“You look a little worse for wear. I can pick up Jackson if you’d like,” Jane assured Lydia. “It’d be no trouble, really.”
“No, that’s all settled with Clarice. She says that she rather likes going to the school for him, and she feels guilty taking her wage, with Mum doing up the windows and beating rugs. Mum’s gone mad on spring cleaning.” They talked about Jackson’s latest riding lesson. He’d cantered his pony for the first time and was thrilled that he hadn’t fallen off. Lydia’s smile was replaced with a slightly furrowed brow.
“Lydia, what is it?”
“I am fine, Jane, despite how dreadful you think I look today,” Lydia snapped.
Imogen sailed to the table with their meals, set them down and was gone without a word. Her appetite having vanished, Lydia pushed away her cashew chicken and poured more green tea from the lantern-shaped pot.
Jane chastised her friend. “Why you even try to dodge me, I’d like to know,” Jane’s voice was firm, but tinged with compassion. She knew that Lydia ought to talk about whatever it was bothering her, though it was more in keeping with Lydia’s nature to dismiss things, forgoing any decisions, only to have her concerns come creeping back.
These doldrums were occasionally brought on their non-existent love lives. Lydia could easily get a man if she wanted, Jane thought. A weekend in London would conjure a dozen successful bachelors prostrate at her feet, particularly given Lydia’s impressive family lines, angelic face, and the posh, teasing airs Lydia could affect when suited her. However, it sometimes seemed as if Lydia was permanently done in after the affair with Jackson’s father. Lydia had scarcely left the village since that night, six years ago, when she had spent the wee hours of the morning with the American celebrity. They’d only been too lucky that Lydia escaped the party, at the urging of her friends, before the musician collapsed and the press came pouring into the hotel.
Lydia finally gave up the silent routine. “I’ve been so tired lately. And I find myself wondering where he is. Wondering if I shouldn’t be in touch,” Lydia’s voice became a conspiratorial whisper. “Wondering if Jackson will come to hate me. Because I didn’t try harder to inform his father.”
“Oh, darling, Jackson could never hate you!” Jane cried, with a gentle, brief squeeze of Lydia’s arm. “You’re the most wonderful mum in the world. Look. If he wanted a relationship with you, then he ought to have contacted you himself, wouldn’t you say? Surely, he could have hired a private detective or other to run you to ground. I mean, you’ve been right here in Hartsbury, not slinking around the world under an alias at luxury hotels. And if he hasn’t contacted you, why should he be interested in Jackson? You sent a dozen or so letters to the record company address. What more could you do? Or, more to the point, what can you possibly do now, six years later? We’ve been over it a thousand times, Lydia.”
“I suppose. But Jackson keeps asking. Whingeing on about meeting his father. It’s doing my head in.” Imogen appeared, and replaced the half-full teapot with a new one. A good girl, our Imogen, Jane thought, but rather a nosy one.
Jane leaned back and crossed her arms. She tried again. “What else can be done, Lydia? American rock stars practically expect to go about creating children with strangers. If you got legal help to contact him, the assumption on their side would be that you’re wanting money.”
“Naturally, I don’t want to start some legal quarrel. But, Jane, try to understand, from my view,” Lydia said slowly. “If there’s a respectable sort of way for Jackson to have a father, whatever the distance, it would fill a void for him.” Anger flashed across Lydia’s face. “Everyone is willing to pardon me, but it wasn’t all you lot who’s had a baby from a one-nighter, is it? And it’s Jacks that I can’t make understand!”
“Oh, Lydia,” Jane said tenderly. “You mustn’t go on feeling guilty. I do understand the important bits. I understand that you’re a good mum. And Jackson is lovely. Children are able to cope with these things. Few families are perfect. Perhaps it’s because you get so upset that Jackson feels he must keep asking about his father. Mightn’t it be better if you took a positive stance?”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right,” Lydia agreed.
“And you’re exhausted. Maybe you ought to just go home now. Rest.”
