name—’

  ‘You think the world is short of Kavanaghs?’

  She shook her head. That wasn’t what she meant and he knew it. ‘Marlowe Court? Kavanagh Industries?’ she reminded him. ‘Who’ll take your place?’

  ‘Kavanagh Industries is a public company. It doesn’t need a Kavanagh to survive. As for Marlowe Court—I have two sisters. Poppy has a baby son; Dora will have a stepdaughter the moment she marries John. The next generation is taken care of. Have you any more objections?’

  ‘Of course I have. You scarcely know me. We met less than a week ago, for heaven’s sake. You can’t possibly want to marry me.’

  She hadn’t said yes, but then she hadn’t said no, either.

  And she hadn’t said, I don’t love you.

  ‘It’s a Kavanagh thing,’ he said. ‘I don’t pretend to understand it, but it seems to work.’ And he smiled down at her. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve got six whole months to get used to the idea.’ Her smooth, high forehead was disturbed by a frown. ‘November,’ he reminded her. ‘Your mother is already hard at work organising our wedding.’

  ‘But that was—’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘But it was—’ He placed the finger on hers. ‘No. This is quite—’ he tried a kiss ‘—ridiculous,’ she mumbled.r />
  ‘Then why aren’t you laughing?’ But he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he kissed her again, and this time he made sure he put a stop to her objections for a long time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHEN Veronica woke it was light and the sun was streaming in through the bedroom window as if last night’s storm had never happened. And she was alone. For a moment she thought, hoped, that the whole thing had been a terrible, a wonderful dream.

  But the air was sharp with the scent of burned-down candles, and in the bathroom her ruined dress lay in a damp bundle on the floor. And the shirt that Fergus had been wearing had gone. Had he gone too? Then she heard him downstairs and her heart gave a treacherous, telltale leap … a bound of pure joy, and, without stopping to tell herself that she was living in a fool’s paradise, she pulled a wrap from behind the door and rushed down to the kitchen, stopping suddenly in the doorway. Shy.

  He turned as he heard her. ‘Hello, sleepyhead. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.’ He placed a pot of coffee on a tray already laid with fruit and yoghurt and freshly made toast.

  His chin was dark with the overnight growth of his beard, his hair was rumpled, his shirt unbuttoned, creased, and showing the scars left in her eagerness to divest him of it the night before. She could have looked at him for ever. ‘I should be at work.’

  He grinned as he poured coffee, held out a mug. ‘Relax, sweetheart, we’re going nowhere until the workmen have shifted a tree that’s blocking the end of the road.’

  She took it, regarding his crumpled shirt, creased trousers. ‘Did you go outside looking like that?’

  ‘I needed to use the phone—yours is out, so I used the one in the car—but don’t worry, I didn’t go further than that. It was your next-door neighbour who told me about the tree.’

  ‘Mrs Rogers?’

  ‘That’s right. Nice lady. Wanted to stay and chat.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  He grinned again. ‘Anyway, it was the tree that brought the telephone lines down.’

  ‘I was going to phone the hospital. See how Cassie—’

  ‘Done. Mother and baby doing just fine. We’ll go and see them later. And I called your office to explain why you’d be late. You are not the only one, apparently.’

  ‘Is there anyone in the entire world who doesn’t know you spent last night in my bed?’

  He buttered a piece of toast and offered it to her. ‘I’m sure there are a few. But I’ll call the local radio station and have them make an announcement if you like. Invite the entire city to the wedding.’ His eyes were laughing. He was happy, she realised. And for the first time in as long as she could remember she realised that she was happy too.

  ‘Why don’t you do just that?’ she said as she held his wrist and bent to take a bite out of the toast. Then, without letting go, she headed back towards the stairs. ‘And, since neither of us are going anywhere, you can tell them you’re going to spend the morning there too.’

  Veronica was fine until she reached the hospital. All afternoon at the office she’d been absolutely fine. Everyone had wanted to know about Cassie’s baby, what had happened, and that had been fine too. She’d even had a call from a local newspaper reporter, who was writing a feature on the storm and wanted a photograph of the lady who’d delivered a baby in the back of a car because the ambulance hadn’t been able to make it in time. She’d gone down to the atrium and bought flowers and fruit for the new mother, and she had even gone into a baby boutique and bought the infant a gift without cracking up.

  Then Fergus had picked her up from work and driven her out to the hospital, and she had held the tiny new life that she had helped to bring into the world and that had been just fine as well. Fergus loved her. She loved him. Life was suddenly, unexpectedly, unbelievably wonderful.

  ‘Have you decided on a name yet?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘I ought to call her after you.’

  ‘Don’t you dare! Better call her Gilda—you very nearly gave birth in the Guildhall, despite your promise.’

  ‘If that’s the criterion, she should be called Ringroad,’ Fergus said. ‘Or what about Mercedes?’ They all looked at him for a moment, as if considering the possibility, before shaking their heads.

  ‘She doesn’t look like a Mercedes,’ Cassie said. ‘She looks like a little flower.’

