by Liz Fielding
‘You lost your mother, Sylvie. You can’t bring her back, but you still have a father. Don’t let anger and pride keep you from him.’
‘Don’t!’ She turned on him, eyes blazing, and he took a step back in the face of an anger so palpable that it felt like a punch on the jaw.
For a moment he thought she was going to say more, but she just shook her head and he said, ‘What?’
‘Just don’t!’ And now the tears were threatening to spill over, but even as he reached for her, determined to take her back to the fire where he could hold her so that she could cry, get it out of her system, she took a step back and said, ‘Don’t be such a damn hypocrite.’
She didn’t wait for a response, but wrenched open the door and was gone from him, running up the stairs, leaving him to try and work out what he’d said that had made her so angry.
Hypocrite? Where had that come from?
All he’d done was encourage her to get in touch with her father. The birth of a baby was a time for new beginnings, a good time to bury old quarrels. She might not want to hear that, but how did saying it make him a hypocrite?
He was halfway up the stairs, determined to demand an answer, before reality brought him crashing to a halt.
She might have responded to his kiss, be anything but immune to the hot wire that seemed to run between them, but she was still pregnant with Jeremy Hillyer’s child.
Was still going to marry the boy next door.
Sylvie gained the sanctuary of her bedroom and leaned against the door, breathing heavily, tears stinging against lids blocking out the fast fading light.
How could a man with such fire in his eyes, whose simplest kiss could dissolve her bones and who, with a touch could sear her to the soul, be so cold?
How dared he disapprove of the way she’d shut her father out of her life when he was refusing to acknowledge his own child?
Not by one word, one gesture, had he indicated that he was in any way interested. She could live with that for herself, but what had an innocent, unborn child done to merit such treatment?
She’d accepted, completely and sincerely, that the decision to have his baby had been entirely hers. She could have taken the morning-after pill. Had a termination. She had not consulted him but had taken the responsibility on herself and because of that she’d given him the chance to walk away. Forget it had ever happened.
No blame, no foul.
It was only now, confronted with the reality of what that really meant, did she fully understand how much she’d hoped for a different outcome.
She’d hoped, believed, that by removing everything from the equation but the fact that he was about to become a father, he’d be able to love his little girl as an unexpected gift.
How dumb could she be? At least if she’d sent in the lawyers, gone after him for maintenance, he’d have been forced to confront reality, would have become engaged with his daughter if only on a financial level. He’d demand contact fast enough then.
The billionaire entrepreneur who’d checked every item on the account would want value for money.
‘Damn him,’ she said, angrily swiping away the dampness that clung to her lashes with the heels of her hands. Then laid them gently over her baby and whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I messed up. Got it wrong.’
A bit of a family failing, that. But her mother hadn’t fallen apart when life had dealt her a tricky hand. She’d handled it all with dignity, courage, humour.
Her marriage. Cancer. Even the loss of everything she’d held dear.
All that and with love and understanding too. Always with love. Especially for the unhappy man she’d fallen in love with and married. A man who’d loved his own father so much he’d lived a lie rather than ‘come out’ and bring the old reactionary’s world crashing down. Who had loved her too.
How could Tom McFarlane be so right about that and so wrong about everything else?
‘What’ll I do, Mum?’ she whispered. ‘What would you do?’
Work had always been the answer. Fingers might get burned when a deal went wrong, but the heart remained unscathed, so Tom did what he always did when nothing else made sense. He returned to the library; not to the warmth of the fire but to the huge antique desk and the package of documents and personal stuff that had piled up while he’d been away and which Pam had couriered back from the office so that he could catch up with ongoing projects and set to work.
She’d even included the ‘Coming Next Month’ page from the latest edition of Celebrity, where a photograph of Longbourne Court promoted the ‘world’s favourite wedding planner’s personal fantasy wedding’ from The Pink Ribbon Club’s Wedding Fayre.
He bit down hard, pushed it away so hard that it slid on to the floor along with a load of other stuff. He left it, intent on tossing away out of date invitations, letters from organisations asking him to speak, donate, join their boards. Clearing out the debris so that he could get back to what he knew. Making money.
That had been the centre of his world, the driving force that had kept him going for as long as he could remember.
But for what? What was the point of it all?
Losing patience, he dumped the lot in the bin. Anything to do with business would have been dealt with by his PA. Anything else and they’d no doubt write again.
He scooped up everything that had fallen on the floor and pitched that in too. About to crush the sheet from Celebrity, however, something stopped him.
Sylvie didn’t dare linger too long in the bath in case she went to sleep. Having given herself no longer than it took for the lavender oil to do its soothing job, she climbed out, applied oil to her stomach and thighs to help stave off the dreaded stretch marks, then, wearing nothing but a towelling robe, she opened the bathroom door.
Tom McFarlane was propped up on one side of her bed.
All the warm, soothing effects of the lavender dissipated in an instant.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said icily. ‘The Duchamp ghosts are after your blood.’
‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ he said. Then, ‘I did knock.’
‘And when did I say “come in”?’ she demanded. ‘I could have been naked!’
‘In an English country house in April? How likely is that?’
‘What do you want, Tom?’
‘Nothing. I’ve had an idea.’ And he patted the bed beside him, encouraging her to join him.
‘And it couldn’t keep until morning?’ she protested, but sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What kind of idea?’
‘For your wedding.’ He held up a page from Celebrity and she leaned forward to take a closer look.
‘It’s Longbourne Court. So?’
‘Turn it over.’
She scanned the page. Could see nothing. ‘Do you mean this advertisement for the Steam Museum in Lower Longbourne?’ she said, easing her back. Wishing he’d get to the point so that she could lie down. ‘It’s just across the park. Big local attraction. So what?’
‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while you think about it?’ he said, piling up her pillows and, when she hesitated, ‘It’s just like a sofa, only longer,’ he said, clearly reading her mind.
She wasn’t sure she’d feel safe on a sofa with him but it was clear he wasn’t saying another word until she was sitting comfortably so she tugged the robe around her and sat back, primly, against the pillows.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘The Steam Museum. At Hillyer House. Jeremy’s grandfather was mad about steam engines and gathered them up as they went out of use. He worked on them himself, restoring them, had open days so that the public could enjoy them. I loved the carousels-’
‘They’re not carousels, they’re gallopers,’ Tom said. ‘They’re called carousels on the Continent.’ He made a circling motion with his hand. ‘And they go round the other way.’
‘Do they? Why?’
‘It’s to do with the fact that we drive on the left.’ She stared at him. ‘Honestly!’
‘Don’t tell me, you worked in a fairground.’
‘I worked in a fairground,’ he said.
‘I told you not to tell me that…’ she said, then looked hurriedly away. That was one of those silly things her father used to say to make her laugh.
‘Okay, gallopers, rides, swings. It’s set up just like a real old-fashioned steam fair…’ She clapped her hands to her mouth. Then grinned. ‘Ohmigod. Wedding Fayre…Steam fair…’
Sylvie laughed as the sheer brilliance of the idea hit her. ‘It’s the perfect theme, Tom,’ she said as the ideas flooded in. ‘You’re a genius!’
‘I know, but hadn’t you better clear it with Jeremy first?’
‘Jeremy? No. There’s no need for that…’ Steam engines had been the old Earl’s pet obsession; Jeremy had never been interested-much too slow for him and it was run by a Trust these days. ‘It even fits in with the idea of promoting local businesses.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ he said.
She glanced at him. ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. As you say, it all fits beautifully.’
‘They’ve got everything. Test your strength. Bowl for the pig-just pottery ones, but they’re lovely. And made locally too. There are even hay-cart rides to take visitors around the place.’
‘I guess the big question is-does it beat the elephant?’
‘Too right!’ She drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them. ‘The photographer could use one of those things where you stick your head through the hole-’
‘A bride and groom one.’
‘-for all the guests to have their photographs taken.’
She couldn’t stop grinning. ‘We’ll decorate the marquee with ribbons and coloured lights instead of flowers. And set up sideshow stalls for the food.’ She looked at him. ‘Bangers and mash?’
He grinned back. ‘Fish and chips. Hot dogs.’
‘Candyfloss! And little individual cakes.’ She’d intended to go for something incredibly tasteful, but nothing about this fantasy was going to be tasteful. It was going to be fun. With a capital F. ‘I’ll talk to the confectioner first thing. I want each one decorated with a fairground motif.’
Tom watched as, swept up in the sheer fun of it, she clapped her hands over her mouth like a child wanting to hold it in, savour every minute of it.
‘You like it?’ he asked.
‘Like it!’ She turned and, anger forgotten, she flung her arms around him, hugging him in her excitement. ‘You’re brilliant. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job?’ Then, before he could answer, ‘Sorry, sorry…Genius billionaire. Why would you want to work for me? Damn, I wish it wasn’t all such a rush.’
‘Is it even possible in the time?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He must have looked doubtful because she said, ‘Piece of cake. Honestly.’
Of course it was. The Steam Museum had been created by Lord Hillyer. All she had to do was ask and it would be hers for the day.
‘Now I know what I want it’ll all just fall into place, although I could have done with Josie to sort out the marquee. That’s going to be the biggest job.’
‘If it helps, you’ve got me.’
They were on her bed and she had her arms around him and he was telling her what was in his heart, but only he knew that. Only he would ever know that she’d got him-totally, completely, in ways that had nothing to do with sex but everything to do with a word that he didn’t even begin to understand, but knew with every fibre of his being that this was it. The real deal.
Giving without hope of ever receiving back.
Sylvie’s mother would have understood. Would know how he was feeling.
Sylvie…Sylvie was nearly there. Maybe his true gift to her would be to help her make that final leap…
‘You’d be willing to help?’ she asked, leaning back, a tiny frown puckering her brow.
