And she let it go, calling Laura, who knew everyone, and handing her the job of securing the Steam Museum for the photo shoot.
It didn’t open until two on Sunday so they had plenty of time. The church was booked for early afternoon. They could finish off in the marquee in the early evening.
Tom closed the door to Sylvie’s bedroom, leaned back against it for a moment while he caught his breath. While she called Jeremy to enthuse him with her excitement. Got him to call the trustees and ask them for the loan of some of his grandfather’s toys for their big day.
He looked down at the letter he was holding. At least he’d managed to save one man from heartache.
His own would have to wait. He’d made her a promise and he’d keep it. But he’d leave as soon as he was sure everything was just as she wanted it. He didn’t intend to be an onlooker when Jeremy Hillyer arrived to claim his bride.
‘It’s beautiful, Geena.’
The dress, a simple A-line shift in rich cream silk, had been appliqued to the knees in swirling blocks of lavender, purple and green. And, instead of a veil, she’d created a stunningly beautiful loose thigh-length jacket on which the applique was repeated around the edge and on wide fold-back cuffs. Embroidery trailed over the silk and tiny beads caught the light as she moved-beads that matched the small Russian-style tiara Geena had commissioned to go with the gown.
‘I just wish it was for real. I really hoped you were going to bring Mr Hot-and-Sexy along to try on the matching waistcoat,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ Sylvie replied, for once letting her mask slip, her feelings show. Then, ‘I meant, I wish it was for real.’
‘I know what you meant, Sylvie. It was written all over your face. He is your baby’s father, isn’t he?’
Sylvie tried to deny it. Couldn’t. Lifted her hands in a helpless gesture that said it all.
‘I thought so. Men are such fools.’
‘We’re all fools,’ she said, shrugging off the beautiful jacket.
The week had been such a roller coaster of emotions that she was almost reeling from it. Or maybe she was just exhausted.
Tom had been such a tower of strength. Organising carpenters to make the food stalls. Rounding up every set of coloured lights in the county and making sure they were fixed for maximum impact so that inside the marquee was like being inside a funfair. Finding old fairground ride cars and adapting them for seating.
And, in the evenings, he was always there, ready to talk through any problems she’d encountered and offer suggestions.
He had such a clear vision, a way of seeing to the core of things.
He only had one blind spot. There was only one subject he never mentioned. It was almost as if he was so locked into his past, his determination never to be a father, that he’d blanked it out.
It couldn’t go on.
She wouldn’t allow it to go on.
‘Is that the dress?’
Tom was working at the kitchen table as she walked in carrying the box containing the tissue-wrapped dress and he pushed back the chair, standing up to take it from her.
‘Yes. I insisted on bringing it with me, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case she has a flat tyre. Or her workroom burns to the ground.’ The principle that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. ‘Believe me, when you’ve been in this business for as long as I have-’
‘Actually, Sylvie, I’m a bit concerned about the traction engines. I know you said Laura had it all in hand, but shouldn’t they-’
‘You don’t have to worry about them. We’ve got all morning,’ she said. ‘Plenty of time.’ Then, ‘I’ll just take this upstairs, then I want to talk to you, Tom.’
‘Can you leave it for a moment?’ he asked, taking the box from her, putting it on the table. ‘I want you to come and see the marquee.’
‘I thought it was finished.’
‘It is now,’ he said with the kind of smile that had become such a familiar sight over the last few days as they’d worked together. And he held out his hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
She laid her hand over his and he wrapped his fingers over hers. For a moment neither of them moved, then, as if jerking himself back from a dream, he headed for the door. Once they were outside, he paused for her to fall in beside him and they walked together, hand in hand, through the dusk to where the huge marquee had been erected by the hire company to display their wares, decorated at
‘Wait,’ he said as they approached the entrance. ‘I want you to get the full effect.’ He kept tight hold of her hand as he switched on the generator. The outside was lit up with white lights along every edge-along the roof ridge, cascading from the finials, circling above the drop cloths.
Inside, the lights-smaller, more decorative, a mirror image of those on the outside-were reflecting on the polished floor. The supports were topped with huge knots of brightly coloured ribbons, the same ribbons that were plaited around them to the floor. In the corners were brightly painted stalls, offering a choice of foods. The fairground seating.
Small finishing touches had been added during the afternoon. The candyfloss machine had arrived. Bunches of balloons were straining against their strings.
And then, as she looked around, she saw it.
A fairground organ. The kind that played from printed sheets. He crossed to it, threw a switch and, as if by magic, it began to play, music filling the huge space.
‘Tom! It’s wonderful! The perfect finishing touch.’
Even as Sylvie said the words, she felt her skin rise in goose-bumps. Nothing was ever perfect…
But then Tom said, ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Smith?’ And, before she could protest, he was waltzing her across the floor. And it was. Magic.
About as perfect as it was possible for something to be.
And much too brief. The music stopped. Tom held her for just a moment longer. Then he stepped away.
‘Enough.’
The word had a finality about it but, before she could say anything, he turned away. ‘Go in, Sylvie. It’ll take me a while to shut everything down. Make sure it’s all safe. I’ll leave the lights until last so that you can see your way.’ Then, ‘Take care.’
‘Yes, I will.’
For a moment neither of them moved and then, because the longer she hesitated, the longer it would be before he could join her and she could talk to him about the future, she turned and walked back to the house.
Inside, the hall was now festooned with pink ribbons in preparation for tomorrow’s Fayre. The door to the ballroom stood wide open to reveal the catwalk, the tables with gilt chairs laid out in preparation for the fashion show. Mother of the bride outfits, going-away outfits, honeymoon clothes. Formal hire wear for men, including kilts. Bridesmaids and page-boy outfits. And, finally, Geena’s bridal wear.
The florist had been busy all day putting the finishing touches to her arrangements. Pew-end nosegays that had been hung all along the edge of the catwalk. Table flowers.
In the drawing room all the stalls were laid out like an Aladdin’s cave. Everything sparkling, fresh, lovely.
Laura was right. This was worth it, she thought. Even the weather forecast was good. It was going to be warm and sunny as it had been all week.
So why was she so cold?
She pushed open the library door, eager to get to the fire she knew would be banked up behind the guard.
But the guard was down. The room was not empty. There was someone sitting in Tom’s chair. A man, who stood up as she came to an abrupt halt.
Her father.
Older, with a little less hair, a little thicker around the waist-line. Deeply tanned. Still unbelievably good- looking.
