The Peacock Emporium(111)

Vivi winced at the thought of Douglas lowering himself to that level, that he might turn to women like that when she was just waiting for him to say the word . . .

“He’s got more sense than to end up there.”

“Not if he’s had a skinful. He’s been on his own a good year.”

“This is hopeless,” said Cyril. “Bloody, bloody Douglas. Bloody inconsiderate boy.”

Vivi glanced up at his set jaw as she trudged along, her cardigan wrapped around her in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. She knew his condemnation of Douglas was to disguise his anxiety. He, like Vivi, knew the depths of Douglas’s despair.

“He’ll turn up,” she said quietly. “He’s so sensible. Really.”

No one thought to go to Philmore House. Why would they, when he had hardly set foot there since she had left? So it was only an hour after dawn broke, when the two search parties converged in the cold light, chilled and increasingly silent, outside the Philmore barns, that anyone thought of it.

“There’s a light, Mr. Fairley-Hulme,” said one of the lads, gesturing. “In the upstairs window. Look.”

And as they stood on the overgrown, dew-soaked lawn, their eyes raised to the upper floors of the old house, the sound of birdsong building to a swell around them, the front door had opened. And there he had stood, his shadowed eyes betraying his own night of lost sleep, his good suit trousers wrinkled, and a child sleeping peacefully in his arms.

“Douglas!” Rosemary’s exclamation had held a mixture of shock and relief.

There had been a brief silence then, as the little group of people properly took in the sight in front of them.

Douglas looked down, and adjusted the shawl around the baby.

“What’s going on, son?”

“This . . . is Suzanna,” he said quietly. “Athene has given her to me. That is all I want to say on the matter.” He looked both bruised and defiant.

Vivi’s mouth had dropped open, and she closed it. She heard the gamekeeper curse vigorously under his breath.

“But we thought—oh, Douglas, what on earth has been—”

Cyril, his eyes fixed on his son, stayed his wife with a hand on her shoulder. “Not now, Rosemary.” He nodded at his son, and turned back toward the drive. “Let’s all get some rest. The boy’s safe.”

Vivi felt that she too was expected to leave.

“Thank you, everyone,” she heard him say, as she glanced back toward Douglas, who was still gazing at the gently illuminated face of the child. “If you’d like to head back to Dere House I think we could all do with some coffee. Plenty of time for talking when we’ve had some sleep.”



* * *



—

He had gone to Philmore House, Douglas told Vivi long afterward, because he had needed to be alone, unsure whether he could admit even to himself the truth of what had happened that day. Perhaps he went because, carrying Athene’s child, he felt some primeval urge to be closer to her mother. Either way, he stayed at the house only two days before he found that coping alone with a baby was beyond him.

Rosemary had, at first, been incandescent with fury. She would not have that woman’s child in the house, she exclaimed, when Douglas arrived at the family home. She could not believe he’d been so stupid, so gullible. She could not believe he would expose himself to such ridicule. What next? Would they be expected to put up Athene’s lovers too?

That had been the point at which Cyril had told her to go off for a bit, get some air. In a quieter, more measured voice, he had tried to reason with his son. He had to see sense, didn’t he? He was a young man, he couldn’t be saddled with bringing up a baby. Not with his whole life ahead of him. Especially one who . . . Something in Douglas’s implacable stare had halted him midsentence.

“She’s staying here,” Douglas had said. “That’s all there is to it.” He already held her with the relaxed dexterity of a young father.

“And how will you support her?” Cyril said. “You can’t expect us to carry you. Not with all the work that needs doing on the estate. And your mother won’t do it. You know she won’t.”

“I’ll sort something out,” said Douglas.

Later he confided to Vivi that his quiet determination had not just been about his desire to keep the child, although he had loved her already. He didn’t like to admit to his father that even if he had wanted to give Suzanna back, he hadn’t thought to ask Athene how he should get in touch with her.

The first few days had been farcical. Rosemary had ignored the child’s presence, and busied herself in her garden. The estate wives had been less condemnatory, or at least to his face, bringing their old high chairs, bibs, and muslins, a whole arsenal of baby necessities that he had not considered might be necessary for the care of one small human being. He had begged Bessie to advise him on the basics, and she had spent a morning explaining how best to heat bottles of milk, how to make solid food digestible by mashing it with a fork. She had watched from afar, disapproval mingling with anxiety for the child as he tried hamfistedly to feed her, swearing and wiping food off his clothes as the little one batted the loaded spoon away from her face.

Within days he was exhausted. His father’s patience had been stretched by Douglas’s inability to work, the papers piled up in the study, and the men were complaining about lack of direction on the land.