Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

Chapter 31

Caitlin snatched her hands back. ‘Have you lost your mind, Niall? You and me, married? It would never work!’

‘Why not?’

She shook her head in mingled bewilderment and fury. ‘Because we’d never be accepted as a couple, that’s why! Your Edinburgh friends, and especially your wife’s friends – they’ll hate the very idea of me and you. And they’ll like the idea of me and you and a baby even less!’

‘I don’t care what other people think.’ Scorn sharpened his words. ‘I never have. All I know is that I’m happy when I’m with you, Cait. You’ve brought colour back into my grey existence.’

‘You always did have a pretty way with words, Niall.’ Caitlin crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared at him. ‘But I have to be practical. Do you really want to throw your married life away, to be frozen out socially from your friends and faculty, in exchange for dirty nappies and two o’clock feedings and hostile Scottish in-laws?’

‘If giving up my old life means I that can be with you,’ he said earnestly, his gaze unwavering on her own, ‘then yes. I am. I’m more than ready to throw everything aside to be with you, and,’ he reached out a tentative hand and laid it atop her stomach as he affected a thick (and very bad) Scottish accent ‘our wee little baby.’

Natalie couldn’t believe it.

As the familiar, cramp-y feeling took hold in her stomach, she bit her lip and told herself it couldn’t possibly be true. After all these weeks, to find out that she’d been mistaken, that she wasn’t really pregnant...

...it was almost more than she could bear.

After weeks of cajoling, she’d finally brought Rhys around to share her excitement about the baby. He’d agreed to help her plan the nursery and suggested colours, and he’d even helped her pick out a few baby outfits online.

How to tell him now that there would be no baby? He’d be every bit as disappointed as she was.

But the pregnancy test kit definitely showed a blue line! she reflected indignantly. It said there was no mistake. So much for bloody technology.

Then she burst into noisy, hiccupping sobs.

Caitlin let herself back into the castle as quietly as possible and sagged back against the door.

At least Niall had agreed not to tell her mother and father about their plans to get married. Instead, she sent him back to Edinburgh and promised to call him once she’d smoothed the way with her parents.

While she knew her family would be relieved to know that Niall intended to do right by her, she also knew her father, and she had no doubt he’d have plenty of condemnation to heap on her future husband.

When dinner was over and everyone went into the library for drinks and conversation, Caitlin asked her parents to remain behind.

‘There’s something I need to tell you both,’ she said. ‘Something important.’

Penelope shook her head imperceptibly at Caitlin as her glance strayed to her husband. ‘Perhaps now isn’t the best time.’

‘No time will ever be “the best time”,’ Caitlin said firmly. ‘And Dad deserves to know.’

‘Know what?’ he growled. ‘What are you talking about, lassie?’

She took a deep breath, and as quickly and plainly as possible, Caitlin told her parents that she was pregnant, and that the baby’s father was a university professor who was married to someone else. ‘Mum already knows I’m pregnant.’

Archie turned to her. ‘You knew about this, Pen?’ he asked, his voice deceptively calm. ‘And you said nothing?’

‘Caitlin wanted to tell you herself.’

‘Niall’s getting a divorce,’ Caitlin said quickly, ‘and he’s asked me to marry him.’

There was silence after her pronouncement...just before all hell broke loose.

Her father thrust his chair back, overturning it in his anger. ‘D’ye mean to tell me this bastard who’s been carrying on with you – this man who’s got you pregnant - he’s married? And he’s getting rid of his wife for you, a girl half his age, and one of his bloody students, to boot?’ he thundered. ‘Have I got the right of it?’

With the words caught in her throat, Caitlin managed to nod. ‘You make it sound so bad! It’s really not—’

‘Get out.’

Caitlin stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Do ye not ken what I said? Get out of my sight this instant, lass,’ he warned her, his voice low but charged, ‘afore I lose my temper altogether, and throw you out of my house and into the snow on your arse!’

Without another word, Caitlin turned and ran, weeping, from the room.

‘Really, Archie,’ Penelope said evenly, anger plain on her face, ‘was that necessary?’

