The Bride's Baby

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.’