Lydia could hardly argue. It was obvious to Jane that her friend was a bit run down, what with working, and trying to complete her nursing studies. Jane knew Lydia was grateful that she and Jackson lived at her mother’s lovely manor house at Brambleberry Lane. But Lydia drew the line at allowing her mother, or her well-to-do brother, Nigel, to pay the way entirely for her and her son. Lydia’s small paychecks from her job as a clerk at the hospital were swiftly gobbled up with tuition and helping with Jackson’s expenses. Jane knew that Lydia didn’t give much thought to money, having had it all of her life, so it was easy for her to release it to pay bills. Instead, Jane’s concern was that Lydia wasn’t a particularly energetic person to be doing so much. Lydia seemed a bit overwhelmed.
Honestly, Jane pondered, why does she bother with the nursing bit at all? Lydia enjoyed her job as a clerk, and being friendly to hospital visitors. She’d laughed, telling Jane that people seemed glad to have her give them rather useless information and send them on their way. It wasn’t exciting, but it was pleasant, and that suited Lydia. She was happier when things were straightforward and low pressure.
After Jackson was born, Lydia exhausted every means, attempting to get word of their child to Billy Killian, a blues guitarist. Later, Lydia learned that Billy had a serious drugs problem. In recent years, news reports indicated that Billy Killian had long been sober and successful. Thus, Lydia was more confused than ever.
Imogen brought the bill and both women fell silent until she walked away. “Lydia, you know you did well, truthfully recording Billy Killian as Jackson’s father, and naming him after some person that he admired. Really, darling, that’s quite enough. Jackson will grow past pestering.”
“I am sure you’re right. And I am ready to go home. Let’s leave it,” Lydia replied quietly. She shivered again, and rubbed her upper arms with her hands, chasing away the chill of the past.
Chapter 2
As with every year-end holiday season the world over, the days flew by. Apart from tucking Jackson beneath his duvet for the night, Lydia felt she seldom saw her son. He was growing up too fast, always asking questions in rapid-fire succession. And begging to be given a pony for Christmas. Lydia suspected that his Uncle Nigel had a plan in that direction.
Jane and Lydia enjoyed a holiday shopping trip to London one afternoon, stopping off to see Jane’s Aunt Winifred for tea. A beautiful, fluffy snow fell as Jane and Lydia padded along the quiet street. Winifred’s house was draped with evergreens, and a wreath hung on the tall front door. White fairy lights twinkled through the window, and the weary shoppers could almost feel the warmth of the Victorian house enfolding them as they rang the bell.
“Oh, you’ve done a lovely bit of shopping, have you?” Aunt Winifred said as she spied their packages. “Come in, girls. Bloom! Get down! Don’t mind her, she’ll settle down.” Bloom, Aunt Winifred’s cottony Westie, jumped about while being generally ignored.
Dropping packages and damp coats in the wide hall, the visitors were ushered into a cosy, paneled sitting room that was golden with the light of a cheerful fire and ornately decorated tree. Lydia sunk down into a large, leathery nest of a chair, while Jane hugged her aunt before they made their way together to the velvet sofa.
“You’re looking well, Aunt Winnie,” Jane cooed. Lydia knew that Jane adored her Aunt Winifred, her father’s only sibling, and wished they lived closer. Jane produced a box of chocolates for her from Fortnum & Mason’s.
“Oh, Jane! You never forget my orange crèmes. Bless you. How’s the shop? Are you busy with festive arrangements for holiday tables and the like?”
&n
bsp; “It’s madness. I’ve got paper whites and amaryllis filling up the entire back room.” Jane yawned as though just thinking about all of the orders she must fill from her small flower shop overcame her, and Lydia felt drowsy watching her. Jane had gotten Agnes to mind the store for her. Agnes was the height of dependability, and had retired from the position as head cashier at the supermarket. The grandmother of four relished the fair pay and flowers that Jane gave her, and working occasionally, Agnes was fond of saying, “kept her feet going and her brain firing.”
Aunt Winifred poured Lydia’s tea, a pungent-scented cup of Lady Grey. “And you, Lydia. I haven’t seen you in an age. Jane said you’d been back at school. How’s the nursing progressing?”
“Quite well. It’s a lot of work, naturally, but the training shall be over next spring, so not too terribly much longer. You’re meant to specialize, so I chose the pediatric branch, probably because being a mum makes me feel more qualified.”
“And Jackson?”