  ‘But what flower?’ Nick took his baby daughter into his arms. That was when Veronica saw the look in his eyes—warm, tender, full of wonder.

  The tiny sound that came from her throat was heard by no one but Fergus. ‘We’ll leave you to rest, Cassie,’ he said quickly, taking her arm.

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘You don’t need us.’ He bent quickly to kiss Cassie’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you, Nick.’ And he had her outside the door, was holding her before she could think, his arms tight around her as if he would protect her from the world. ‘Don’t say anything. I love you.’ She didn’t doubt it any more than she doubted her love for him. But sometimes love meant sacrifice. His or hers? There was, could only ever be, one answer.

  At least this time it would be her decision. Not now. Not today. After Dora’s wedding, she promised herself. She would tell him then that it had been a mistake. That she couldn’t possibly marry him, that it had simply been an over-emotional response to Cassie’s baby, to the storm. By then he, too, would have had time to think more clearly, and she didn’t think he would argue. ‘All right now?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m fine.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘Really. Just a bit emotional, that’s all.’

  ‘So, what shall we do this evening? We can eat out, if you like.’ She shook her head. ‘Then the only thing to decide is your place or mine?’

  She knew she should say neither. That she had work to catch up on. It would be the wise thing to say. But she would have the rest of her life to congratulate herself on her wisdom, to catch up on work; she had just a little over a week to store up precious memories. She would make the most of them. ‘Mine,’ she said. ‘And this time I’ll cook for you.’

  It was the second wedding in two weeks, and once again all eyes were on her. But this time, as she stood and turned as the organist struck up the Wagner wedding march, it was not the ethereally lovely bride she was watching, it was Fergus as he led his younger sister up the aisle to give her to the man she loved. It was a moment of great joy, and she blinked back a tear but didn’t try to hide it; tears, after all, were perfectly acceptable at a wedding. She simply lifted a delicate handkerchief to her face to blot it away, her smile never wavering for a moment.

  And afterwards at the reception, when she was asked about the date for her own wedding, well, Fergus seemed always to be at her elbow with a ready answer.

  ‘November, unless I can persuade Veronica to make it earlier.’

  And she had her answer too. ‘Earlier? I don’t know how I’m going to manage it in six months,’ she said. ‘Dora will tell you how much there is to do, and she wasn’t working.’

  ‘But you’ll give up your job, surely? You’ll be eager to start—’

  And that was another cue for Fergus. ‘Certainly not. I’m the one who’s giving up work. What’s the point of marrying a successful career woman if I don’t allow her to keep me?’

  It provoked laughter, as it was meant to, and Fergus, with a reassuring squeeze of her hand, moved on, introducing her to family and friends. And there were so many people, all of them strangers. At least at Fliss’s wedding Fergus had met people he’d already known. He’d had fun. But it had all been a game then, and the game was nearly over.

  There was only one move left, a last desperate throw of the dice. She needed a double six, but she knew the odds were stacked against her …

  ‘I think we could leave now and no one would miss us,’ Fergus said. They had been dancing, but now he stopped, still holding her close. Dora and John had been waved away on their honeymoon; Poppy and Richard had taken Sophie along with their own infant son
back to their cottage. ‘This lot will party all night.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You don’t want to party?’

  ‘Only with you.’ And he leaned forward, kissed her lightly on the mouth. For this he received a cheer from the youthful element, who had been enjoying his hospitality with more enthusiasm than sense. Fergus turned and offered them an ironic bow. Then, ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’m far too old to make a fool of myself in public.’

  ‘What about in private?’ she teased.

  ‘No objections at all.’

  Outside, the twilight garden seemed a peaceful place after the marquee, scented with honeysuckle and early roses. They walked for a while in silence, then Fergus said, ‘How do you feel about going away for a few days, Veronica?’

  It would be heaven. But a kind of hell, too. And she’d promised herself that this week she would book that restaurant, stage that fight, throw back his ring. And if she did it well enough he would never know that it had all been an act. ‘I don’t think I can just at the moment, Fergus. I’m just so busy—’

  But he was prepared for that. ‘If it’s work you’re worried about, I’ve already cleared it with Nick.’

  She came to an abrupt halt. ‘You’ve done what?’ she demanded, but didn’t give him a chance to repeat what he’d said. ‘When did you see Nick?’

  ‘I didn’t. He phoned me. Cassie just wanted to be sure that we knew she meant it when she asked us to be godparents. The christening is six weeks on Sunday. That’s if they’ve decided on a name for the baby by then. You’d think after nine months they’d at least have a shortlist… ’

  ‘Nicola. They’re calling her Nicola Rose …’ Then she realised that she’d been sidetracked, and didn’t like it. She had wanted an excuse to be angry with him. Well, now she’d got it. ‘And don’t think you can change the subject. My job is nothing to do with you, Fergus. Nick is on leave, and right now he doesn’t know what day of the week it is, let alone what I’ve got in my diary. I’m up to my eyes with plans for the launch of a new range of fishing tackle—’ Oh, heavens, that sounded so lame. The fishing tackle would keep for a few days, but there was something else that couldn’t, something she wasn’t going to tell him about.