by Ally Blake
‘For spitting,’ Sophie cut in. ‘I told her that the only excuse for that kind of behaviour was that she was tired.’
Nick drew a weary hand through his hair. ‘And went down for a cup of tea?’
‘I left her to think about what she’d done. I—’
‘And neither of you heard her come back downstairs?’ They looked at each other. ‘Or go out through the front door?’
‘I can’t understand how it had been left open. I’m sure—’
Nick held up his hand again and Christine fell into silence. ‘I’m sure you can’t,’ he said dryly, breaking off as there was a knock at the door. ‘What is it?’
A second knock and he strode over and flung open the door, his voice freezing as he saw Rosie and Lydia standing in the doorway.
Lydia smiled, her hand poised to knock again. ‘I caught sight of her as I was leaving and I—’
‘You’ve found her!’ Christine let out a cry of relief and ran forward to try and hug the little girl. ‘I was so worried about you.’
Rosie stood stiffly, her little face stony and totally un-receptive to the embrace. But what amazed Lydia was that Christine hadn’t made sure her mouth could be lip-read. In fact she hugged the little girl so closely that her words were completely lost in Rosie’s hair, regardless of how much she might have caught with the help of her hearingaids.
Lydia looked up at Nick. ‘I saw a flash of red behind a camellia bush and went to investigate.’
‘Thank you. Very much.’
And it sounded as if he meant it. Having braced herself to meet with his seemingly habitual reserve, she was stunned to see the hint of moisture in his dark eyes. He really cared. She caught herself up on the thought. Of course he cared. Rosie was his daughter. What had she expected?
He drew the little girl into the sitting room and knelt down in front of her. His mouth moved clearly so Rosie could lip-read. ‘We were worried about you. You mustn’t go outside on your own.’
But he didn’t hug her. He didn’t wrap his arms about her and tell her how much he loved her. He was stiff and awkward. Lydia wanted to thump him and tell him he was handling this all wrong. That it would take considerably more life experience than a five-year-old possessed to understand what the shimmer in his eyes meant.
And what did she know? She avoided relationships. Didn’t want to become a mother because she couldn’t contemplate bringing children into a world like this one. What had suddenly made her such an expert on human relationships?
She saw Rosie look away and realised that he’d lost her. She was one angry little girl and Nick had missed an opportunity to build a bridge. And he didn’t even know it.
What was it about rich people’s children? On the surface they had every advantage, but so often their parents didn’t seem to have any real kind of relationship with them. They were put into the care of nannies and other ‘professionals’ before they could talk and dispatched to boarding school at the first opportunity.
She walked forward and took hold of Rosie’s hand, feeling incredibly protective. For Rosie it was even worse than for most children of wealthy parents. Her mother had told her enough of her own childhood experiences for Lydia to be acutely aware of how difficult it could be to be born deaf in a hearing family.
Rosie had asked her to speak for her—and she would. She would make sure Nick Regan-Phillips listened. More than that; as far as it was in her power she would make sure things changed.
‘Rosie asked me to tell you she’s been very unhappy.’
Nick looked up at her words, stunned by them. Around them there seemed to be a pool of silence.
Lydia hesitated and glanced down at Rosie. She only hoped she’d judged this right. Had judged Nick right. If Sophie was the sulky-looking twenty-something in the corner she might be about to make Rosie’s life much worse.
‘I gather there was some kind of argument—’
‘Yes, there was.’ All eyes turned to the woman she’d assumed was Sophie as she forcefully interrupted. ‘I will not have defiance and—’
‘Sophie—’ Nick glanced over his shoulder, his voice brooking no disagreement ‘—the important thing is that Rosie is safe. I think we can leave everything else to the morning.’
She looked as if she might have protested, but thought better of it. ‘As you wish.’ Her chin became just that little bit squarer. ‘It’s late. I’ll put her to bed.’
