Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

Chapter 36

The summons from her father came that evening, as she’d known it would.

Caitlin gathered her resolve and left her room. She made her way down the hall to her father’s private study and knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ he called out gruffly.

He glanced up as she came inside the room. A fire burned in the grate, casting a burnished glow over the leather chairs and tartan rug and the great mahogany desk he sat behind.

‘If this is about Niall,’ she began, ‘there’s nothing more to say.’

‘It isn’t about him. It’s about what he’s done to you, and what he intends to do about it.’

‘I told you, we’re getting married—’

‘His divorce has to come through first, Caitlin. That takes time. What happens while you wait? Are you having this baby? And if so, who’ll take care of it? Will he help out financially? Have you given a single thought to the practicalities?’

‘Yes, I’m having the baby,’ she said defiantly, ‘and of course I’m keeping it! Why wouldn’t I?’

He leant back in his chair. ‘Wren is under the impression that you’re giving the child up for adoption – to her, and Tarquin.’

Caitlin shifted on her feet. ‘Well, before I talked to Niall, that was the plan, yes. But he wants the baby. He’s over the moon with excitement.’

‘Is he, now?’ Archie’s expression was dark. ‘I’m sure he must feel quite chuffed to know he’s impregnated a girl who’s half his age—’

‘You make him sound ancient! He isn’t. He’s barely thirty-eight. And he wants this baby. Our baby. I thought you’d be pleased that he wants to marry me.’

‘Pleased?’ The word, when he spoke, came out deceptively low. ‘You think I’m pleased that my only daughter has gotten herself pregnant ‒ by a married man, no less – and thrown her education away in exchange for nappies and two o’clock feedings?’

‘I’ll go back to university. When the baby’s older,’ she replied, but the words sounded hollow, even to herself.

‘What about his wife? Have you given a thought to her? He’s breaking up a marriage! And what about Wren? You have to tell her that you’ve changed your mind, and you’re not giving the baby up for adoption. She’ll be devastated.’

Caitlin hung her head. ‘I know she will,’ she admitted. ‘And I’m truly sorry for that. I know how much she and Tark want a baby. But...it can’t be helped. She’ll just have to understand.’

‘Well, lassie,’ Archie said as he thrust back his chair and stood up abruptly, ‘I hope she does. Because I can tell you this much – I damned sure don’t.’

Later that evening, Dominic crept upstairs and came to a stop outside the door to Archibald Campbell’s study. He listened, but heard nothing.

‘Dominic!’ Gemma shrilled from somewhere downstairs. ‘Dominic, where are you?’

Shit. With no time to waste, Dom edged the door open and ducked inside. He needed a place to hide. The room was dark, sunk in shadows, with the only light coming from the flicker of flames in the fireplace.

Once again, his fiancé had a bee up her arse, insisting he go into Aberdeen the next day to see if his morning suit was ready. Morning suit, he thought darkly. More like a bloody mourning suit, marking the loss of his bachelor existence—

‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Archie growled behind him.

Dominic nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and saw his host sitting in a wing chair in the shadows by the fire, a glass in hand.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I thought no one was in here,’ and he turned to leave.

‘Wait.’

Warily, Dominic paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘I didn’t mean to barge in, mate, truly.’

‘Stay,’ Archie ordered, and lifted his glass. ‘Join me for a drink, Dominic. I’d welcome your company.’

‘Not to be rude,’ the rock star observed as he made his cautious way towards Archie, ‘but you don’t look so good. Are you all right?’

‘Aye, I’m fine. Just having a wee dram and a think. I’ve a lot on my mind.’ He got up and went to a table where a decanter of whisky and matching glasses waited and poured Dominic a drink. His hand was a bit unsteady.

‘Thanks.’ Dominic took the glass. ‘What’s got you in a black mood, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Archie indicated the wing chair across from his, and the two men sat down. ‘It’s my daughter,’ he said after a moment. ‘She’s gone and done something incredibly stupid.’

‘Caitlin? What’s she done?’

‘Where to begin?’ Archie muttered, and scowled. ‘It all started when she was kicked out of university.’

‘Kicked out!’ Dom exclaimed, confused. ‘But...I thought she came home for the holidays.’

‘That’s what she told everyone. But it’s a lie.’ He took a longish sip of his whisky. ‘She was booted out for having an affair...with a professor. A married professor.’

