Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

Colm’s jaw tightened and the closed expression settled back on his face. ‘Right, then. That’s me put in my place.’

For a moment there was silence, with only the ticking of the engine and the sound of Helen’s ragged breathing to mar the quiet.

‘He was my husband,’ she said finally. She gazed down at the photograph in her hands, and her expression was empty. ‘David. We were married for three years. We met at university – he was studying law, I was studying journalism. I loved him. Even though he drove me mad with his refusal to put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper, and even though he took perverse pleasure in tracking mud across my newly cleaned kitchen floor, I...loved him.’

Colm was silent, his hand resting on the gearshift, waiting.

‘He often worked long hours – he was a solicitor for a big firm in Canary Wharf. He’d bring home Chinese, or curry, and we’d sit on the floor in front of the coffee table and watch telly. He tried to teach me to use chopsticks. But I never could manage them properly.’

‘I still can’t,’ Colm admitted.

‘When I found out I was pregnant,’ Helen went on, turning the photo round and round in her hands, ‘we were so excited. We wanted lots of children, at least four or five. Two boys, three girls.’ She smiled fondly. ‘The ultrasound showed a boy. David was ecstatic.’

‘I can imagine,’ he murmured.

‘I was seven months along when we went to David’s office Christmas party. It was raining. He didn’t want to go, nor did I; I couldn’t drink, and I was as big as a lorry. But I convinced him to go, to at least show his face and mingle with the higher-ups.’

Colm reached out and took her hand. It was cold, he noticed as he squeezed it. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Helen,’ he said gently.

She shook her head and squeezed his hand back before she released it. ‘I want to,’ she whispered, her voice low but firm. ‘I need to. I’ve not talked about it properly to anyone since it happened, really.’

In a few, concise words – a journalist always kept to the facts, after all, the who, what, where, when, and why ‒ she told him about the ride home, David driving down the rain-slicked streets, the looming headlights of the lorry, the head-on collision, the implosion of glass as the windshield shattered.

‘David was killed instantly. I was thrown from the car; I was lucky to survive. Lucky,’ she added, her words bitter. ‘That’s what they told me later, the doctors. ‘Mrs Thomas, we’re so sorry, you’ve lost the baby and your husband is dead, but you’re so very lucky to be alive.’’ She looked at him. ‘I didn’t see it that way. I still don’t. In the space of a few seconds, I lost everything that mattered to me.’

Colm didn’t answer as she wept; instead, he reached out and took her hand and squeezed it once again. But the gesture, in its simplicity, comforted her in a way that all the words, sympathy cards, and elaborate floral bouquets she’d received never had.

‘I always wanted to be a writer,’ she said as she took the tissues he offered and blew her nose. ‘Of great novels, of course. But I ended up writing for the red tops instead. I’m a tabloid writer. A hack.’ She glanced over at Colm. ‘You don’t have any fags, do you?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke, sorry.’

‘Shame...I could really do with one right now.’ She sighed and rested her forehead against the window, watching as her breath fogged the glass. ‘I was resigned to life as a paparazzo, staking out coffee shops and lurking in airport lounges in hopes of scoring an interview or a photo of Gwyneth or Madonna or Dominic, smoking too many fags, and waiting – for the interview that’d be my ticket out of hackdom, for a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

‘For a long time I felt dead inside. I still do. But I can function. I can eat, and sleep, and carry on a conversation, just like this ‒ but inside, I’ve nothing left. It was my fault, Colm.’ She looked at him with an anguished expression. ‘I insisted we go to that fucking Christmas party. If I hadn’t, the accident would never have happened, and David would still be alive. How do I live with that? How?’ And she began to weep again.

‘Listen to me, Helen,’ Colm said, his voice low but firm. ‘You can’t blame yourself. Would’ve, might’ve, could’ve...they’re useless words. It happened, and that’s unfortunate. It’s fucking sad, and I’m truly sorry you had to go through it. But it isn’t your fault. You were only doing what you thought was best for the man you loved.’

They drove back to the castle in silence. Words had become unnecessary between them. As she gazed out the window at the snow-covered fields, Helen was glad she’d ended up at Draemar, grateful for Colm’s silent but reassuring presence.

As the castle loomed into view, she leant forward. ‘Oh, look. We have a visitor.’

Colm glanced up and saw a battered grey Volvo estate car parked in the curve of the drive.

‘Do you recognize it?’ Helen asked.

‘I do.’ He drew the truck to a stop behind the Volvo and opened his door, but offered nothing further.