Lydia snatched her handbag from the floor and proudly produced a snap of her son, taken at a hunt breakfast. The photograph showed a handsome little boy dressed in warm earth-colored tweeds, kneeling by a terrier, and a plump brown pony standing behind. “The children had been allowed to ride around the stable yard amongst the club before the adults left for the hunt,” Lydia explained.
“Oh, he is darling, Lydia! And Jane says he is as bright as he is gorgeous.”
“Yes, I think so, too. He’s begun school and is getting on well.”
They stayed and chatted with Aunt Winifred until the dim afternoon sun began to sink, casting long tree-shaped shadows across Winnie’s Prussian blue rug. Reluctantly, they packed up their shopping. The temperatures grew more brisk, and the pair were caught out in a wet snow on the way to the train station. Jane enthusiastically predicted a white Christmas, while Lydia longed for a nap on the train.
The following morning, Lydia woke before dawn. She thought she had to go to the loo, but as she rolled out of bed, she stumbled. She was weak. Enormously so. Perhaps I’ve got a virus of some sort.
She turned back into bed, not ambitious enough to make another attempt at getting up. Sleep claimed her immediately.
“Lydia, darling, don’t you realize what time it is?” Her mum sat on the edge of the bed.
“I was just awake, but was dreadfully tired, so I went back to sleep,” Lydia mumbled.
“I’ve been over at the church, helping Rose get up the holiday mess. Clarice got Jackson off to school, and you’ve been lying in for hours. It’s quarter of ten!”
“No!” Lydia sat up, intending to bound out of bed. She passed out cold.
“Oh, dear! Lydia! Lydia, darling, wake up!” Her mother chaffed her wrists, and patted her cheeks.
Lydia came to, but the room was moving to and fro, as though her bed was in a ship’s cabin on a rough sea. She closed her eyes and encircled her head with her arms in an effort to stop the rocking.
“Lydia?”
“Mum … Oh, I feel simply horrid … I need a doctor’s visit.”
• • •
Lydia saw Dr. Foster late that afternoon. She hadn’t been able to hold down her breakfast, and was trying to nap when her mother came to check on her.
“Darling, you really ought to eat something before you take the antibiotics again. It’s no wonder your stomach’s ill, what with nothin’ a ’tall in your system. Here, darling, why don’t you take some Scotch broth? It’ll do you good.”
“Mum, I am afraid I’ll bring it right back up. I am sorry.” Lydia’s damp, pale face gleamed like a pearl. “I am sure I just need to sleep. If I can just get sorted, I am sure I’ll rest and be quite well … . ” Her voice drifted off to a whisper.
• • •
With Jane’s resourceful help, arrangements were made with Lydia’s instructors. She would be permitted to make up the days she missed of her clinical training when the nursing students returned from holiday.
Two days before Christmas, Lydia’s brother, Nigel Membry, returned to the family home in Brambleberry Lane. Large packages were delivered to the door, full of wrapped presents. Jackson trailed his uncle wherever he went, with Jackson’s spaniel, Ausfrid, bringing up the rear. Both boy and dog were eager for play the moment Nigel was free.
The evening following Nigel’s arrival, Jane popped round to see Lydia and the family. Her heart gave a lurch when Nigel opened the door to her, speaking as though he’d seen her just recently.
“Good evening, Jane, please step in,” Nigel said with his usual dignified tone. Jane surmised in a moment that he was still dreadfully good-looking. He was dressed in charcoal-coloured wool slacks, topped by a black cashmere pull-over. His loafers looked, and most likely were, soft Italian leather, rendering him expensive-looking from head to foot. His eyes fell on her boots, and Jane scrunched her toes within them. He probably thinks these rubber boots are hideous, she thought, but it’s filthy and snowing.
Aloud, Jane said, “It’s filthy and snowing.”
“Yes. Yes, it is,” he said quietly, then clearing his throat. The silence hung between them.
Jane took a breath for courage and then greeted him as she would a customer to her shop. “Nigel, it is so good to see you. Its been quite a few months, hasn’t it?” She smiled cheerfully and handed off her coat. He gracefully hung her coat on the rack and stood, poised, and gazing at her. She hadn’t thought a word like that should suit a man, but it did. Poised. And reserved. Jane couldn’t ever be sure what he was thinking. Fortunately, Lydia and her mother were open books, once you knew them. Jane contemplated how much easier life was, when one was honest and uncomplicated.