‘Aye, there’s much worse I might’ve said to her, believe me. The daft girl! Has everyone in this house taken leave of their bloody senses?’

He returned his chair to its rightful place at the table and stalked out.

‘Archie, wait!’ Pen strode after him, determined to finish the conversation, when the phone in the hallway rang.

She hesitated, then picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Draemar Castle.’

Silence.

‘Who’s there, please?’ she asked with a trace of impatience. ‘Hello?’

There was no answer, just the crackle of a long-distance connection.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you keep calling here? What is it you want?’

She was about to ring off but something made her stop. A myriad of emotions skimmed her face – hope, doubt, disbelief – as she pressed the phone closer to her ear.

Could it be? After all this time, was it possible...?

‘Is it you?’ Pen whispered, the words catching in her throat. ‘My darling, dearest boy, is that you, Andrew?’

‘So we’re not having a baby, after all.’

In their room that evening, Rhys took Natalie’s news with remarkable calm.

‘No. I’m not pregnant.’

He turned to face her. ‘But how can that be? You took one of those tests, Natalie. It said you were pregnant. You showed me the stick yourself, and the blue line.’

‘I-I don’t know.’ She fidgeted with her collar. ‘I must’ve done something wrong.’

His expression was sardonic. ‘Imagine that.’ He went to the foot of the bed and sat down.

‘Well?’ Natalie asked as she dropped down beside him and eyed him anxiously. ‘Haven’t you anything to say, Rhys?’

‘What is there to say, Natalie? You thought you were pregnant but it was a mistake, and you’re not. End of story.’

‘But how do you...feel, about it? Are you disappointed?’

‘Of course I am. I know I wasn’t very keen in the beginning, but once I got used to the idea of you...of us...having a baby, I liked it. So yes, I’m a bit disappointed.’

‘I’ll make an appointment with Dr MacTavish tomorrow, just to be sure. Oh, Rhys...I was so looking forward to us having this baby.’ She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as tears began to leak out.

He reached an arm out and drew her close against him. ‘It’s not the end of the world. There’s no rush, after all. We’ll just let nature take its course for the next few weeks and see what happens.’

‘You mean – no pills? Whatever happens...happens?’

‘Exactly.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Now that I’ve got used to it, I like the idea of having a son, someone to take the reins and run Dashwood and James one day.’

‘What about a daughter?’ Natalie demanded, and lifted her face to his. ‘I could just as easily have a girl, you know.’

‘Yes, you could. And I’ll love her every bit as much as our son. We could have one of each,’ he pointed out, and leant forward to kiss her. ‘Nothing’s stopping us, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon.’

Natalie kissed him back. ‘No,’ she said huskily as she drew him down beside her, ‘nothing’s stopping us at all, Mr Gordon.’

Chapter 32

On Saturday, Helen got a call from the mechanic’s shop. ‘Your car’s ready,’ the male voice on the other end of the phone informed her. ‘We close in ten minutes, and we won’t open again until Monday morning. Can someone bring you in to pick it up then?’

Her heart sank. ‘Yes,’ she managed. ‘Thank you. How much do I owe you?’

He paused, and named a sum nearly as large as a third world country’s budget.

‘Thanks,’ Helen said faintly. ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’

She rang off, and her expression was troubled. She didn’t want to leave Draemar yet. She hadn’t filed her exclusive on Dominic and Gemma’s wedding, nor had she gotten the answers she sought in Andrew’s death...and she still wanted to understand why Colm MacKenzie shared a more-than-coincidental resemblance to the Campbell family.

More importantly, she didn’t want to leave Colm.

The thought of returning to London – all she’d wanted when she’d first arrived at the castle – filled her now with melancholy. She dreaded going back to her old, empty life, back to the constant, heartbreaking reminders of David and their baby, back to a job she’d grown to hate.

Scotland, and Colm, were a part of her now.

Which reminds me, she thought as she headed downstairs to ask Pen if she might borrow a car, I need to go to the store and buy a tin of shortbread or a bottle of wine to take to Colm’s...it wouldn’t do to show up for Sunday dinner at the gatehouse empty-handed.

