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Page 45
That one last battle had been the worst.
‘Supposing –’ he could not bring himself to voice the worst of his fears ‘– supposing something goes wrong?’ he had said, appalled and shaking when she had told him her news. ‘What will we do?’
‘You mean supposing his skin is dark? His hair is curly? His features different from ours? We’ll love him! That’s what we’ll do!’ For all her understanding, Hannah had herself been furious. ‘Harry, what chance has the child – any child! – if its own father is prejudiced against it?’
‘I’m not! I’m not! It’s just –’ He had not been able to go on.
She had put her arms about him then, laid her face upon the thick black hair. ‘I know. I know why you’re frightened. But Harry, you aren’t eighteen years old now. And this is very nearly the twentieth century. Something’s got to change. Why shouldn’t we help that change? The child will be ours – yours and mine. The child will be beautiful and we’ll love him. Or her. That’s all that counts, isn’t it, at least for now? We’ll face everything else as it comes. We’ll help him. He won’t be alone. And if others care to think differently than we do, what does it matter? There’ll be people to stand by us. People who know right from wrong. People who will love a man for what he is, not for what his father or his grandfather was. You’ve found that yourself already, you know it.’
It had taken time. For the first few weeks Harry had seemed unable fully to share her happiness, had resisted any attempt to speak about or to plan for the coming child; until the day they had watched a new-born foal, dazed, helpless, still wet from birth, stagger to its feet and nuzzle the warmth of its mother’s teats. They had been standing in the hay-scented warmth of the stable. The little animal, all long, wobbly legs and huge eyes, stood trusting and quiet as the mare turned to lick it clean with a loving tongue. Hannah had felt all at once quite desperately alone, had fought the unexpected tears that burned in her eyes, turning a little from Harry so that he would not see. A moment later she had been taken by surprise to feel herself fiercely gathered into her husband’s arms. She had felt the tears that had shaken him as the last, bitter pain had finally been washed away. The following day they had begun to discuss names, and at last he had agreed that they should tell Mattie and Rupert. To look at him now, Hannah thought, happiness rising as they lifted their glasses in a toast to the new life within her, no-one could doubt his pride and his pleasure. She exchanged a glance with Mattie, smiling affectionately at the glint of tears in the still-bright dark eyes.
‘Weeping, Mattie dear?’ Rupert put a huge arm about her shoulders. ‘Can’t have that, my dear; you can’t drink champagne when you’re crying, you know. It makes the bubbles go up your nose.’
‘Of course I’m not crying.’ Mattie beamed about her. The tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. ‘Why should I be crying?’
‘Because Jake’s digging a large hole in your best rose bed?’ her son suggested, solemn-faced.
She rubbed her eyes, looked to where the huge dog, wet as a soaked rug, was doing just that. ‘Well, he’s got to have somewhere to bury his bone, now hasn’t he?’ she asked, mildly.
‘That definitely decides it,’ Hannah said.
‘What? What does it decide?’
‘Any little girl who has a grandmother as dotty as you deserves to be called after her. Don’t you think?’
Harry grinned. Rupert, obviously already told of the idea, smiled at his wife with huge and quiet affection.
Mattie’s expression was one of simple, speechless delight. ‘You mean it? You’ll call her after me?’
‘If she’s a she,’ Hannah said, laughing. ‘If not –’ she hesitated, glanced at Harry and away ‘– if not, well, we haven’t decided.’
There was an undeniably significant silence. Mattie, wisely, said nothing. Rupert, under no such delicate restraint, looked innocently from one to another. ‘What are the choices?’
Hannah said nothing.
Harry finished his champagne. ‘Hannah,’ he said, repressively, ‘rather favours Joshua.’
Mattie caught her breath.
Hannah took another sip of her wine, set the glass down, turned composedly. ‘I’ve always rather liked the name. But there’s no need to take a decision yet. We’ve months to think about it.’
Harry’s mouth set in a stubborn line.
‘Time to go, my dear,’ Hannah said. ‘You wanted to be back for the evening gallop.’
Farewells taken, Mattie and Rupert stood watching the small dogcart bowl off down the uneven gravel drive towards the lane that led into Maidstone.
Rupert’s voice was very gentle. ‘And they all lived happily ever after,’ he said.
‘I hope so.’ Mattie’s voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible, and inevitable tears blurred it. ‘Oh, God in heaven, I hope so!’
Rupert, very firmly, turned her to face him. ‘There is more champagne,’ he said. ‘I recommend it.’
‘For celebration?’ she asked, shakily. ‘Or for the treatment of craven terror?’
‘For either,’ he said, equably. ‘Or, of course, for both.’ And quietly took her hand to lead her back into her garden.
First published in Great Britain in 1994 by HarperCollins Publishers
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Teresa Crane, 1994
The moral right of Teresa Crane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788633628
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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