The Heiress's Secret Baby

by Jessica Gilmore

  Wrapping the towel tightly around her, she took the proffered carrier bag Gabe handed through the bathroom door. Polly was conscious of an unprecedented intimacy. Gabe had selected her clothes, underwear, her shoes.

  It was disconcerting, made her feel vulnerable. Which was ridiculous; she often ordered outfits or lingerie when she needed a quick change for an unexpected meeting or lunch. They were picked out and delivered by any one of the many anonymous salesmen or women she employed and she never felt a moment’s hesitation about wearing things they had handled.

  She didn’t even pick her own toothpaste; her concierge service took care of all her household purchases.

  But Polly couldn’t help staring at the pretty lilac bra and pants, the sleeveless, fifties-style summer dress in a vibrant blue, the flared skirt ending just before her knees. Had he just grabbed the first things he had seen—or were they chosen especially for her?

  Either way it was a choice between the dress or the tracksuit she’d slept in.

  Slowly Polly slipped on the underwear and buttoned up the dress, her hands uncharacteristically clumsy. They fitted perfectly. Her figure was unchanged—for now.

  Luckily she always carried a selection of miniatures from her favourite make-up brands with her and in just a few minutes she was ready, tinted moisturiser hiding the last of the damage from the evening’s tears, mascara and some lip gloss an armour to help her through the day. Slipping her feet into the flowered flip-flops Gabe had provided, she stepped out of the bathroom strangely shy.

  ‘Better?’ she asked.

  ‘That colour suits you. I thought it would.’ There was a huskiness in his voice that reached deep inside her and tugged, a sweet sensual pull that made her sway towards him.

  ‘Matches my eyes,’ she said, aware what a lame comment it was but needing to say something, to try and break the hypnotic spell his words had cast.

  ‘Non.’ Gabe was still staring at her as if she were something deliciously edible. ‘Your eyes are darker.’

  Polly felt exposed before the hunger in his eyes. The dip of the dress suddenly seemed horribly low-cut, the hemline indecently short, her arms too bare. ‘I’ve never worn a supermarket dress before,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He gave a quick bark of laughter and just like that the air of sensuality that had been swelling, filling the room, disappeared. ‘Polly Rafferty in prêt-à-porter. There’s a first for everything.’

  ‘I wear ready-to-wear all the time,’ she protested.

  ‘Designer diffusion ranges?’ He laughed again as she nodded. ‘What about while you were away?’

  ‘It pays to buy quality. It lasts longer,’ she told him, unwilling to admit that even her travelling sarong had cost more than the entire outfit she was currently wearing. ‘Now, I believe you promised me breakfast and then we need to decide what we’re going to do.’

  ‘We could just drive and see where we end up,’ Gabe suggested.

  ‘Oh, no, if I am taking a day off it needs to be well planned so I make the most of it,’ Polly told him. ‘And if you think I’m letting you drive my car one more time you’re crazy. My nerves won’t take the strain.’

  Gabe grinned. ‘We’ll see,’ was all he said. ‘Come on, Polly. Let’s go and organise a day of spontaneous fun.’

  * * *

  Of course it had begun to rain. Why had he given up the golden beaches of California or the flower-strewn meadows of his home for this grey, drizzly island?

  Although Paris could be rainy too, Gabe conceded. But somehow in Paris even the rain had a certain style. In the English countryside it was just wet.

  ‘Thoughts, Mr Spontaneity?’

  Gabe sat back in his seat and considered. The prospects weren’t appealing: a walk, a tour round a stately home, a visit to yet another of the exquisite market towns where the old houses were built from the golden stone with which the region abounded. If they were going to do that they might as well return to Hopeford—the most exquisite and golden and historic of the lot.

  The sea? But they were in the middle of the country and the nearest coast was over one hundred miles away.