And she had to tell him she was leaving soon.

Would he even care? she wondered as she went into the drawing room in search of Mrs Campbell. He probably wouldn’t spare her another thought once she was gone.

There was no sign of Pen. She’d been here recently, though; a half-empty cup of tea with her red lipstick on the rim sat on one of the end tables, next to a basket piled with fashion magazines. Curious, Helen picked one of the magazines up. Surely, she thought as she flicked rapidly through the pages, Tom would want her to stay here until the wedding story was photographed and filed.

Her page-flicking slowed. The fashions were from the Seventies, and the models wore things like crocheted vests, bucket hats, wedge heels, and wide-legged trousers.

‘Shades of Studio 54,’ Helen murmured, and quirked her brow. Why on earth did the Campbells keep a basket of Seventies fashion magazines to hand?

Then she saw it. Pen Campbell, or Pen Park as she was known then, strode across the glossy page in a pair of wide-legged white slacks and a black crocheted crop-top, laughing. It was an ad for a women’s cologne, Insouciant.

Pen was attractive, with her green eyes and auburn hair, and she was the picture of youth and health.

Her interest piqued, Helen flipped through a few more magazines. Pen was everywhere – on a cover here, in a cosmetics ad there, gracing dozens of photo shoots and spreads – proving that she’d once been very sought after in the fashion world.

But one photo in particular caught her eye. Pen and another model were posing for a picture in Annabel’s, the fashionable London nightclub, with Graeme Longworth, candidate for prime minister. He was smiling, amused by something Pen had just said.

Helen remembered the first time she and the others had dined with Archie Campbell and his wife. He’d proudly made mention of Pen’s quasi-celebrity past.

‘Had flings with a couple of film stars, she did, and then there was that chap – oh, what was his name, darling? I always said he was sweet on you...he almost ran for prime minister?’

‘Graeme Longworth.’

Then Pen had changed the subject.

Her thoughts racing, Helen returned the magazines to the basket.

She went up to her room and shut the door, then pulled out her laptop. She typed Longworth’s name into the search engine, but nothing of interest came up, aside from a few old photos and news of his sudden withdrawal from the election for PM in the mid-seventies. There was plenty of speculation as to why, but nothing more.

Archie’s voice echoed in her head. ‘There were rumours of a scandal of some sort, and so he withdrew.’

She typed in Pen Park’s name next; again, she found little of import, only photos from her days as a model, news of her marriage to Archie Campbell, and later, articles about the drowning death of her eldest son, Andrew.

On impulse, Helen picked up her mobile and rang Tom. ‘What do you know about a chap named Graeme Longworth?’ she asked when he picked up.

There was a long pause. ‘Why do you ask?’ A note of wariness crept into his voice.

‘Well, it’s purely conjecture on my part,’ she mused as she scrolled through the list of links on her screen, ‘but I think I might know why Longworth abandoned his bid for PM. And I think her name was Pen Park.’

Instead of scoffing, or dismissing her idea out of hand, Tom let out a short breath. ‘Give me directions to Draemar.’

‘What? Why, are you coming up here to the Highlands?’ she asked, and blinked. ‘But you despise Scotland.’

‘I do. But we need to talk. Is there somewhere in the local village where we can meet? Somewhere private?’

‘Well, yes,’ she said, frowning, ‘the pub, if I can borrow someone’s car, but—’

‘Right, I’m coming straight up. I’ll be there late this afternoon. Book me a room somewhere. In the meantime,’ he added, ‘do me a favour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Keep your gob shut about this. And don’t tell anyone I’m coming up there.’

Helen entered the Draemar Arms pub late that afternoon and slid into a seat at a booth in the back. Unable to locate Mrs Campbell to ask to borrow a car, she’d offered to do the grocery shop for Colm in exchange for the use of his Range Rover, and he’d agreed.

She took off her hat and gloves and shrugged off her coat – the snow might’ve stopped, but it was still bloody cold ‒ and glanced around the dim interior.

At this hour of the day, the place was nearly empty. Tom hadn’t arrived yet.