‘Well, tell me, then – whose is it?’ she demanded.

Before he could answer, the front door swung open, and a tall woman in a grey Chanel twinset and pearls fixed them both with a gimlet eye.

‘Young man,’ she said in imperious, Scottish-accented tones, ‘kindly remove that truck from the drive and park it elsewhere. There’s a service entrance behind the kitchen for that express purpose. And use the servants’ entrance when you come inside.’

Helen flicked a glance at Colm, half expecting him to give the woman a piece of his mind; but he only tightened his jaw, nodded curtly, and said, ‘I’ll take care of it straight away, Lady Campbell,’ and turned and got back in the truck.

With a slam of the door, he was off, leaving Helen alone to face the Chanel-clad gorgon awaiting her on the doorstep.

Chapter 21

‘And who might you be?’ the woman asked. Although her tone was polite, her glance as it raked briefly over Helen’s trousers, boots, and puffa jacket clearly indicated that she found the outfit wanting. She refrained from remarking on Helen’s red, puffy eyes.

‘Helen Thomas,’ she said as she made her way up the front steps and held out her hand. ‘I’m here at Tarquin and Wren’s invitation.’

‘Indeed?’ She reached out, and her fingers as they clasped Helen’s were long and knotty, but her grip was surprisingly firm. ‘Then I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Evelyn Campbell, Archibald’s mother. Come in, Miss Thomas.’

As Helen preceded the woman inside, a dun-coloured Labrador lumbered into sight, its tail wagging. She bent down to pat his head. ‘What a lovely dog! Is he yours?’

‘Yes. I take him everywhere I go. He’s my constant companion now that my husband’s gone.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Archie.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘It causes a wee bit of confusion round here whenever I call him.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Grandmama!’

Helen looked up to see Caitlin bounding down the stairs, Coco trotting behind her. The moment the two dogs spotted one another they set up a chorus of barking and growling.

‘Oh, do be quiet, Coco,’ Caitlin admonished as she picked the tiny dog up and lifted her, still growling, to her chest. ‘It’s only Archie.’ She leant forward and gave her grandmother a dutiful peck on the cheek. ‘When did you get back, Gram? I thought you were still in Edinburgh.’

‘I finished my shopping and visited all of my friends...or what’s left of them. It’s most depressing to hold visits with one’s friends in a churchyard.’ She glanced at Helen, then back at her granddaughter. ‘I’d like a word with you, Caitlin Morag, if you please.’

Caitlin’s face fell. ‘Now? Only, I’m about to go for a walk outside with Jeremy...’

‘Your walk,’ Lady Campbell said firmly as Jeremy came down the stairs, ‘and your young man, can wait.’ She turned to Helen. ‘You’ll excuse us, I hope, Miss Thomas?’

‘Of course,’ Helen assured her. ‘I’ve work to be doing, at any rate. It was lovely to meet you, Lady Campbell.’

‘And you, my dear.’

‘Jeremy,’ Caitlin said as she turned to him, ‘will you be a lamb and wait outside for me? I need a quick word with Grandmama. I’ll be out soon, I promise.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll go and warm up the car.’ He gave her grandmother a polite nod and went across the hall to the door, and left.

‘He seems a nice enough young man,’ Lady Campbell observed doubtfully as she watched him depart.

‘He is. He’s a good friend.’

Without further comment the older woman made her way across the hall to the library. Caitlin trailed behind her with Coco in her arms.

‘Now, then,’ Lady Campbell announced as she closed the library doors behind them, ‘it’s time you and I talked plainly, young lady.’

Caitlin set the dog down and perched uneasily on the edge of a chair. ‘Have...have Mum and Dad spoken to you?’

‘Indeed they have. They told me all about your expulsion from university. What, exactly, is going on? I want the truth, mind, not the load of bollocks you told your parents.’

For a moment there was silence. Caitlin sighed. ‘The truth is, I got booted because I was...involved with someone.’

‘Involved? With whom?’ her grandmother demanded. ‘Since I’m aware that college girls these days have—’ she cleared her throat, ‘intimate relations, and on a fairly regular basis, I can’t help but wonder why your involvement with another student would cause such a fuss?’

Caitlin was silent.

Lady Campbell broke off as her confusion cleared. ‘Oh. Oh, I think perhaps I begin to see, now.’

Caitlin’s eyes widened. ‘You do?’