“Yes,” Nigel replied flatly. Had she bodged it again, somehow? Nigel seemed to be at ease with everyone, socially speaking, but with Jane his remarks seemed hollow. She imagined he’d rather his sister’s best friend was smart, sophisticated, and attractive. No doubt he was often surrounded with those types of women in his posh job, working for some Middle Eastern royal family or other.
Perhaps he was already bored with her since she’d come in the house, only seconds ago?
“Shall I help you?” Nigel, said, offering his hand and looking at her wellies.
“Certainly, thank you.” She placed her left hand in his. His hand was warm, large, and somehow luxurious. Jane balanced against his gentle grip, brought up a knee and dragged off a boot with her other hand. She felt like an odd sort of Cinderella, having a divine moment with her prince, but with rather sad footwear. Wriggling out of the damp boots caused Nigel’s fingertips to inadvertently caress her wrist, sending icy little shivers up her arm. Happy Christmas to me, Jane thought, and an involuntary smile curled her lips. Kicking the boots aside, she glanced up at him, and saw him staring down at her intently. It seemed as though he might say something.
Yet in the seconds that followed, he didn’t utter a word.
Perhaps, it dawned on Jane, he simply wanted his hand back. Flushing with embarrassment, Jane slipped her palm from his and smoothed it over her midriff, a ladylike gesture that seemed to imply his hand had offended her in some way.
“Well, ah, Lydia’s with Clarice in the kitchen, if you’d like to step through.”
“Oh, right,” Jane said, seeking to restore a little of her lost dignity with a nervous chuckle. Holding his hand had been a thrill, however it was also quite pleasing to be dismissed, since Jane felt rather like a housemaid who was eager to join her contemporaries below stairs. Without another glance at 007 — the moniker the villagers had hung on Nigel — Jane deftly slipped away.
“Jane! You’re on time to help me wrap presents,” Lydia said, looking quite unequal to the task. She sat hunched over a steaming cup of tea at the broad oak table. Her dressing gown hung on her thin shoulders, and it seemed to Jane that she moved her mouth sparingly as she spo
ke. If only one didn’t have to move through one’s entire gambit of emotions within two seconds together, thought Jane. Whereas Lydia’s brother Nigel had enveloped her in a dreamy cloud of bliss in the entry hall, now Jane was pained through at the poorly appearance of her dear friend.
Time to put on her shop face again. “I shall willingly help for a cuppa and a chocolate biscuit. Hello, Clarice.” Jane comfortably poured herself a cup of tea from a large Brown Betty set upon the table, and nicked a biscuit from the blue tin on the counter, where there was always a generous supply of tempting nibbles.
“Did you walk from the high street, Jane? You must be frozen,” Clarice said. She was standing in front of a large casserole, capably filling it with aromatic chopped vegetables. It was a short distance, but Clarice wasn’t much of a walker.
“Actually, it didn’t seem that cold, really. I think I was so ready to quit the shop that the fresh air revived my spirits. So, what are you going to wrap, Lydia, our spoil from London?”
“Yes. Just haven’t been up to taking it on since we got home last week. I’ll have to hurry with Jackson’s presents, he’ll be through the door in a tick. He’s been next door playing with Toby.”
“He’s going to be mad for that book on horses that you got him, don’t you think?” Jane said, wiping crumbs from the side of her mouth.
“Oh, I don’t know. I spoke with Nigel this morning. He’s got it all arranged, just as we suspected!”
“You’re quite serious? A pony?” Not sure where Nigel was in the house, Jane lowered her voice and added, “He won’t stick you with the feed and farrier will he?”
“No, of course not. You know Nigel. It’s planned to the least detail. Payment in advance for the box and board, and the equipment has all been purchased.”
“A saddle and such, you mean?”
“Yes. The whole lot. So, the book will be a bit shoddy in comparison, wouldn’t you say?” Lydia smiled. “I can’t wait to see the look on Jackson’s face, Jane! I am sure it will be a complete surprise. You’ll pop down to the stables with us to have a look on Sunday, won’t you?”
Heart to Heart Page 22