She got up to order two pints from the bar and returned with them to the booth, then took a sip of her lager and settled in to wait.

Colm took out the carrots and potatoes and rinsed them under the tap. He skinned the carrots with long, sure strokes of the peeling knife. He set the frothy tops and peels aside to flavour the broth for a future lamb stew. Waste not, want not, wasn’t that the old saying?

A lifetime of scrimping and saving and getting by meant he was no stranger to making do with very little. He left school at fifteen, and in the intervening years he’d washed dishes, been a waiter, run delivery routes, crewed on a couple of freighters, and tended bar. It was good, honest work; and some of it had paid well. He worked hard and kept to himself.

The years following Alanna’s death had been bleak and unending. He got up, he worked, he came home and drank himself into oblivion, and passed out.

He liked it here at Draemar. The Campbells were decent people who paid well and left him to run things without interfering. For the first time in a long time, he felt a cautious hope.

He looked forward to Sunday dinner with Helen tomorrow. It surprised him, this anticipation; after all, what did he, a dour widower with a murky past and no future to speak of, have in common with a street-savvy London tabloid reporter?

Absolutely nothing, that much was sure.

And yet...he couldn’t stop thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, if she thought about him as he sometimes thought about her. He enjoyed sparring with her. She was quick, and clever.

And she’d looked a hell of a lot more fetching in that terrycloth robe than he ever had...

He flung a dish towel over his shoulder and stared, unseeing, out the window at the snow-covered tree branches. Sex with Helen had been amazing. Oh, he’d been with his share of women over the years; but none of them had meant anything. He’d forgotten them by the next day.

Helen was different.

She was the first woman – the only woman – he’d felt something for since losing his beloved Alanna.

And that fact, more than anything else, scared the hell out of him.

Chapter 33

‘I’m here.’

Helen looked up from her beer to see Tom sliding into the booth across from her. ‘I got you a pint.’ She nudged his glass over.

‘Thanks.’ He shrugged off his jacket and laid it aside. ‘No one knows you’re here, I take it?’

‘No. Archie and Pen went out for dinner and a film,’ she said. ‘And the rest of us…well, let’s just say we’re all going a bit bonkers, stuck in that castle for the last few weeks. Everyone’s escaped for the evening.’ She leant forward. ‘So tell me what this is all about.’

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a photo and laid it on the table, then slid it across to her. ‘Have a look.’

Helen picked it up. The photograph showed Pen Park and Graeme Longworth coming out of a mansion flat in Marylebone. Judging from Pen’s crocheted mini-dress and Longworth’s sideburns, it was taken around the same time as the snap at Annabel’s, in the mid-seventies.

The pair shared an umbrella, and they both looked straight into the camera, their expressions startled, and more than a little guilty.

‘So I was right,’ Helen said softly. ‘They were having an affair.’ She lowered the photo and gazed at him. ‘Why wasn’t this picture published?’

‘I’m getting to that,’ Tom grumbled as he took the photograph back and tucked it in his pocket once again. ‘When I took that snap, I was young, barely twenty. I was desperate for a big, splashy story to make my name. One day, I got a tipoff over the phone about Longworth and his dolly bird, and I got my story, all right – with bells on.’

‘So it seems,’ Helen murmured.

‘This man – he said he was connected to a senior member of the coalition – wanted a story, with photos, that would implicate Longworth in an affair with a certain up-and-coming British model.’

‘Longworth was married, I take it?’

‘Yes. So the next day, I staked out the front of the mansion flat in Marylebone where Miss Park lived, and I waited. I waited outside ‒ in the rain ‒ for fucking hours. But I got the goods. I messengered the photos to this bloke, as agreed. He called to say he’d got ’em and asked me not to file the story for twenty-four hours.

‘So I waited. The next day, he sent the pictures back and told me to kill the story.’ Tom scowled. ‘I was furious! Longworth’s affair would’ve been the making of me. But he offered me plenty of dosh to keep it out of the paper, so I did, and I took the money. I locked the photos away in my safe, where they’ve been ever since.’

‘But if the story never ran,’ Helen asked, puzzled, ‘then why did Longworth withdraw from the election?’