‘Shit.’ Dominic knocked back half of his glass. ‘Well, it could be worse. At least she’s not up the duff.’

‘Ah,’ Archie said grimly, ‘that’s just it. She is indeed, as you term it, “up the duff”. She’s pregnant with this married bloke’s baby.’ He finished his whisky and held out the glass. ‘I’ll have another.’

As the first glass of whisky took hold, Dominic got to his feet and took Campbell’s glass, then made his way to the drinks table. ‘So what do you plan to do?’ he asked over his shoulder as he poured them each a fresh glass. He was proud of himself. He only spilled a tiny bit.

‘What can I do, short of throwing Caitlin out into the snow? And I could never do that.’ His scowl deepened. ‘She says he wants to marry her. He’s getting a divorce from his wife.’

‘That’s good, at least.’

‘Good? My daughter’s breaking up a marriage, Dominic, and she’s about to tie herself for life to the lying, cheating, unfaithful sod who made it happen. There’s nothing good about it. Any of it.’

‘Well, mate,’ Dom said, and gestured expansively, slopping whisky down the front of his shirt as he did, ‘it couldn’t have been much of a marriage, then, could it? I mean, it might seem like the end of the world right now. But look on the bright side ‒ by this time next year? You’ll be a grandfather!’

Archie glared at him and drained his whisky. ‘You’re nae making me feel any better, Dominic. Kindly shut up and pour us another dram.’

As a quiet knock sounded on her bedroom door that evening, Gemma blew her nose and snapped, ‘Go away, Dom. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘It’s Pen. Might I come in for a moment?’

‘Of course.’ Surprised, Gemma tossed aside her bridal magazine and got up to let Mrs Campbell in. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised as she opened the door, ‘I look a mess. I’ve been crying.’

‘That’s to be expected, isn’t it, after finding out you have no wedding gown,’ the older woman sympathised. She indicated the dress bag draped over her arm. ‘I thought this might solve the problem.’

Gemma’s eyes widened. ‘What…what is it?’

‘My wedding dress. It’s an Ossie Clark, made for me when I was still a model.’ She smiled. ‘And much thinner.’

‘An Ossie Clark?’ Gemma blinked. ‘But he designed clothes for Mick and Bianca Jagger, and for all manner of celebrities in the sixties and seventies! That dress must be worth a fortune.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Pen said briskly as she unzipped the bag, ‘but I’d never part with it, even so. I wore it when I married Archie. Of course,’ she added, ‘I’m a bit taller than you. But a pair of heels should take care of that.’

As she withdrew the dress, a length of cream chiffon with a satin halter-neck bodice, Gemma gasped. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said reverently as she fingered the length of chiffon. ‘I’ve never seen such a gorgeous dress.’

‘Let’s try it on, shall we?’

With a nod, Gemma took off her pyjamas and woolly socks and slid the dress over her head. It fell in a soft, floaty column to the floor. She stared at herself in the cheval mirror, mesmerized. ‘Oh…I love it.’

‘It’s a bit long, but as I said, a nice set of heels should solve it.’ Pen regarded her with satisfaction. ‘It suits you. You look radiant.’

‘Thank you. But…why?’ she asked, turning to the woman in bewilderment. ‘This was your wedding dress. I can’t possibly wear it. You’ve been so kind to us – all of us – letting us stay here for weeks on end, feeding us, putting up with Dominic. I’m not even family! I can’t allow you do this.’

‘Of course you can,’ Pen said firmly. ‘You can’t get married without a wedding gown, after all.’ She smiled, and picked up the empty dress bag and turned to go.

Tears filled Gemma’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she cried, and flung her arms impulsively around Archie’s wife. ‘I can’t ever repay you for all that you’ve done.’

Pen arched her brow. ‘Oh, but you most certainly can.’

‘Anything,’ Gemma agreed, her expression fervent. ‘Just name it.’

‘Marry your young man,’ Pen said, and reached up to catch Gemma’s hand in hers. ‘And be happy. That’s what you can do for me.’

And with another smile, she left.

Chapter 37

Caitlin came downstairs the next morning to find the front door open as Wren, Helen and Colm carried in pots of poinsettia plants and set them down in the entrance hall.