Her grandmother sat down across from her and reached out to take her hands. ‘Are you – are you one of those...lesbians, my dear?’ she whispered, scandalized.

‘What? No!’ Caitlin exclaimed. ‘My God, Gram! How do you even know about such things?’

‘I’m elderly, my dear, not stupid. I know more about all manner of things than you can begin to imagine. So,’ she mused, ‘if you weren’t involved with another woman, then you must have been seeing someone else unsuitable. One of the professors, perhaps?’

A dull flush crept across Caitlin’s face. ‘Yes.’

‘And is this professor married?’

Miserably, Caitlin nodded. ‘Niall. His name is Niall, and yes. He’s married. But he’s getting a divorce.’

Lady Campbell snorted. ‘So they all say. Has he been relieved of his teaching position?’

‘No.’

‘That’s outrageous. I shall see to it that he’s sacked at once.’

Caitlin sat up, alarmed. ‘No, Gram, you can’t do that! Please!’

‘Whyever not? If a professor ‒ and a married one, at that ‒ is having relations with a student, then it’s my duty to report him and ensure that he’s sacked!’

‘You can’t, Gram,’ Caitlin said firmly, ‘and you won’t, because, you see,’ she lowered her voice, even though the doors were closed ‘Niall is Jeremy’s father.’

Lady Campbell regarded her granddaughter in shock. ‘Do you mean to tell me that this professor of yours, this married man, this...this person you slept with at university...is that nice young man’s father?’

Caitlin didn’t respond. But her silence spoke volumes.

Her grandmother groped behind her for a chair and lowered herself onto the cushion with a dazed expression.

‘Gram, are you all right?’ she asked, her expression anxious. ‘Can I...can I get you something?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Lady Campbell said faintly. ‘I’d ask for smelling salts if such things still existed. Since they don’t, kindly pour me a wee dram, if you would. Neat.’

‘Of course.’ Caitlin went to the drinks table and poured a healthy measure of whisky into a tumbler, then carried it to her grandmother and handed it over.

The older woman nodded her thanks and took a lengthy sip. ‘A vast improvement,’ she murmured a moment later, and set the glass aside. ‘Now I shall be much better equipped to handle this mess.’

‘Mum figured it out,’ Caitlin admitted. ‘Or she very nearly did. She thinks I’m sleeping with Jeremy.’

‘You’re not, are you?’

Caitlin bristled. ‘No, of course I’m not! What kind of girl do you think I am?’

‘You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?’ Lady Campbell retorted. ‘Whatever were you thinking, Caitlin Morag, sleeping with that young man’s father?’

‘I didn’t know Niall was his father! I borrowed Jeremy’s notes in economics class, and afterwards he bought me a coffee at The Grind, and we talked a bit, and became friends. It wasn’t until,’ she blushed ‘until later that I realized he was Niall’s son. And by then, it was too late.’

Her grandmother pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Well, it’s a fine kettle of fish you’ve landed yourself in, young lady. Have you broken it off?’

‘Yes. I’ve told Niall we’re through, and that I never want to see him again.’

‘And did you mean it?’

‘Yes, Gram, of course I meant it!’ Caitlin said indignantly. ‘Getting involved with Niall MacDougal was the stupidest thing I ever did. I never, ever want to see him again.’

‘Hmph.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘My dear girl,’ Lady Campbell announced as she pushed herself to her feet, ‘I do believe you. But I also remember from my own footloose and fancy-free days that a young woman’s mind is a very, very changeable thing.’

Natalie came down the stairs just as Rhys returned. She stopped halfway down, one hand resting atop the banister. ‘Oh. Rhys. You’re back.’

He glanced up. ‘Natalie.’

‘Where have you been? I was worried…’

‘Sorry. I went for a walk. I needed to clear my head.’ He took off his gloves and thrust them in his pocket.

‘And did you? Clear your head, I mean.’

‘Yes. The walk helped, and having time alone to think. But it was Colm who set me straight.’

Natalie blinked. ‘Colm? You can’t mean it! What could Colm possibly know about being a father?’

‘Nothing,’ Rhys said equitably, ‘which was exactly his point. None of us know anything about being a parent until we become one.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t exactly have a stellar example to follow, you know. My stepfather was a nightmare.’

‘Yes. But he wasn’t your real father, Rhys,’ Natalie pointed out, ‘Alastair was ‒ is. And even though Alastair didn’t know about you until you were grown – which wasn’t his fault – he’s a wonderful man.’ She paused and added, ‘So...you’re not still angry with me?’

