The Baby Swap Miracle

Her eyes widened, her hand flying down to cover the little bump that he so wanted to lay his hands against, and she stood up abruptly.

‘No way. This is my baby, Sam,’ she said flatly. ‘I haven’t asked you to get involved in its life, and I don’t expect you to if you don’t want to, but there’s no way I’m taking them up on their “offer”, as you so delicately put it. I’ll have it, and I’ll love it, and nothing and nobody will get in the way of that. And if you don’t like it, then sue me.’

And lifting her chin, she scooped up her keys, grabbed her bag off the other chair and walked swiftly out of the café, leaving him sitting there staring after her. The relief left him weak at the knees, and it took him a second, but then he snapped his mouth shut, got up and strode after her.

‘Wait!’ he said, yanking open her car door before she could drive off. ‘Emelia, that’s not what I was trying to say. I just thought—’

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ she retorted, and grabbed the door handle.

He held the door firmly and ignored her little growl of frustration. ‘No. I thought—hoped—you’d react exactly as you did, but you needed to know that you have my support whatever course of action you decide to take. This thing is massive. It’s going to change the whole course of your life, and that’s not trivial. You have to be certain you can do this. That’s all I was saying—that it’s your call, and for what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right one, but it’s down to you.’

He thrust a business card into her hand. ‘Here. My contact details. Call me, Emelia. Please. Talk to me. If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just ask. If you really are going to keep the baby—’

‘I am. I meant everything I said. But don’t worry, Sam, I don’t need anything from you. You’re off the hook.’

Never. Not in his lifetime. He hung on to the door. ‘Promise me you’ll call me when you’ve spoken to them.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged, reluctant to let her go like this when she was so upset. Concerned for her. Nothing more, he told himself. Just concerned for her and the child. His child. His heart twisted. ‘Because you need a friend?’ he suggested warily. ‘Someone who understands?’

Her eyes searched his for the longest moment, and then without a word she slammed the door and drove away.

He watched her go, swore softly, then got into his car and followed her out of the car park. She’d turned left. He hesitated for a moment, then turned right and headed home, to start working out how to fill his brother in on this latest development in the tragic saga of their childless state.

Better that than trying to analyse his own reaction to the news that a woman he found altogether too disturbingly attractive was carrying his child—a child he’d never meant to have, created by accident—that would link him to Emelia forever…

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Well, before you do, come and see what Brian’s doing in the nursery,’ her mother-in-law said, her face beaming as she grabbed Emelia’s hand and led her through the door.

Why not? she thought bleakly. Why not do it there, amongst all the things gathered together to welcome their new grandchild? The child they’d thought they might never have.

The child they never would have. Not now. Not ever.

She sucked in a breath and stood there in the expectant silence, aware of their eyes on her face, their suppressed excitement as they eagerly awaited her reaction. And then she looked at the room.

He’d painted a frieze, she realised. Trains and teddies and alphabet letters, all round the middle of the walls. A little bit crooked, a little bit smudged, but painted with love. Stupidly, it made her want to cry.

She swallowed hard and looked away. Oh, this was so hard—too hard. ‘I had a letter—from the clinic director,’ she said bluntly, before she chickened out. ‘I had to go to there and talk to him. There’s a problem.’

‘A problem? What kind of problem? We paid their last bill, Brian, didn’t we? We’ve paid everything—’

‘It’s not the money. It’s about the baby, Julia.’

Her mother-in-law’s face was suddenly slack with shock, and Emelia looked around and realised she couldn’t do this here, in this room, with the lovingly painted little frieze still drying on the walls. ‘I need a cup of tea,’ she said, and headed for the big family kitchen, knowing they’d follow. She put the kettle on—such a cliché, having a cup of tea, but somehow a necessary part of the ritual of grief—and then sat down, pushing the cups towards them.

They sat facing her, at the table where James had sat as a boy, where they’d all sat together so many times, where they’d cried together on the day he’d died, and they waited, the tea forgotten, their faces taut with fear as she groped for the words. But there was no kind way to do this, nothing that was going to make it go away.