Sophie held out her hand, but Nick forestalled her with a decided, ‘No.’ His hand reached out and stroked the top of his daughter’s head. It was the first real sign of affection Lydia had seen between the two—and it reminded her of how he’d been with Wendy.
He’d been gentle. Kind.
Rosie curved towards her father and Lydia knew she hadn’t misjudged him. There was a good man inside that city suit … and if he just let himself go …
‘I’ll put Rosie to bed myself.’
Lydia heard Sophie’s sharp intake of breath and judged his announcement to be unprecedented, but she waited confidently for Sophie to be sent from the room.
She had little doubt he’d do that. She’d seen the way he cared and, whatever was really going on here, she didn’t believe he’d want his daughter to be shouted at and bullied by a twenty-year-old something who thought she was God’s gift to childcare.
Christine Pearman might be a nice woman who could be educated to care, but Sophie … no, Sophie was not that kind of woman.
Sophie was the kind of woman who knew best—always. She’d read the book and knew all the answers. It might be the kind of snap judgement Izzy deplored, but Lydia was quite happy to keep hold of Rosie’s hand in hers and wait for Nick to justify her faith in him.
She wasn’t disappointed. He stood up and looked directly at Sophie as he said, ‘I’m sure you’ve found the whole experience very stressful, so I’ll take care of Rosie now. Thank you.’ Then he looked across at his housekeeper. ‘That will be all for now, Christine.’
‘D-dinner?’
‘Will need to wait until Rosie is asleep.’
Both women left the room, cowed—and he’d not raised his voice. His words had been spoken with a quiet authority, expecting people to comply with his wishes. Lydia, used as she was to a newsroom environment and the way the air frequently turned blue, found it impressive stuff.
It was strange he didn’t inspire her with that kind of awe. All she saw was a man, albeit a sexy one, who needed a great deal of help with his daughter. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to phrase it as the daughter who needed help with her father?
She saw him glance down at their still-joined hands and felt a momentary pang of pity for him. He was out of his depth and floundering.
And he looked unbearably weary. He’d had a hell of a couple of days and what she was about to say wasn’t going to make his life any better—at least, not in the short-term.
‘Rosie has asked me to tell you she doesn’t like Sophie.’
Her words acted like a slap. She saw the effect of them on Nick as though she’d taken a whip to him.
‘She told you?’ His voice sounded hollow.
‘Yes.’
‘You sign?’
Her eyes flew to his. ‘You don’t?’
His eyes didn’t leave her face and she saw his effort to swallow.
He didn’t sign. How could the father of a deaf five-year-old not have learnt something of the method she used to communicate? It was unbelievable. Criminal.
‘Well, you should. How do you expect her to talk to you?’
CHAPTER FOUR
NICK felt as if he’d been flayed on the raw. It spoke to the guilt within him. He didn’t sign—and he knew he should be able to. Rosie was five years old. Since he’d been told his daughter was profoundly deaf he’d had over four years to learn.
There were reasons, of course, why he hadn’t done. Good reasons. Or at least they’d seemed good until Rosie had suddenly come to live with him. And somehow, looking at Lydia’s incredi
ble amber-flecked eyes, he knew she wouldn’t think his excuses good enough.
Which they weren’t. He’d let his daughter down. When she’d needed him to comfort her he’d not even been able to ask what she liked to eat for breakfast. He’d been forced to pull cereal packets out of the cupboard and wait for her to either nod or shake her head. It was a form of communication, but it was limited.
Rosie had been given no alternative but to tell a complete stranger that she didn’t like her nanny. What made it even worse was that he’d known that. Deep down. Or even not so deep. It had been obvious. He’d simply chosen to ignore it because it made his life simpler.
He’d argued that it gave Rosie some stability to have the same nanny she’d had when she’d lived with her mother. And Sophie was very highly qualified, with good references …
All excuses—and he knew it. Faced with his daughter’s guileless brown eyes looking up at him, how could he not? And Lydia …
Her eyes told him exactly what she was thinking of him. She was looking at him with incredulity. She tossed back that incredible mane of hair, which framed a face that was more intelligent than conventionally beautiful, and her words stung him again. ‘Rosie signs wonderfully. It’s clearly her first language.’
