Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada. Katie Oliver

Caitlin nodded. ‘He says he’s leaving his wife, though.’

      ‘You stupid girl.’ Penelope spoke with contempt. ‘All married men say that when they take a woman to bed for the first time. They make all manner of extravagant promises, none of which they intend to keep. They turn a woman’s life completely upside-down – not to mention the poor child’s ‒ but suffer little consequence to their own. I thought you were so much smarter than this. I’m so very, very disappointed in you.’

      Without further discussion, she swept out of the room, leaving her daughter trembling and weeping into her hands, and closed the door quietly but firmly behind her.

       Chapter 29

      As Wren made her way across the great hall to the stairs, passing Jeremy on his way up, the sound of weeping reached her ears. She paused.

      Someone was in the drawing room, crying.

      After a moment’s hesitation, Wren made her way across the hall and knocked on the door, then edged it open. Caitlin lay across one of the sofas, sobbing into a cushion as though her heart might break.

      ‘Caitlin!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you all right?’

      The girl shook her head and lifted red, tear-swollen eyes to Wren’s. ‘I’m fine. Please, just g-go away.’

      Quietly Wren shut the door and stood just inside the room. ‘You know I can’t do that,’ she said, her words gentle but firm. ‘You’re obviously upset. Is there anything I can do?’

      ‘No,’ Caitlin croaked, and dragged in a ragged breath as she sat up. ‘There’s n-nothing anyone can do. Not unless you can tell me how to fix my m-mess of a life, that is.’

      ‘Surely it’s not as bad as all that.’ She sat down next to the girl and touched her knee reassuringly. She hesitated. ‘I know we don’t get on very well, and I know we haven’t much use for each other, but...perhaps it would help if you talked about whatever it is that’s got you so upset.’

      Caitlin lifted her head. ‘Perhaps it would,’ she said dully. ‘It couldn’t hurt.’

      And as Wren listened, Caitlin spilled out the messy details of her story, from her affair with Niall, the married professor, to her friendship with his son, and now her unexpected – and unwanted ‒ pregnancy.

      ‘So I find myself pregnant,’ she finished, frowning down at the slight swell of her stomach, ‘with no idea what to do. I mean, I can’t go through with it – can you see me with a baby? – but I can’t imagine having an abortion, either.’

      ‘There’s always adoption.’

      Caitlin nodded. ‘I’ve thought about that. I could disappear somewhere for awhile – somewhere far away and warm, like Corfu, or Tuscany. I haven’t started to show yet. I could have the baby, and put it up for adoption.’ But even as she spoke, her eyes swam with tears.

      ‘There’s another solution,’ Wren offered cautiously.

      ‘Really? What’s that?’

      She leant forward and fixed her gaze on Caitlin’s. ‘You could have the baby here, at Draemar. And Tarquin and I could adopt it, and raise it as our own.’

      ‘No.’ Caitlin surged to her feet. ‘It would never work.’

      ‘Why not? We’d do everything legally and properly, I can assure you. Only think about it, Caitlin. This child is a Campbell, and as such, he or she is Tark’s flesh and blood! Why give the baby away to strangers? You know how badly we want a child of our own.’

      ‘Yes, I do know that. But how will we explain the situation when the child gets older? How will we explain that I’m not his aunt, but his mother? And what if you change your mind in a few years’ time?’

      ‘I’d never change my mind, nor would Tarquin.’ Wren’s words left no room for doubt.

      ‘What if...what if I change mine?’ Caitlin asked quietly. ‘What if I decide, in a year, or two, or ten, that I want my child back? What then?’

      ‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take.’

      Slowly, her expression troubled, Caitlin stood up. ‘I’ve got a lot to think about. Thanks for listening to me, Wren. Please...please don’t say anything to anyone about this?’

      ‘Of course I won’t. It’ll be our little secret.’

      Caitlin gave her a hesitant smile, and left.

      ‘I’ve a package for you, Miss Thomas.’

      Helen, just coming down the stairs that afternoon, paused on the last tread as Colm came towards her across the entrance hall. A flush of heat warmed her cheeks as she reached out to take the slim cardboard envelope from his outstretched hand.

      ‘Thank you, Mr MacKenzie,’ she murmured. ‘I’m much obliged.’

      He raised his brow but said nothing, only nodded and turned away. She and Colm had agreed to keep their relationship a secret, so as not to raise any unwanted questions.

      How could they explain what had happened last night at the gatehouse to anyone else, when they didn’t fully understand it themselves?

      Halfway to the door, he turned back. ‘I’m cooking dinner on Sunday, if you fancy joining me. I’ve a leg of lamb on offer. And plenty of roasted veg.’

      ‘You made it to the grocery store, then?’ The sun was out for the first time in days, and the distant sound of a snow plough echoed up the hill from the main road.

      ‘Nae. I raided Mrs Neeson’s pantry.’

      Helen smiled. ‘What time shall I be there?’

      ‘One o’clock-ish. No need to bring anything,’ he added before she could ask. ‘Just yourself.’

      ‘I’ll be there.’ Still smiling as Colm departed, Helen glanced down at the envelope in her hand. It was postmarked from London but the return address was unfamiliar.

      Curious, she slipped a finger under the flap and slid out several stapled pages. It was a report...the Freetown police report on Andrew Campbell’s death. A note from Tom was clipped to the top.

      Quickly, before anyone might see her, Helen took the document and went into the library, relieved to see it was empty. She shut the doors behind her and sat down to read.

       Helen – Took their bloody time to get this report to me, but I reckon the law, like everything else in Freetown, moves slowly... Campbell’s death was ruled ‘death by misadventure’ – fancy term for an accident. Drowning, no evidence of foul play. All pretty cut and dried.

       When are you back in London? Are you coming back, or staying on permanently in the land of sporrans and haggis? Tom

      Helen unclipped the note and began to read. Andrew Campbell and a recent acquaintance, Michael McFarlane, had rented a sloop and snorkelling equipment and headed out to the Banana Islands to spend the afternoon swimming and diving.

      A squall kicked up unexpectedly, overturning the boat and pitching the two men overboard. Although McFarlane clung to the hull and was eventually rescued, Andrew decided to strike out and swim the twelve miles to shore.

      He never made it.

      Helen lowered the pages to her lap with a frown. Campbell was an excellent swimmer, it was true; but even an athlete would’ve been daunted by the storm conditions that day. The swells were enormous, the sea wild and unpredictable for several hours. Surely Andrew wouldn’t have risked striking out on his own in such conditions.

      Why didn’t he stay with the boat, like McFarlane? Why did he decide to swim to shore instead?

      Had something happened on that boat? Something