‘There was a mix-up,’ she said quietly, her heart pounding as she yanked the rug out from under them as gently as possible. ‘In the lab at the clinic. They fertilised the eggs with the wrong sperm.’

Julia Eastwood’s hand flew up over her mouth. ‘So—that’s another woman’s baby?’ she said after a shocked pause.

Oh, dear. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s my baby.’ And then, because there was no other way to say it, she added gently, ‘It’s not James’ baby, though. It’s someone else’s.’

‘So—where’s his baby?’ she demanded, her voice rising hysterically. ‘Has some other woman got his baby? She’ll have to give it back—Brian, she’ll have to, we can’t have this—’

‘Julia, there is no baby,’ she said, trying to firm her voice. ‘The embryos all died before they could be implanted.’

She let that sink in for a moment, watched Brian’s eyes fill with tears before he closed them, watched Julia’s face spasm as the realisation hit home. The wail of grief, when it came, was the same as when James had taken his last breath. It was as if she’d lost him all over again, and Emelia supposed that, in a way, she had.

She reached out and squeezed the woman’s hand. ‘Julia, I’m so sorry.’

She didn’t react, except to turn into Brian’s waiting arms and fall apart, and Emelia left them to their grief. There was nothing she could add that would make it any better and she just wanted to get out before she drowned in their emotion.

She was superfluous here, redundant, and it dawned on her that their only thought had been for the baby. Not once in that conversation had either of them expressed any concern about her, about how she might feel, about where she would go from here.

Not surprising, really, but it was a very good point. Where would she go? What would she do? She could hardly carry on living here, in the annexe they’d created when James was ill—the annexe where he’d lost his fight for life and which after his death, with the IVF conversation under their belts, they’d told her she should think of as her home.

But not when she was carrying another man’s child.

So she packed some things. Not the baby’s. As Sam had said, they belonged to a child who never was, and they would no doubt be dealt with in the fullness of time. She closed the door without looking at the little frieze in case it made her cry again, and put a few changes of clothes in a bag, enough for a week, perhaps, to give her time to think, although with very little to her name she wasn’t quite sure where she’d go. She just knew she had to, that staying, even one more night, simply wasn’t an option.

She put her case in the car, then went through all the contents of the annexe, piling the things that were hers alone into one end of the wardrobe so they could be packed and delivered to her wherever she ended up, but leaving James’ things there, lifting them one at a time to her lips, saying goodbye for the final time.

His watch. His wedding ring. The fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday so he could write the diary of his last months.

She stroked her fingers gently over the cover of the diary. She didn’t need to take it, she knew every word by heart. Julia needed it more than she did. She touched it one last time and walked away.

Leaving the bedroom, she went into the kitchen and turned out the fridge, staring helplessly at half a bottle of milk and an opened bag of salad.

There was no point in taking it, but it seemed silly to throw it out, so she put it back with the cheese and the tomatoes—and then got them all out again and made herself a sandwich. It was mid-afternoon and she’d eaten nothing since she’d left Sam, but she couldn’t face it now. She drank the milk, because she hadn’t touched her cup of tea, and then put the sandwich in the car with her case for later, had one last visual sweep of the annexe and then she went to say goodbye.

They were in the kitchen, where she’d left them, as if she’d only been gone five minutes instead of two or three hours. She could hear raised voices as she approached, snatches of distressed conversation that halted her in her tracks.

Julia said something she didn’t quite catch, then Brian said, quite clearly, ‘If I’d had the slightest idea of all the pain it would cause, I never would have allowed you to talk him into signing that consent.’

‘I couldn’t bear to lose him, Brian! You have to understand—’

‘But you had lost him, Julia. You’d lost him already. He hardly knew what he was signing—’

‘He did!’

‘No! He was out of his head with the morphine, and telling him she was desperate to have his child—it was just a lie.’