‘She’s also able to lip-read very well,’ he said defensively.
‘That’s not the point, though, is it? That’s her understanding you, not you understanding her. You have a responsibility to Rosie and—’
‘I’m completely aware of my responsibilities.’ His voice sliced across hers, much harder than he’d intended. He resisted the impulse to apologise.
For one moment there was complete silence, during which Lydia’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker away from his. ‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘It’s absolutely not my business to tell you how to raise your child, but—’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘But,’ she continued as though he hadn’t spoken, ‘I made a promise to Rosie. I told her I would tell you how she feels and I fully intend to keep my promise.’
Then Lydia broke eye-contact, calmly kneeling in front of Rosie. She gently tapped his daughter on the arm and Rosie looked at her confidently, her brown eyes wide and trusting.
And it hurt.
Nick swallowed painfully. It hurt so much to see his daughter looking to someone else to tell him what she felt. Trusting them to do it.
He felt the whip of guilt. He should have made more time. He shouldn’t have left her with a nanny like Sophie. He should have fought for her when Ana had left him. Damn it! He should have learnt to sign and made sure he’d forged a real connection with Rosie. The regrets pounded in his head like wave after wave on a cliff face.
He scarcely knew his child. God forgive him. And now he needed someone to help him communicate with his own daughter.
And for that someone to be Lydia Stanford …
It hurt. So much. It was difficult to have to be grateful to a woman like Lydia. He wasn’t even quite sure what kind of woman she was. How did you meld together what he’d seen of her with what he knew about her?
It was incontrovertible fact that Lydia had used every skill she possessed to ensure Steven Daly and his associates were put behind bars. Her sister’s miscarriage and suicide attempt had been made public knowledge during a long and complicated court case. All manner of private details about Isabel Stanford’s life had been open to public scrutiny and cross-examination—for weeks on end.
It was easy to imagine how deeply humiliating it must have been for a shy twenty-three-year-old to have her life dissected and discussed over other people’s breakfast.
Day after day there’d been photographs of the sisters. Lydia had looked strong, confident and utterly determined—her sister … had looked broken.
True enough, Steven Daly was a Machiavellian character who deserved to be in prison, but … how could Lydia sleep at night knowing what she’d exposed her vulnerable sister to?
One particular image, taken outside the courtroom on the final day, stayed with him. In that photograph Lydia’s sister had been completely surrounded by reporters, dwarfed by them. She’d stood with one solitary tear resting halfway down her cheek. A moment frozen in time. She’d looked emotionally battered, alone and utterly heartbroken.
Lydia might argue she’d done it all for her sister, but he knew that wasn’t true. There was no way the young, emotionally traumatised Isabel had been thinking of vengeance. She’d merely been concentrating on finding the will to stay alive.
When Wendy had told him she’d insisted Lydia Stanford was her biographer or she wouldn’t co-operate, he’d been horrified. Everything he’d discovered about Lydia since then had only confirmed how single-minded she was. A woman totally focused on achieving her goals whatever the cost.
But when he’d met her …
Lydia hadn’t been quite the woman he’d been expecting. She exuded a warmth he hadn’t anticipated. A kindness.
If he’d simply met her … at a party perhaps? If he hadn’t seen her give that interview after the jury had passed a unanimous ‘guilty’ verdict …
Then it would have been a very different story.
He knew he’d have been mesmerised by those incredible eyes and bewitched by the rich colours in her hair. He would have asked for her telephone number and he wouldn’t have waited more than twenty-four hours before inviting her to dinner.
But beneath the attractive veneer Lydia Stanford was still a woman who passionately craved success in her chosen career—and he knew exactly what that kind of ambition was like to live with. He knew how cruel it could be—and how painful.