  He could, if he hadn’t been overcome with a ridiculous chivalry, have been on a train into the city right now. A visit to the gym, a couple of hours in the office and then a few beers in Kensington with some other émigrés. But there had been something vulnerable about the elegant Polly Rafferty slumped on a cheap hotel bed, that golden hair piled up into an untidy ponytail, red-eyed, white-faced. The circumstances couldn’t have been more different, the women more different, but for one heart-stopping moment she had reminded him of Marie.

  Of Marie as she began to give up.

  The irony was that he had spent the last ten years turning away from women who provoked even the smallest reminder of his ex. One hint of vulnerability, of neediness and he was gone—so why was he sitting here watching the rain lash the windscreen on a magical mystery tour to nowhere?

  Was it because he respected Polly? Knew that once she adjusted she would pick herself up and walk tall, head high, daring anyone to criticise her choices?

  Or because he instinctively knew that she hid her weaknesses from the world. He might have been in the right place at the right time—or the wrong place at the wrong time—for her to collapse on him the way she had.

  No matter why his usual ‘turn tail and run’ instincts weren’t functioning normally. Not yet.

  But they would. He didn’t have to worry.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ He turned the question onto her.

  ‘Not get wet?’ Polly glared at the windscreen as if she could stop the rain with pure force of will. ‘I took the day off to enjoy the sunshine. Besides, my new outfit doesn’t include a cardigan or an umbrella.’

  ‘It was warm just an hour ago. I forgot to factor in the crazy British weather.’

  ‘Between May and September it’s wise to carry an umbrella, a wrap and sunscreen at all times. Let that be your first lesson in British life. That and always have an indoor alternative.’

  ‘I would suggest lunch but after that breakfast you just ate...’ he said slyly.

  ‘I’m eating for two!’ The colour rose high in her cheeks. ‘And I’ve barely eaten anything for the last week or two. I was in a major calorie deficit. Hang on, what does that sign say?’

  Gabe peered through the slanting rain at the colourful poster, gamely flapping in the wet and cold. ‘Probably some kind of fete,’ he said. ‘The British summer, always wet and cold and yet full of outdoor events. You’re an optimistic isle, I’ll give you that. Or crazy,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘No, it’s not that. Oh!’ With that squeal she put the indicator on and turned down the winding lane indicated by the poster. ‘It’s a Vintage Festival. Do you mind?’

  ‘As long as it’s dry and indoors.’

  ‘What? Mr Triathlete scared of a little rain?’

  ‘Non, just a man from the South of France who likes summer to be just that, summery.’

  ‘Oh, boy, are you in the wrong country.’

  The small country lane was long and winding and it took Polly a few moments to navigate its twists and turns before she followed another sign that took them through wrought-iron gates and up a sweeping, tree-lined driveway. Gabe caught a glimpse of large, graceful house before the road took them round to a busy car park.

  ‘Wow.’ Polly’s voice was full of envy as she pulled to a stop, her eyes eagerly looking around. ‘People have come in style.’

  Hers was by no means the only modern car there but even her sporty two-seater was put firmly in the shade by the array of well-loved vintage cars from all eras. ‘If I’d known we were coming I’d have brought Raff’s Porsche,’ Polly said sadly. ‘It’s a seventies car so not really vintage but older than this.’

  The look sh
e gave her own car was scathing, which, Gabe thought, was a little rich considering the fuss she had made over him driving it the night before.

  ‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ She had jumped out of the car, heedless of the rain, which had lightened to a drizzle, and was trailing her hand over a cream Austin Healey. ‘And look at that Morris Minor, it’s pristine. Wow, what great condition. Somebody loves you, don’t they, baby?’ she crooned.

  Crooned. To a car. To an old car.

  ‘They are very nice,’ Gabe said politely as he joined her. ‘For old cars.’

  ‘Shh!’ Polly threw him a scathing glance. ‘They’ll hear you. Don’t listen to the nasty man,’ she told the Austin consolingly. ‘He’s French.’

  ‘We have old cars in France too,’ Gabe said indignantly, stung by the slur to his country. ‘I just prefer mine new.’