‘But you went along with it! You never said anything—’

‘Because I wanted it, too, but it was wrong, Julia—so wrong. And now…’

Her thoughts in free-fall, Emelia stepped into the room and cleared her throat, and they stopped abruptly, swivel-ling to stare at her as she fought down the sudden surge of anger that would help no one. She wanted to tackle them, to ask them to explain, but she wasn’t sure she could hold it together and she just wanted to get out.

Now.

‘I’m leaving,’ she said without emotion. ‘I’ve put all my things in the end of the wardrobe. I’ll get them collected when I know where I’ll be. I’ve left all James’ things here for you. I know you’ll want them. I haven’t touched the nursery.’

‘But—what about all the baby’s things? What will we do with them?’ Julia said, and then started to cry again.

Brian put his arms round her and gave Emelia a fleeting, slightly awkward smile over the top of Julia’s head. ‘Goodbye, Emelia. And good luck,’ he said.

So much for ‘think of it as your home’, she thought bitterly as she dropped the keys for it on the table. That hadn’t lasted long once she was no further use to them. She nodded and walked away before she lost it and asked what on earth he’d meant about Julia talking James into signing the consent—for posthumous use of his sperm, presumably, to make the baby they’d told her he’d apparently so desperately wanted her to have.

Really? So why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he ever, in all the conversations they’d had about the future, said that he wanted her to have his child after his death? Asked how she felt? Because he would have done. They’d talked about everything, but never that, and it was only now, with it all falling apart around her ears, that she saw the light.

And they’d told him—had the nerve to tell him!—that she was the one who so desperately wanted a baby? Nothing had been further from her mind at that point, but they’d got her, still reeling with grief on the day after the funeral, and talked her into it.

And she was furious. Deeply, utterly furious with them for lying to her, but even more so because it seemed they’d bullied James when he was so weak and vulnerable, in the last few days or hours of his life.

Bullied their own son so they could have his child and keep a little part of him alive.

She sucked in a sobbing breath. She’d been through hell for this, to have the child he’d apparently wanted so badly, and it had all been a lie. And the hell, for all of them, was still not over. It was just a different kind of hell.

She scrubbed the bitter, angry tears away and headed out of town, with no clear idea of where she was going and what she was going to do, just knowing she had barely a hundred pounds in her bank account, no job and nowhere to stay, and her prospects of getting some money fast to tide her over were frankly appalling.

Her only thought was to get away, as far and as fast as she could, but even in the midst of all the turmoil, she realised she couldn’t just drive aimlessly forever.

‘Oh, rats,’ she said, her voice breaking, and pulling off the road into a layby, she leant back against the head restraint and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She really, really wouldn’t cry. Not again. Not any more. She’d cried oceans in the past three years since she’d known James was dying, and it was time to move on.

But where? It would be dusk soon, the night looming, and she had nowhere to stay. Could she sleep in the car? Hardly. It was only April, and she’d freeze. Her old friends in Bristol and Cheshire were too far away, and she’d lost touch with most of them anyway since James had been ill and they’d moved back to Essex. The only person who would understand was Emily, and she and Andrew were away and in any case the last people in the world she could really turn to. It just wouldn’t be fair.

But Sam was there.

Sam, who’d as good as told her to get rid of the baby.

No. He hadn’t, she thought, trying to be fair. She’d thought he meant that, but he hadn’t, not that way. He’d come after her, offered his unconditional support, whatever her decision. Said he thought she’d made the right one.

If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just ask… Promise me you’ll call me… You need a friend—someone who understands.

And he’d given her his card.

She looked down and there it was in the middle, a little white rectangle of card lying in the heap of sweet wrappers and loose change just in front of the gear lever where she’d dropped it. She pulled it out, keyed in the number and reluctantly pressed the call button.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HUNTER.’

He sounded distracted, terse. He was probably busy, and for a moment she almost hung up, her courage failing her. Then he spoke again, and his voice was softer.

‘Emelia?’

How had he known?

‘Hi, Sam.’ She fizzled out, not sure what to say, where to start, but he seemed to understand. ‘Problems?’