‘That’s the last of the lot,’ Colm announced, and deposited two more plants by the door. ‘I’ll go out to the woods this morning and fetch some greens.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Helen offered.

‘Mind you bring back plenty,’ Penelope called out as she came down the stairs. ‘We’ll need to drape them along the mantels and the balustrade, and we’ll need extra to make wreaths. And bring plenty of holly.’

Colm nodded. ‘We’ll load up the back of the truck with as much greenery as we can.’

‘Ooh, I love the smell of pine,’ Helen enthused. ‘It’s so Christmassy.’

‘Wait until we’ve finished decorating,’ Pen informed her. ‘The entire place will reek of pine and evergreens and the scent of Mrs Neeson’s Dundee cake and shortbread baking in the ovens.’

‘I can’t wait. My mouth is watering already.’

Pen moved one of the potted plants away from the doorframe, then straightened and brushed her hands together. ‘It was lovely to see you and Mr Bennett in the pub last night, Helen.’

Colm, one hand resting on the doorknob as he made to leave, paused. ‘In the pub, was she?’ Although he addressed the question to Mrs Campbell, he fixed Helen with a level gaze. ‘Fancy that.’

‘Yes, she was having a chat with one of her co-workers from London,’ Pen said, and smiled. ‘He seemed a lovely man, Helen. A pity he couldn’t stay.’

‘He had to get back,’ Helen said, flustered, ‘back to London. And I had...errands to run.’ Her eyes slanted guiltily to Colm’s, but their dark-hazel depths gave nothing away.

‘What on earth is all that?’ Caitlin asked as she eyed the plants crowding the floor.

‘Poinsettias,’ Wren replied. ‘It’s Christmas in less than a week, and these just arrived from the greenhouse in Aberdeen. We’ve to decorate the castle, not only for the holidays, but for the wedding, too. Why don’t you run along and get some breakfast? Then you can come back and help us fashion wreaths for the front door.’

‘Don’t we have servants for that?’

‘We do,’ Wren said, exasperated, ‘but I prefer to do a bit of decorating myself. We’d love it if you’d help.’

Caitlin opened her mouth to refuse, as draping swags of evergreen and wiring wreaths and ribbons was the last thing she felt like doing, but refrained. She really needed to make an effort to be nicer to Wren. Besides which, she reminded herself guiltily, she had to tell her sister-in-law the unwelcome news that she and Niall had decided to keep their baby.

And she had to tell her today.

‘Oh, very well,’ Caitlin grumbled, and made her way towards the baize door, and the kitchen. ‘I’ll help you. Just let me have my tea and toast first, while I can still keep it down.’

‘Are you coming, Miss Thomas?’ Colm asked from the doorway. ‘I’ve no time to dilly-dally.’

Helen hesitated. She knew he’d question her about her meeting with Tom the minute they got in the truck, and he’d want to know why she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

And she really didn’t have any answers to give him.

‘I won’t, thank you.’ Her gaze slanted away from his. ‘I think I’ll stay here and help decorate.’

‘Suit yourself.’

With a curt nod, he thrust his flat cap back on his head, and left.

Gemma took delivery of the big white box and carried it upstairs. Thank God it was here! With the wedding only days away, she’d worried it wouldn’t arrive in time.

She set the box down on the bed and lifted the lid.

There it was, she reflected with satisfaction, Dominic’s morning suit...the suit he’d wear in just a few more days, when they got married.

She picked up the jacket by the shoulders and lifted it out, admiring the dark-grey cashmere wool with white pinstripes and the excellent tailoring. Dom would look divine – dashing, and every inch the future Lord Locksley. A pity she hadn’t convinced him to wear a kilt.

Oh, well, this would do. All it needed was...a top hat.

A frown marred her perfect brows as her search came up empty. Where was it? It was imperative that Dominic wear a proper top hat. Grooms at all the smart weddings wore one. Yet there was no hat box in sight.

Swearing under her breath, Gemma stalked out of the room in search of Dominic. What if he hadn’t gone to the hatter’s to get fitted, as she’d asked him to do weeks ago? What if he had no hat to wear at their nuptials?

Her eyes narrowed. First, she’d find him.

Then she’d kill him.

There was no place Dominic could hide that she wouldn’t search, Gemma vowed as she marched down the hallway to the stairs. And when she did find him, she’d tell him in no uncertain terms to get his arse to the nearest hat maker’s to be fitted for a top hat, pronto.