He watched as Lydia asked his daughter what she wanted to say. Her hands moved gracefully. She had beautiful hands with long tapering fingers and nails that were perfectly manicured. She also had a vivid scratch across the back of her right hand—no doubt a parting gift from Nimrod.
And then he had to watch as Rosie told Lydia what she did want to say. Dear God. His heart ached as he watched her tiny hands move in rapid jerky movements. Her face was full of expression as finally his daughter got the chance to tell him what she’d held locked inside her for all the weeks she’d lived in his home.
Rosie’s little face began to crumple and he found that his feet moved and his arms locked tightly around her, his hand stroking the top of his daughter’s head. Lightly kissing her curls, he rested his chin on the top of her head and looked across at Lydia. ‘What did she say?’
Lydia’s voice was husky as though she’d been affected by what she’d been told. Her beautiful eyes, still with the same flecks of fire in them, looked softer than he’d seen them before. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘I imagine it is.’ And suddenly it didn’t matter whether Lydia Stanford was here only because she wanted a story. What really mattered, more than life itself, was Rosie.
And if Lydia was the means by which he could establish a relationship with his daughter, then he was going to welcome it—whatever the personal cost.
Rosie turned within his arms and he held her tightly, every muscle in his body striving to convey how much he loved her. As her sobs quietened, he held her away from his body and stared into her eyes, willing her to understand him.
Her eyes were so like his own. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said carefully. ‘Rosie … I …’ And then he looked across at Lydia. ‘What did she say? Why is she so unhappy? Tell me,’ he prompted when she seemed to hesitate.
Lydia stood up slowly and went to sit on a nearby sofa. She usually found words easy to find. From the school notebooks she’d filled with stories of sword-wielding heroines, to her career as a journalist, she’d always found it easy to say what she meant. Communication was what she did best.
But not this time. What she had to tell Nick Regan-Phillips was going to hurt him—and she didn’t want that. In the space of fifteen minutes she’d gone from thinking him a poor parent to thinking him a flawed one.
She didn’t understand why a parent of
a deaf child who signed would refuse to learn it, but she had no doubt that he loved his daughter. Seeing him hold Rosie was probably going to be one of those images that would stay with her all her life. Even having seen Nick with his godmother she hadn’t believed him capable of such honest emotion.
Lydia cleared her voice carefully. She had to tell him the truth—exactly as Rosie had told her. ‘She … She understands why she was sent here. Or thinks she does.’
Pushing back her long hair from her face, Lydia tried again. ‘Rosie says she was sent here because her mother doesn’t like her because she’s deaf and she thinks you’re too busy to have her live with you.’
A flicker of acute pain passed across Nick’s face and Lydia didn’t dare stop in case she lost her nerve. She’d promised Rosie. She would keep her promise.
‘She says Sophie shouts at her because she can’t hear and gets cross when she doesn’t understand. She wants to go back to her grandma’s house and live with her.’ Lydia looked away, hating the raw look of pain on his face. ‘I’m sorry. Really.’
Nick shook his head as though to absolve her from any part in his agony and then he kissed Rosie’s head. His hand lightly stroked the top of her head and down the side of her cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’
Then he looked at Lydia. ‘How do I sign “sorry”?’
Lydia swallowed down the lump in her throat. ‘You use your little finger for things that are bad.’ She extended her own small finger and with the rest of her hand in a ball made small circles against her chest. ‘“Sorry”. It’s like this.’
He moved his own hand. It wasn’t perfect—but Rosie understood. She reached out and stopped him moving his hand and then tucked in for a cuddle.
It was a beginning. Perhaps more than a beginning? Perhaps it was a breakthrough?
‘She understood me.’ His deep voice was incredulous.
Lydia smiled, her eyes shimmering with emotion.
‘Will you tell her I won’t leave her with Sophie again? I can’t do much about her mother or grandmother, but I will stay with her myself.’