‘Sort of. Look—I’m sorry, I expect you’re busy. It’s just—we need to talk, really, and I’ve gone and got myself into a rather silly situation.’ She took a little breath, then another one, and he interrupted her efforts to get to the point.

‘I’m not busy. Where are you?’

She looked around. She’d seen a sign ages ago that welcomed her to Suffolk—where Sam lived, according to Emily, in a ridiculous house in the middle of nowhere. Had she gone there subconsciously? Probably. She’d been driving in circles, lost in tiny lanes, not caring.

‘I’m not sure. Somewhere in Suffolk—close to the A140, I think. Where are you? Give me your postcode, I’ll put it in my satnav. What’s the house called?’

‘Flaxfield Place. The name’s partly buried in ivy, but it’s the only drive on that road for a couple of miles, so you can’t miss it. Look out for a set of big iron gates with a cattle grid, on the north side of the road. The gates are open, just come up the drive and you’ll find me. You can’t be far away. I’ll be watching out for you.’

The thought was oddly comforting. She put the postcode into the satnav and pressed go.

This couldn’t be it.

She swallowed hard and stared at the huge iron gates, hanging open, with a cattle grid between the gateposts. A long thin ribbon of tarmac stretched away into the dusk between an avenue of trees, and half hidden by ivy on an old brick wall, she could make out a name—something-field Place, the something obscured by the ivy, just as he’d said.

But she could see weeds poking up between the bars of the cattle grid, and one of the gates was hanging at a jaunty angle because the gatepost was falling down, making the faded grandeur somehow less intimidating than it might otherwise have been.

His ridiculous house, as Emily had described it, falling to bits and shabby-chic without the chic? There was certainly nothing chic about the weeds.

She fought down another hysterical laugh and drove through the gates, the cattle grid making her teeth rattle, and then up the drive between the trees. There was a light in the distance and, as she emerged from the trees, the tarmac gave way to a wide gravel sweep in front of a beautiful old Georgian house draped in wisteria, and her jaw sagged.

The white-pillared portico was bracketed by long, elegant windows, and through a lovely curved fanlight over the huge front door welcoming light spilt out into the dusk.

It was beautiful. OK, the drive needed weeding, like the cattle grid, but the paint on the windows was fresh and the brass on the front door was gleaming. And as she stared at it, a little open-mouthed, the door opened, and more of that warm golden light flowed out onto the gravel and brought tears to her eyes.

It looked so welcoming, so safe.

And suddenly it seemed as if it was the only thing in her world that was.

That and Sam, who came round and opened her car door and smiled down at her with concern in those really rather beautiful slate-blue eyes.

‘Hi, there. You found me OK, then?’

‘Yes.’

Oh, she needed a hug, but he didn’t give her one and if he had, it would have crumpled her like a wet tissue, so perhaps it was just as well. She really didn’t want to cry. She had a horrible feeling that once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

‘Come on in. You look shattered. I’ve made you up a bed in the guest room.’

His simple act of thoughtfulness and generosity brought tears to her eyes anyway, and she swallowed hard. ‘Oh, Sam, you didn’t need to do that.’

‘Didn’t I? So where were you going?’

She followed his eyes and saw them focused on her suitcase where she’d thrown it on the back seat. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really have a plan. I just walked out. And I am so angry.’

‘With the clinic?’

‘No. With my in-laws.’

His brow creased briefly, and he held out his hand, firm and warm and like a rock in the midst of all the chaos, and helped her out of the car. ‘Come on. This needs a big steaming mug of hot chocolate and a comfy chair by the fire. Have you eaten?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve got a sandwich,’ she said, pulling it out of her bag to prove it, and he tutted and led her inside, hefting her case as if it weighed nothing. He dumped it in the gracious and elegant hallway with its black-and-white-chequered marble floor, and led her through to the much more basic kitchen beyond the stairs.

‘This is Daisy,’ he said, introducing her to the sleepy and gentle black Labrador who ambled to her feet and came towards her, tail wagging, and while she said hello he put some milk to heat on the ancient range. She could feel its warmth, and if he hadn’t been standing beside it she would have gone over to it, leant on the rail on the front and let it thaw the ice that seemed to be encasing her. But he was there, so she just stood where she was and tried to hold it all together while Daisy nuzzled her hand and pressed against her.

