Wedding-Night Baby (17 page)

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Authors: Kim Lawrence

BOOK: Wedding-Night Baby
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‘Couldn't we stay here?'
Georgina hardly heard the brief argument that ensued between brother and sister. She couldn't take her eyes off Callum and the small, jagged tear in his cheek that oozed a trickle of blood. If he'd been badly injured or worse...! Devastation was just a thought away and she knew it—knew how much she needed him, how her life was inextricably linked with his. I can't tell him, ever! she thought.
Even if Josie wasn't the one, one day there
would
be a woman he loved and then what would become of her? Her feverish mind went up a gear as she imagined fierce custody battles. Could she cope with seeing her child accompany the man she loved and his partner for days out, let alone anything more permanent?
‘You're hurt!' Josie cried, shrugging off her brother's restraining hand and rushing to Callum's side, dark, dramatic and beautiful.
‘It's nothing, Josie,' Callum said, a shade of irritation in his voice.
Georgina could breathe now that his eyes had released
her own. It seemed sometimes as if he could see straight into her soul.
‘You ought to attend to it. Josie's right,' she said huskily. She wasn't going to offer. She'd never be able to keep her hands from trembling, and breathing in his male fragrance had a way of plunging her back into a state of mindless oblivion. She had to maintain her defences. She shook with the effort of remaining calm and passive.
‘I'll
do it,' Josie said scornfully, her voice implying that any woman worthy of the name would be only too eager to minister to her man. It was painfully obvious that she was eager.
Callum took hold of her hands and firmly spun her around in Greg's direction. ‘Do as Greg says,' he said abruptly in a tone that indicated that his patience was wearing thin. ‘A tree has fallen through the barn and we've made it as safe as possible. It would be stupid to hang around.' He was the sort of man who made things happen when he spoke; Georgina wasn't surprised to see their guests leaving.
When they'd gone Georgina was still standing leaning against the table. ‘She's in love with you.'
‘She
thinks
she is,' Callum corrected her calmly, lifting his fingers experimentally to the cut on his cheek.
‘And does she have reason to?'
‘What is this, Georgina—an interrogation?' he asked, his eyes narrowed. ‘Would you mind if we were lovers?' He seemed to be waiting tensely for her reply.
Georgina knew he was watching her, waiting for her reaction, and she stayed as still as a statue. ‘I don't care who your lover is.' The lie fell readily from her stiff lips. ‘Especially if it means I'm not pressurised.'
‘When exactly did I pressurise you to be my lover?' His voice was curiously flat. ‘I hope you're not insinuating that I'd force myself on you.'
‘A peculiar sequence of events made us lovers, Callum. Nothing else.' She was painfully aware that force would never be a factor.
‘You don't believe in Nemesis, then, Georgina?' He spoke with a curious inflection in his voice and a wild light in his blue eyes.
‘I think she has a bizarre sense of humour if she exists,' she responded bitterly. ‘Shall I help you with the clearing up?'
‘Go to bed, Georgina,' he said with a hint of weariness in his deep voice. ‘I won't inflict my company on you, if that's what's bothering you.'
 