The trouble was, she reflected as she descended the staircase, she’d no idea where to find him. The sneaky little sod had made himself scarce of late, no doubt avoiding the wedding preparations.

Gemma decided to begin a room-by-room search, starting with the drawing room. She’d find her wayward fiancé if she had to look in every room in the castle – all one hundred and bloody fifty of them.

Although she checked in the kitchen, dining room, drawing room, and library, she had no luck. She pushed her way thought the baize door and paused in the middle of the entrance hall. There was no sign of Dom anywhere.

She stalked up the stairs, determined to visit each and every bedroom, study, morning room, and tower in Draemar Castle if need be, until she ran the little bastard to ground.

‘Gemma?’

She looked up, still scowling, to see Tarquin coming down the stairs towards her. ‘Oh. Hello, Tark.’

‘Is everything all right? You look a bit upset.’

‘It’s Dominic,’ she said bitterly, ‘same as it always is. I need to find him, but he’s disappeared.’

‘Are you sure he hasn’t left the castle? Gone into the village, perhaps?’

‘No, I’m certain he’s here. He hasn’t a car, after all, so he can’t have gone anywhere.’

‘He might have called a taxi,’ Tarquin pointed out reasonably. ‘Was there somewhere in particular he needed to go?’

‘Not that I know of. His morning suit’s just arrived and I need him to try it on, and there’s no top hat with it, but there should have been, and now I c-can’t even find D-Dominic to ask him about it!’ she wailed, and burst into tears. ‘What if he’s scarpered? I’ll be one of those s-saddo brides left standing at the altar! I’ll be an object of p-pity and s-scorn, just like Miss H-havisham!’

‘Oh, surely not,’ he reassured her, and patted her – somewhat awkwardly – on her arm. ‘I’ve no doubt Dominic will turn up. Would you like me to help you look? I know this castle like the back of my hand, after all.’

Through sniffles and sobs, Gemma nodded. ‘It’ll take me a week to find him by myself. Thanks, Tark.’

‘Always happy to help a lady in distress,’ he murmured, and held out his arm. ‘Shall we begin?’

Together, she and Tarquin ascended the stairs, and began their search for the elusive Dominic Heath.

Chapter 38

Helen took her cup of coffee after breakfast and went to the library to have a quiet moment and a think.

She sat on the window seat and stared outside at the sun glinting off the snow, and found herself once again wondering how Colm had gotten that faint white scar on his thigh. He said it happened on one of the freighters he’d crewed on. Twenty-seven stitches... She shuddered. That was one hell of an accident.

Despite herself, she still had a few lingering questions about Colm...questions he’d thus far avoided answering. Why?

What was he hiding? Was he hiding something?

She didn’t want to dig into his past, truly she didn’t; it felt like the worst kind of betrayal. But she needed to know more about the man she was falling in love with before things between them went any further. A bit of due diligence was called for before her relationship with Colm went any further, if only to protect herself.

Clutching her coffee cup, Helen returned to her room and switched on her laptop.

She logged on and typed ‘Colm MacKenzie’ into the search engine. Nothing came up, save for links to a few other, different Colms – a writer, a doctor, a plumber.

Why was there no mention of her Colm?

She frowned. Was Colm MacKenzie even his real name? Had he changed it for some reason? She stared at the screen as she recalled what he’d said to her on Sunday night, the night they’d spent together.

The McRoberts were good, decent people...they gave me a roof and fed me.

On impulse, she typed in ‘Colm McRoberts.’

Immediately the screen displayed several results. Her eyes widened as she scanned the links. ‘Accident on the A96, Serious Injuries,’ she read out loud. ‘Pregnant Woman Airlifted to Hospital Following Deadly Wreck.’ ‘McRoberts to be Charged in Accident Fatality?’

Late yesterday afternoon Colm McRoberts, 24, lost control of his car and plunged several feet down a steep embankment. Also in the car was his pregnant wife, Alanna.

While being airlifted from the wreck, Mrs McRoberts went into premature labour. The baby did not survive. Alanna McRoberts died shortly afterwards of internal haemorrhaging sustained by the crash.

Although Colm McRoberts suffered serious injuries, he is expected to live. The cause of the accident is still under investigation.