He shrugged, pulled a face. ‘You said it. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you’re out of here.’
‘That’s it?’ She drew back as if his answer shocked her. As if she’d expected something more.
But that was it.
More was beyond him.
‘I want my house back and, to get it, I’m prepared to put all my resources at your disposal,’ he said with all the carelessness he could muster.
Maybe just one thing more…
‘There’s just one condition.’ Then, as the colour flooded into her cheeks, he said, ‘No!’
Yes…
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘All I want from you is that you write to your father.’
‘No…’ The word came out as a whisper.
‘Yes! Ask him to share the day with you. Let him into your little girl’s life.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you care about him?’
More and more and more…
‘Because…Because I know what it’s like to have letters returned unopened. Because one day when I was four years old people came and took my mother away. I hung on to her and that was the only time I saw her cry. As she pulled away, leaving me to the waiting social workers. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I have to go. These people will look after you until I come home…”’ Then, helplessly, ‘You said you’d have my story.’
‘Where was your father, Tom?’
‘Dead. She’d killed him. A battered woman who’d finally struck back, using the first thing that came to hand. A kitchen knife.’ Then, more urgently, because this was what he had to do to make sure she understood, ‘They took her away, put me in care. I didn’t understand. I wrote to her, begging her to come and get me. Week after week. And week after week the letters just came back…’
She said nothing, just held him, as if she could make it all better. And maybe she had. Her need had dragged the story out of him. Had made him say the words. Had made him see that it wasn’t his fault that his mother had died too.
‘I’m sure she thought it was for the best that I forgot her, moved on, found a new family.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘She was my mother, Sylvie. She might not have been the greatest mother in the world, but she was the only one I ever wanted.’
Sylvie thought her heart might break at the thought of a little boy writing his desperate letters, having them returned unopened. Understood his empathy for her own father.
‘What happened to her, Tom?’
‘She never stood trial. By the time her case eventually came up she was beyond the law, in some dark place in her mind. She should have been in hospital, not prison. Maybe there she’d have got help instead of taking her own life.’
She reached out a hand to him. Almost, but not quite, touched his cheek. Then said, ‘Are you sure you haven’t been visiting with the Duchamp ghosts?’
He’d had no way of knowing how she’d react to the fact that he was the son of a wife-batterer, a husband-killer. A suggestion that he’d been communing with her ancestors hadn’t even made the list and, at something of a loss, he said, ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because I asked my mother what she’d do. I already knew the answer. Have always known it. Maybe she thought it was time to get someone else on my case…’
And finally her fingers came into contact with his cheek, as if by touching him she was reaching through him to her mother. And, just as they had on the evening when the connection between them had become physical, silent tears were pouring down her cheeks, but this time there was no one to interrupt them and she didn’t push him away, but let him draw her close, hold her while he said, over and over, ‘Don’t cry, Sylvie,’ even as his own tears soaked into her hair. ‘Please don’t cry.’
And eventually, when she quieted, drew back, it was she who wiped his cheeks with her fingers.
Comforted him.
‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, holding his face between her hands. Kissing his cheek. ‘I promise you, it’ll be all right.’
‘You’ll write to him? N
ow?’
‘It won’t wait until morning?’
‘What would your mother say?’
She sniffed and, laughing, swung herself from the bed to grab a tissue. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it.’ Then, ‘I’ll have to fetch my bag; I left it downstairs.’
She crossed to the door, then, halfway through it, she paused and looked back. ‘Tom?’
He waited.
‘Don’t make the same mistake your mother did.’ She was cradling the life growing within her in a protective gesture. It was the most powerful instinct on earth. The drive of the mother to protect her young. His mother had done that. Had protected him from his father. Had protected him from herself…
‘You’re more than your genes,’ she said when he didn’t respond. ‘You’ve forged your own character. It’s strong and true and, I promise you, you’re the kind of father any little girl would want.’
There was an urgency in her voice. A touch of desperation. As if she knew that her own baby wouldn’t be that lucky…
He couldn’t help her. If it had been in his power he would have stopped the world and spun it back to give them both a second chance to get things right. But he couldn’t help either of them.
CHAPTER TEN
S YLVIE finally began to understand what was driving Tom’s inability to make an emotional commitment. How hard it must be for him to trust not just himself, but anyone.
To understand his anger, his pain at Candy’s desertion. He might not have loved her, but she’d still underscored all that early imprinting. That early lesson that no one was to be relied on…
And yet he’d trusted her enough, cared enough to stop her from hurting someone who she knew, deep down, loved her. That was a huge step forward.
She’d done her best to reassure him that he was not his father, or his mother. If she’d hoped that he’d instantly come over all paternal, well, that was unrealistic. He’d had a lifetime to live with the horrors of his early life, for the certainty that he did not want children to become ingrained into his psyche. He couldn’t be expected to switch all that off in a moment.