Even though she was exhausted Georgina didn't sleep. She lay awake, her ears catching every creak and groan and old building made. Callum was true to his word and she didn't even hear him come upstairs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
M
ATHILDE PROVED to be as protective as a mother hen. Her bullying wasn't subtle but it was well-meaning, and Georgina, who felt her girth increase in direct proportion to her exhaustion, was mostly happy to behave as the elderly Frenchwoman felt she ought.
During the weeks that followed Callum was as concerned for her welfare as ever, but since that first evening he had made no more intimate overtures. He was a polite and considerate stranger. It hurt as she watched the distance between them grow into a chasm as the weeks progressed. Knowing it was for the best made no difference to the bleakness she felt.
‘I've prepared the room for the nurse,' Mathilde said, bustling into the kitchen, which was the hub of the house. ‘We will have a full house once your mother is here next week. Will
monsieur
move into your room when she arrives? '
‘I expect we'll manage somehow,' Georgina said faintly. She couldn't imagine he'd want to share a room with her and the baby, share the sleepless nights and all that went with them. She could just imagine the embarrassing comments her mother would make. Mathilde was bad enough! The new arrivals would give Callum all the less reason to be around, she thought bitterly.
She felt odd this morning; something was indefinably different. She'd spent a solid hour in the dressing room that Callum had transformed into a nursery for the baby,
just pacing restlessly up and down. Callum had gone to so much trouble to make it perfect, with everything she could wish for for the new arrival—but it wasn't what she really wished for. If only the heart could be treated to a couple of coats of emulsion, she pondered ruefully. Another two weeks and the room would be occupied; despite the constant reminder she lived with, it didn't seem possible.
‘I believe Monsieur Callum took Mademoiselle Josephine to dinner at Les Hirondelles last night,' Mathilde said, with a loud sniff of disapproval as she mentioned the local
auberge.
‘It was her birthday, Mathilde,' Georgina observed with a smile that was meant to indicate she hadn't a care in the world. ‘I felt too tired to go.' Callum hadn't pushed the subject; he'd seemed almost relieved when she'd made her excuses.
‘He wasn't back until late.'
‘Wasn't he? I didn't notice,' she lied. She'd stayed awake until the small hours, listening for the sound of his footsteps. This morning he'd still been wearing last night's clothes and he'd avoided her eyes. She didn't need a picture to fill in the blanks!
‘If the master shared your bed you'd notice.'
‘Mathilde!' Georgina snapped, flushing.
The housekeeper lumbered off, still muttering direfully in her native tongue, and Georgina gave a sigh of relief. Callum had been spending less time at the house; sometimes it seemed as though he couldn't bear to be in her company. She'd caught a glimpse of Josie last night before they'd left, looking svelte and seductive in a low-cut black sheath. One look in her mirror told Georgina why he preferred the company of other women.
‘
Madame
.'
Georgina rose from her chair awkwardly; the Frenchwoman
insisted on the courtesy title and she'd stopped correcting her. ‘What's wrong?'
‘Gaston is here to take me to market and
monsieur
isn't back yet.'
Georgina frowned. Callum had promised to be back by the time Mathilde's nephew arrived to pick her up to do her weekly shop. ‘Never mind; he won't be long.'
‘
Monsieur
will be angry if I leave you alone, and the telephone here is still out of order.' The older woman was clearly torn. In the morning she shopped; in the afternoon she enjoyed catching up on gossip.
‘
Monsieur
will be angry' indeed! Why were the world and his wife desperate to do exactly what Callum wanted? ‘A few minutes alone won't make any difference,' Georgina insisted firmly. She was sick and tired of having him say what she could do, when she could do it, and for how long.
‘You are sure?
Bien
.'
Seeing the housekeeper leave was a small victory in her continual bid to retain some freedom of action. Georgina had had so few private moments lately that she was relieved to have the place totally to herself. She found herself in the nursery, examining the tiny garments neatly stacked in the drawers. What was she going to do when the baby was born? She seemed incapable of thinking past that moment.
She couldn't stay with a man who needed other women to satisfy his sensual nature, certainly not when she loved the said man. Not even for the child. Would he try and prevent her going? She sighed; her thoughts seemed stuck in a constant groove with no outright solution.
She was still sitting on the floor, her back against the gaily decorated wall, when she realised the nagging backache she'd had since the previous evening was more than
that. The pain started low in her thighs and rose upwards in a wave of pressure.
It can't be, she thought, shaking her head and dismissing the idea; I've got two weeks to go yet. All the same she glanced at the clock suspended above the cot. The painted illustrations from a nursery rhyme seemed to mock her.
An hour later and after a rushed trip to the bathroom she knew it was the real thing. She spoke out loud to still the rising panic that threatened to swamp her. She was excited and afraid.
‘Callum will be back soon. Everyone knows the first one takes hours and hours. Ugh!' She grabbed onto a bureau for support. It seemed advisable under the circumstances to take to her bed. She tried the telephone extension but it was still dead. ‘I will not panic,' she said. Her defiant voice sounded abnormally loud in the room. A strange calm descended over her as a pattern of pain and rest established itself.
A knock—soft, then louder—heralded company. How long had she lain there? She didn't know; time had little meaning.
‘Georgina!'
She heard the door creak then Callum's soft footfalls on the carpet. ‘Where's Mathilde?'
Georgina opened her eyes. ‘She went with Gaston.'
‘She should have waited until I got back,' he said, his face harsh with irritation. ‘Can I get you anything?'
‘A doctor might be good. I think it's too late for an ambulance.' As if to illustrate this point she grabbed hold of the metal bed-frame as she felt another wave of pain wash over her.