He looked up at her, startled. ‘I was never angry with you. Annoyed, perhaps, and thrown off balance by the news – but not angry, no.’

Relief made her knees wobbly. ‘Good. I thought...oh, never mind what I thought.’

‘You thought I didn’t want the baby.’

She caught her lip between her teeth and nodded. ‘I cried for ages.’ She felt tears welling up even as she said it. ‘Sorry.’ She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘My hormones...they’re all over the place at the moment.’

‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry.’ Rhys let out a pent-up breath. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you, I shouldn’t have run out on you like I did. I was wrong, and I acted like an arse.’

Natalie sniffled. ‘It’s all right. It was a shock. For both of us.’

‘It scares the hell out of me,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining myself as a father? It’s inconceivable. But after thinking it over, I realized that we’ll figure it out together, you and me.’

‘Of course we will,’ Natalie agreed. ‘Just imagine a little Natalie or Rhys running around in a few years’ time. It’ll be fun!’

‘Dear God,’ he muttered. ‘Baby clothes. Prams and cribs. Nappies.’

‘Rhys!’

‘Never mind all that, I’m sure we’ll manage very well with little Natalie or Rhys. More importantly ‒ how are you feeling, darling?’ he asked as he came up the stairs and drew her into his arms, his face etched with concern.

‘Much better,’ she answered truthfully, and smiled as she relaxed into his embrace, ‘now.’

Chapter 22

‘Would you look at this!’

Gemma flung herself into a seat next to Dominic at breakfast the next morning and held up her mobile phone in disgust.

With a scowl – he hadn’t yet had his coffee and was in a foul mood – Dominic let out an audible sigh. ‘What is it now, Gems? If it’s anything to do with all this wedding crap, I can tell you right now ‒ I’m not bloody interested.’

‘Yes, it’s to do with “all this wedding crap”, as you so rudely put it,’ Gemma snapped. ‘The London Probe’s just posted about our wedding – to 165,000 followers.’

‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘No! Not when it spoils our secret. Go on, look!’

Grumbling, he snatched the mobile she waved at him and squinted at the screen. ‘Will Christmas wedding bells be ringing soon for randy rocker Dominic Heath & his fiancée, Gemma?’’

He shrugged and handed the phone back. ‘So? I’ve been called worse things than a “randy rocker” before.’

‘Not that, you idiot ‒ the wedding! Now everyone in London will know we’re getting married at Christmas! They already know we’re here in Scotland. It’s only a matter of time before the paps show up at Northton Grange and ruin everything!’

‘Nah, they’ll never make it up there. There’s too much snow on the ground,’ he scoffed. ‘And more snow’s coming in this afternoon.’

‘Did I hear you say there’s more snow on the way?’ Helen enquired as she entered the dining room.

‘Another foot,’ Dominic confirmed. ‘No wonder I never come up here in winter. Not only is it bloody cold – it never stops snowing. Fucking Scotland.’

‘How did the Probe find out about our wedding?’ Gemma fumed. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

Helen, who’d gone to get herself a cup of coffee from the urn on the sideboard, froze. ‘The Probe, did you say? Not that awful tabloid?’

‘Yes, the bastards. They’ve just posted our plans for a Christmas wedding!’

‘Oh, dear,’ Helen murmured, her thoughts racing. ‘How could they possibly have known?’

Tom. It had to be Tom. He must’ve leaked word to one of the IT chaps. But why would he do that? He knew this was my shot at an exclusive story.

‘Exactly what I want to know,’ Gemma agreed. ‘I certainly didn’t tell them.’

‘They didn’t mention where the wedding’s to take place, did they?’ Helen asked.

If they did, she thought, my scoop will be a scoop no longer. Every entertainment reporter and pap in the UK will make their way to Northton Grange.

‘No. But it won’t take them long to work it out,’ Gemma grumbled. ‘The press already know we’re in Scotland, and they know Dom has a place in Northton Grange. They’ll put two and two together, and our secret wedding will be ruined!’

‘Perhaps not,’ Helen said, and a thoughtful expression settled on her face as she returned to her seat and set her cup down.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t have the wedding at Northton Grange,’ she suggested. ‘Have it here at Draemar instead.’

‘Here?’ Gemma said doubtfully. ‘At the castle? But my gown’s already been shipped to Northton G. And I don’t think the Campbells will want the bother of a wedding. After all, I’m not family.’