  She patted his arm consolingly. ‘This might not be the right place for you. Come on.’

  It was a new side to Polly. Excited, eager, playful. It was a side he bet her staff never saw, that barely anybody saw.

  ‘So, where are we?’ Gabe asked as they walked along the chipping-strewn path that took them through a small wooded area and towards the house. Bunting was strung along the path, dripping wet yet defiantly cheerful.

  ‘Geographically I’m not entirely sure, socially we’re at a vintage festival.’

  Clear as mud. ‘Which is?’

  Polly stopped and turned. ‘Surely people go to them in France?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said imperturbably. ‘I, however, have not.’

  ‘You are in for such a treat,’ she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him along. ‘There’s usually stalls where you can buy anything old: clothes, furniture, jewellery. And tea and cakes, and makeovers and dancing. Loads of people come all dressed up in their favourite decade, mostly forties and fifties but you do get twenties and sixties as well.’

  Gabe looked at her curiously. ‘Do you go to these a lot?’

  Her face fell. ‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘Which is a shame because there are loads now, big affairs like this one looks to be. But I did go to a few vintage clubs and smaller affairs when I was at university. I’ve always loved the twenties; you know, flappers and jazz and the art deco style. Everything that was around when Rafferty’s was founded.’

  ‘Why don’t you go any more?’

  She sighed. ‘The usual,’ she said. ‘Time—or lack of. I used to collect nineteen twenties accessories; costume jewellery, compacts, that kind of thing, but I haven’t even wandered into an antique shop for a couple of years. Ooh.’ Her face lit up. ‘This is great timing. We could have a vintage pop-up at Rafferty’s? Our centenary is in just a few years. We could have a whole series of twenties-inspired events leading up to that?’

  Gabe had no intention of still being there in a few years but he could picture it perfectly. ‘Is this just so you can dress up as a flapper?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked down at her outfit. ‘Although today I am loosely channelling the fifties. You must have known we were coming here when you picked out the dress.’

  Gabe could see the house clearly now; they had ended up at a stately home after all. But this was a place gone back in time, to the middle of the last century if not back to its seventeenth-century roots.

  The path had brought them out onto a large terrace at the back of the house overlooking lawns and ornamental gardens that seamlessly seemed to merge into the fields beyond. The furthest lawn was covered with an array of carnival rides, none of which was younger than Gabe, horses going round and round in a never-ending circle, helter-skelters and coconut shies.

  Tables and chairs were dotted all around the terrace and lawns, served by a selection of vintage ice-cream vans parked in a row by the entrance gate, some selling the eponymous food, others cream teas, cakes or drinks.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Polly breathed, still hanging onto his arm, her gaze transfixed on the scene before them. ‘Doesn’t everyone look fabulous? We’re completely underdressed, especially you!’

  Swing music was coming from the house, clearly audible through the parade of open doors. Parading in and out were people from another era: brightly lipsticked women with elaborate hair accompanied by men in old-fashioned military uniforms. Behind them girls with big skirts and ponytails were chatting to men with Brylcreemed hair and attitude to match. It was all pretty cool—if you were into fancy dress.

  It had never been Gabe’s kind of thing. Life was a mystery as it was; why complicate it by pretending to be someone you weren’t? By emulating the lives of those long gone?

  ‘It’s a good thing the rain’s stopped.’

  Polly huffed. ‘And people say the English are obsessed with the weather. Come on, Gabe. Let’s go in.’

  * * *

  ‘What do you think?’ Polly twirled around in front of Gabe, She hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to have her hair pin-curled and it hadn’t taken much to persuade her into the accompanying makeover.

  Or a new outfit. ‘You look like you’re from a film,’ he said. Polly wasn’t sure whether he meant it as a compliment or not but decided to go with it.

  ‘That’s the idea.’ She looked down at the pink-flowered silk tea dress. ‘It’s not twenties but it will do. You need something too. A coat. Or a hat! We should get you a hat. This is so much fun. Why haven’t I done this for so long?’