There was a knock on the door, and Helen looked up, startled out of her troubled thoughts.

‘Miss Thomas?’ Mrs Neeson inquired from the hallway outside. ‘Are you there? You’ve a phone call downstairs.’

Helen got up and opened the door. ‘Thank you. Why wouldn’t I be here?’ she added, curious.

‘Well,’ Mrs Neeson said with a lift of her brow, ‘I’m not one to tell tales, so you’ve no need to worry, Miss Thomas. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘My secret?’ she echoed as her heart accelerated. ‘What secret?’

The housekeeper’s smile widened. ‘Let’s just say I noticed there was one less person at the breakfast table yesterday morning. And,’ she added with a smile, ‘I saw you sneak in the front door later on.’

‘Oh.’ Helen blushed and found she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t think of a single reasonable excuse to explain away her absence.

‘I’m that happy for you,’ Mrs Neeson went on, ‘and for Mr MacKenzie. He’s a good man, for all that he’s as prickly as a thorn bush—’

‘You said that I have a phone call?’ Helen interjected, beyond anxious to change the subject. ‘I don’t suppose you know who it is?’

‘I do. It’s the mechanic’s shop, about your car.’

‘My car!’ Helen’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, shit – I was supposed to pick it up yesterday, and I completely forgot.’

‘Well,’ the housekeeper said as she preceded Helen out the door, ‘if you need a ride to the shop, let me know. One of the girls can take you into the village.’

‘I will. And thanks.’ Helen grabbed up her handbag and coat and followed Mrs Neeson down to the kitchen.

‘Can you help us, Mr MacKenzie?’

Colm, who’d just come inside the castle in search of Archie, looked up to see Tarquin and Gemma Astley coming down the stairs.

‘Of course I will, if I can,’ he replied. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Gemma’s fiancé’s gone missing,’ Tarquin told him. ‘We’ve looked everywhere, but it’s nearly lunch time, and we still haven’t found him. Miss Astley is understandably upset.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Colm said, although personally, he shared Rhys Gordon’s opinion that Dominic Heath was a bolshie, over-pampered rock star. ‘Are you sure he didn’t leave the premises?’

‘Positive,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘Unless...’ Her face crumpled. ‘Unless he’s done a runner before the wedding!’

Tarquin patted her ineffectually on the shoulder and met Colm’s eyes. ‘There’s nothing else to do but continue searching downstairs.’

‘Downstairs?’ Colm’s expression plainly showed that he thought Tarquin had taken leave of his senses. ‘But there’s nothing down there but the dungeons.’

‘We’ve exhausted every other possibility. Could you have another look upstairs, please? You might check the guest wing again.’

Colm nodded doubtfully. ‘Aye. I’ll go and have a look now.’

Chapter 39

As he began searching the guest bedrooms, knocking on each door before he entered to have a look around, Colm found no sign of Dominic. He arrived at the last room on the left and lifted his hand to knock. The door was open.

‘Hello?’

He thrust his head cautiously around the doorjamb and glanced inside. ‘Hello...is anyone here?’

There was no answer.

Judging from the silk nightgown thrown across a chair, and the clutter of cosmetics and perfume bottles on the dresser, this was a woman’s room. He had a cursory glance round, then turned to go.

He had his own bloody work to be doing, after all.

Colm turned, impatient to be gone, and bumped into an antique desk by the window. He muttered a curse as a pencil rolled off onto the floor.

As he knelt to retrieve it, he noticed a laptop open in the middle of the desk. It was Helen’s laptop.

When he’d bumped into the desk, the movement must have jarred the screen to life.

Colm laid the pencil down, and as he did he saw a search engine on the laptop screen. He smiled. That was his Helen, always working, probably researching a new story for that editor chap, Tom...

Then he saw the links, and his smile froze.

‘Accident on the A96, Serious Injuries.’ ‘Pregnant Woman Airlifted to Hospital Following Deadly Wreck.’ ‘McRoberts to be Charged in Accident Fatality?’

A black rage gripped him as he realized she’d been up here, investigating him, delving into his background as if he were a bloody job applicant, or worse still – as if he were some kind of a common criminal.

Evidently not content with his own version of the past, she’d gone looking online to search on his adoptive name, McRoberts, to find...what? Something a bit more titillating than what he’d told her? Something more damning?