‘You're not saying...? You can't; it's not time yet. Georgina!' She heard the panic in his voice—panic she'd never heard before. ‘I'll get the car.' This time his voice was firmer, more in control, and she opened her eyes.
‘It's too late for that, Callum. He's going to come
now
!' Another contraction hit her and a cry was ripped from her throat. The sound, eerie and primitive, somehow shocked him into action.
‘That's it, sweetheart; it's all right. I'm here now.'
Gasping, she relaxed onto the pillows whilst her body had a temporary respite from its labours. ‘You took your time,' she said as he wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. ‘I wanted you!' she wailed.
A fierce light flared in his eyes. ‘Don't worry. I've done this loads of times before.'
She stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. ‘You have?'
‘Cattle, sheep. Can women be
that
different?'
Her laughter was cut off by the urge to push hard and her face creased with effort.
His hands weren't shaking as he gently examined her; this fact alone amazed him. Over the past month or so he'd read enough to know theoretically what should happen, but he knew that theory and practice were rarely the same thing. He found he was praying swiftly and fervently in his head, promising anything if only this would go smoothly. The responsibility for two lives was in his hands; the knowledge lay heavily. Seeing Georgina's pain and knowing there was nothing he could do to alleviate it filled him with the most awful sense of helplessness he'd ever experienced.
She'd got this far all alone while he'd been deliberately staying away. His anger turned inwards, burning hot and unforgiving. If anything happened to her...to the baby... he'd carry it with him for the rest of his days. Then as she called his name he had to put the anger aside and spoke soothingly, with an authority he didn't feel.
‘Georgina, the head's coming.' He took her hand and guided it to the crowning skull of the unborn child. His face was wildly exultant, tense with strain and wet with a
sheen of sweat. ‘Just a couple more pushes, sweetheart. You're doing so well.'
He didn't believe what he'd said was true until it happened and the child slithered out into his waiting hands. ‘We've got a daughter and she's perfect!' His voice rang with joy. The cry as the baby's throat cleared made his eyes mist over with emotion.
Child against her breast, Georgina felt swamped by a surge of sheer exhilaration. ‘We did it; we did it,' she kept breathing, touching the tiny fingers, awed by the miracle of new life in her arms.
‘
You
did it,' Callum corrected her, his eyes full of the solemnity of the occasion. He knew enough basic midwifery to clamp the cord, and, standing back, his whole body shaking with reaction, he watched the child—his child—
their
child, perfect and beautiful—suckle at her mother's breast.
An hour later Mathilde returned. She opened the door and gasped, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. ‘Gaston! ' she screeched. ‘
Le docteur...
'
‘It's a bit late for that, Mathilde,' Georgina observed complacently, staring at her new daughter, her face alight with love.
‘Get him all the same, Mathilde,' Callum said, getting up from the side of the bed.
‘I don't have to go to hospital, do I?'
‘Shall we let the doctor decide that?'
Unable to tear her eyes from the delicate features of the sleeping child, she nodded. ‘She is beautiful, isn't she?'
‘Exquisite,' he said huskily. ‘Can...can I hold her?'
She looked up; he'd sounded almost defensive about the request, and then she saw in his eyes the suspicion that she'd deny him the appeal. ‘Of course you can, Callum,' she said emotionally. ‘She's your daughter. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come.'
Some of the tension disappeared from his shoulders as he took the firmly wrapped bundle from her hands. ‘I expect you'd have managed.'
A certain quality in his searching regard of the tiny face made her heart ache. He looked so proud, so stunned still by this new life he'd helped bring into the world. She knew she couldn't deprive him of this child—part of him—part of them; it would be wrong.
‘You knew she'd be a girl. Have you thought of any names?' she asked impulsively.
‘Are you asking my opinion?' He knew that this concession was part of a bigger decision she'd just made and his grave expression was appreciative of the fact. ‘I like Rachel.'
‘Rachel Campion...mmm...I like it.'
‘Rachel Stewart?'
She shot him a startled look.
‘Don't say anything now, but think about it,' he said quietly, almost as if he was regretting his impulsive words. ‘You must be tired.'
‘For the baby...for Rachel?' she asked, her throat aching with unshed tears.
‘She needs us both.'
Georgina watched the movement of his throat muscles, her mind spinning. She had moral blackmail and practicality when she wanted love and passion. For a while there everything had seemed so perfect, two people sharing the ultimate creation of that love, but she'd only been seeing what she wanted to see. Baby Rachel wouldn't change the way Callum felt about her any more than she would change how she, Georgina, felt about him. He was asking her to make the same concessions that he was willing to make. Could she refuse the request even if it hurt?
The strident sound that emerged from the small bundle distracted them both. Handing the child back to her, Callum
watched in fascination as the infant fastened onto her mother's breast with single-minded ferocity.
Callum sat in the chair beside the bed and watched them. If Georgina had let her attention wander she'd have seen the restless, hungry expression in his eyes. When Callum got up to leave she didn't notice. After being so involved he felt curiously redundant to the whole process. He roused himself from his introspective mood and set about coping with the practicalities. There were people to inform and a telephone to get reconnected in a hurry.
 
‘Are you trying to drive that man away?' Lydia demanded, running her daughter to ground in the kitchen.
‘Mother, I'm tired, so if you want a fight couldn't it wait until later?' Georgina faced her angry parent with an expression of resignation. Lydia had come to stay shortly after Rachel's birth six weeks before and the situation was already becoming untenable. She ought to be grateful—she was grateful—but Lydia was openly disapproving of her relationship with Callum and wasn't afraid of voicing her disgust.

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