‘Sit down and eat that sandwich before you keel over,’ he instructed firmly, and so she sat at the old pine table and ate, the dog leaning on her leg and watching her carefully in case she dropped a bit, while he melted chocolate and whisked milk and filled the mugs with more calories than she usually ate in a week.

She fed Daisy the crusts, making Sam tut gently, and then he took her through to another room where, even though it was April, there was a log fire blazing in the grate.

The fireplace was bracketed by a pair of battered leather sofas, homely and welcoming, and Daisy hopped up on one and snuggled down in the corner, so she sat on the other, and Sam threw another log on the fire, sat next to Daisy and propped his feet on the old pine box between the sofas, next to the tray of hot chocolate and scrumptious golden oat cookies, and lifted a brow.

‘So—I take it things didn’t go too well?’ he said as she settled back to take her first sip.

She gave a slightly strangled laugh and licked froth off her top lip. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed after a moment. ‘They were devastated, of course. Julia was wondering how much it would cost to get the other woman to give up James’ baby. When I told her there wasn’t one, she fell apart, and I went to pack up the annexe, and when I went back to tell them I was leaving, they were arguing. It seems Julia had talked James into signing the consent form for posthumous IVF while he was on morphine. They lied to him, told him it was what I wanted.’

He frowned, her words shocking him and dragging his mind back from the inappropriate fantasy he’d been plunged into when she’d licked her lip. ‘But surely you’d talked about it with him?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I only knew about it after he’d died. They’d told me he’d been desperate for me to have his child, but he couldn’t speak to me about it because he knew it would distress me to think about what I’d be doing after he was gone.’

Sam frowned again. ‘Did you think that was likely, that he wouldn’t have talked to you about something so significant?’

‘No. Not at all, and there was no mention of it in his diary. He put everything in his diary. But I was so shocked I just believed them, and it was there in black and white, giving his consent. And it was definitely his signature, for all that it was shaky. It never occurred to me that they’d coerced him—he was their son. They adored him. Why would they do that?’

Her voice cracked, and he felt a surge of anger on her behalf—and for James. The anger deepened. He hated duplicity, with good reason. ‘So they tricked you both?’ ‘It would seem so.’

‘And you’d never talked about it with James?’

She shook her head. ‘Not this aspect. The idea was to freeze some sperm so that if he survived and was left sterile by the treatment, we could still have children. Once we knew he wasn’t going to make it, nothing more was ever said. Until Julia broached it after the funeral.’

After the funeral? Surely not right after? Although looking at her, Sam had a sickening feeling it was what she meant. He leant back, cradling his hot chocolate and studying her bleak expression. She looked awful. Shocked and exhausted and utterly lost. She’d dragged a cushion onto her lap and was hugging it as she sipped her drink, and he wanted to take the cushion away and pull her onto his lap and hug her himself. And there was more froth on her lip—

Stupid. So, so stupid! This was complicated enough as it was and the last thing he needed was to get involved with a grieving widow. He didn’t do emotion—avoided it whenever possible. And she was carrying his child. That was emotion enough for him to cope with—too much. And anyway, it was just a misplaced sexual attraction. Usually pregnant women simply brought out the nurturer in him.

But not Emelia. Oh, no. There was just something about her, about the luscious ripeness of her body that did crazy things to his libido too. Because she was carrying his child? No. He’d felt like it when he’d hugged her in the car park at the clinic earlier today, before he’d known it was his baby. It was just that she was pregnant, he told himself, and conveniently ignored the fact that he’d felt this way about Emelia since the first time he’d seen her…

‘So what did they say when you told them you were leaving?’ he asked, getting back to the point in a hurry.

She shrugged. ‘Very little. I think to be honest I saved them the bother of asking me to go.’

‘So—if you hadn’t got hold of me, where were you going to stay tonight?’