‘I’m sure they won’t mind. Draemar will make a truly romantic setting, don’t you think?’ she added, warming to the subject. ‘And if the weather forecast holds, and we get another foot of snow before Christmas, you might have no choice but to have your wedding here.’

Besides which, Helen mused, having the wedding at Draemar would ensure she was here for the nuptials and the exclusive photographs – and would scupper anyone else’s plans to snatch the story away from her.

‘Good morning, everyone!’

Natalie, her face wreathed in smiles, entered the dining room with Rhys.

‘Why are you so bloody cheery?’ Dom asked as he glanced up and scowled. ‘It’s annoying.’

‘Should we tell everyone why I’m so happy, Rhys?’ Natalie enquired as she took the seat he held out for her.

‘Tell everyone what?’ Wren asked with interest as she and Tarquin came in behind them.

‘Yes, what is it?’ Gemma asked as she set her mobile phone aside.

‘What’s up, Natalie?’ Dominic demanded. ‘You’re practically glowing, you’re so happy, and—’ He broke off and his jaw slackened. ‘Shit. Don’t tell me—’

‘Right, then,’ Natalie laughed, ‘I won’t tell you. I won’t tell you,’ she took a deep breath and smiled over at her husband ‘that I’m pregnant. Rhys and I are expecting a baby.’

‘Oh, Nat – that’s wonderful!’ Gemma exclaimed, playing along as if she didn’t already know. She thrust her chair back and threw her arms around her friend. ‘I’m so incredibly happy for you!’ She turned to Rhys. ‘And for you too, Rhys.’

He lifted a brow. ‘Thanks. I’m still adjusting to the idea.’

Amid the squeals of the women and the general furore of excitement that Natalie’s news had unleashed, Wren stood up suddenly. ‘I’m so very pleased for you, Natalie,’ she murmured. ‘So very pleased…’

With a small cry of anguish, she burst into tears and ran, sobbing, out of the dining room, leaving a circle of shocked faces behind.

Chapter 23

‘Oh, poor Wren,’ Natalie said in dismay, and pushed herself to her feet. ‘How thoughtless of me. I’ll just go upstairs and see if she’s all right—’

‘No.’ Tarquin was already halfway to the door. Although his face was a study in turmoil, he spoke firmly. ‘I know you mean well, Natalie, but I think it best if you just...leave things, for the moment.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ she murmured, and sank back down in her seat, abashed. ‘I’m so sorry...’

But Tarquin didn’t hear her. He was already gone.

‘I feel awful,’ Natalie confided to Rhys that evening, as she sat with a troubled expression in front of the dressing table in their room. ‘I know Wren’s been trying to get pregnant, she told us so. It was inconsiderate and selfish of me, blurting out my news in front of her like that—’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rhys said firmly. ‘You did nothing wrong. You were excited and you wanted to share our news. You meant no harm. Tark knows that. And Wren did ask you.’

‘I know, but I still feel terrible.’ Her voice wobbled in remembered pain at Wren’s anguished expression. ‘She wants a baby so badly.’

‘Well, Mrs Gordon,’ Rhys said as he came up behind her at the dressing table and leant down to encircle her in his arms, ‘I can think of something that might make you feel marginally better. Take your mind off things.’

‘Oh? And what’s that?’ she asked, and frowned. ‘A rousing game of draughts? A cup of tea and a tin of chocolates? A television programme?’

‘Well, you could call what I have in mind rousing, I suppose.’ He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. ‘Or we could take our time, and make it last.’ His lips made their slow way down her neck to the slope of her shoulder.

She closed her eyes and leant her head back as his mouth warmed her skin, inch by delicious inch, and her breath quickened. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Gordon,’ she murmured.

He pulled Natalie to her feet and into his arms. ‘Let me give you a demonstration, then.’ He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, very thoroughly, and Natalie soon forgot everything but the irascible, aggravating, and decidedly sexy Scotsman in her arms.

‘Did you leak my story, Tom?’ Helen demanded as she grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the dresser – she had two left ‒ and thrust one between her lips.

At the other end of her mobile phone, there was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Leak your story? No, damn your eyes, I most certainly did not! Why would I do that?’

‘Then tell me how the news of Dom and Gemma’s upcoming wedding ended up in the Probe’s Tweeper feed this morning!’

‘I’ve no bloody idea. Someone else up there in the land of kilts and cold weather must’ve found out. It’s not inconceivable, you know. Someone probably overheard you in the pub, or on the street, blathering away into your mobile phone.’