  She led the protesting Gabe over to a stall specialising in military overcoats. ‘I hope they have a French coat,’ she said. ‘Army, air force or navy?’

  She knew she was chattering a bit too much, was being a little too impulsive, happily trying—and buying—anything that took her fancy.

  It was better than thinking or worrying. She was almost fooling herself that everything was okay, that nothing had changed.

  She wasn’t fooling Gabe though. She could see it in his eyes.

  ‘Lighten up.’ She held a coat up against him. ‘You’re the one who wanted a day out, a change of scenery, remember?’

  ‘Oui.’ But his smile seemed forced, concern still radiating from him. Concern for her.

  Unwanted, unneeded.

  Suddenly the dress seemed shabby rather than chic, the lipstick heavy on her mouth. She had just wanted a day to forget about everything, a day with no responsibilities or decisions.

  ‘I need some air.’ She pushed past him, ignoring his surprised exclamation.

  The swing band was still going strong in the ballroom and couples were engaging in gymnastics on the dance floor, a series of complicated lifts and kicks. At any other time Polly would have stopped to watch, to join in with the onlookers enthusiastically applauding each daring move, but she felt stifled, too hot, too enclosed. She wandered over to the terrace, stopping at one of the ice-cream vans to buy a sparkling water and took it over to a table where she examined her impulse purchases.

  They were a mixed bag. A few old crime novels, a rather lovely, shell-shaped compact still with the wrist chain attached, two rose-covered side plates and a matching cake stand and some bunting made out of old dress material. It might look nice in the baby’s room, she thought idly.

  The baby’s room.

  Her breath whooshed out of her body and she held onto the iron table, glad of the cold metal beneath her palm, anchoring her to the world. She was pregnant. That was her reality and no amount of impromptu days out could change that.

  But the expected panic, the gnawing pain in her stomach didn’t materialise. Instead she felt light; it was okay. She didn’t have a plan or any idea what to do next but it was okay.

  For what must be the hundredth time that week Polly put her hand on her stomach but not in illness, or shock, or horror.

  ‘Hello,’ she whispered.

  Nobody answered, there was no resulting flutter or any acknowled
gement of her words, yet everything had changed.

  She wasn’t going to be alone any more.

  ‘Would you like an ice cream?’

  Polly pulled her hand away as if she had been caught doing something wrong.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she began, but the words died on her lips. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘They didn’t have any French coats,’ he said. ‘So I got a hat instead.’

  The trilby should have looked incongruous with the jeans and T-shirt, but somehow he made it look edgy.

  Disturbingly sexy.

  ‘It suits you.’

  ‘What have you got there?’ Gabe nodded at the bags spread over the table.

  ‘Bits and bobs, bunting.’ She looked up, met his eyes. ‘For the baby’s room.’

  He tipped the trilby back; the gesture made him look almost heartbreakingly young, like a World War Two pilot heading back to base for a final mission.

  ‘I hope he likes flowers, then,’ he said doubtfully.

  Polly gathered the bunting back up, stuffing it into the bag. ‘He might be a she, and either way no child of mine will be constrained by gender constructs.’ She was aware that she sounded stuffy and that laughter was lurking in his watchful dark eyes.

  For a moment she had a view of another path. One where the man teasing her wasn’t a momentary diversion in her journey. One where the baby wasn’t a shock to deal with but a welcome and much anticipated event.

  A world where she might bicker playfully over the suitability of floral bunting, the colour of the paint, where to put the cot and the name of the first teddy bear. Where she wouldn’t be doing this alone.

  ‘So do you?’ Gabe broke in on her thoughts.

  She blinked, confused. Did she what? Want to take a different path? It was a little late for that.

  ‘Polly? Ice cream?’

  ‘Oh. No, no thank you. Actually, I think I want a walk. The grounds look spectacular.’ Walk away from her thoughts and the sudden, unwanted regrets.

  Gabe cast a doubtful look at the sky. ‘Those clouds are pretty dark.’