But it wasn’t Caroline.
Guy Delacroix came into the hall, rain dripping off his black hair. ‘It’s me.’
He took one look at Hope and assessed the situation.
She looked back—in horror. It should have been relief. Help was at last at hand. But her very first reaction was horror.
‘You’re in labour.’ He frowned in disbelief.
She nodded.
‘Have you called an ambulance?’ he added.
‘I tried,’ she breathed out. ‘The line seems to be dead.’ ‘I’ll try again.’ He crossed to the telephone in the hall.
She watched him as he confirmed that the line was dead. He seemed amazingly controlled, but then he wasn’t the one in labour.
He looked at her again, judging the urgency of the situation, before saying, ‘Right. I’ll get my car back out of the garage and bring it round.’
He left her, and Hope struggled to contain her panic. She was scared for herself. She was scared for the baby. It was far too early.
Guy returned shortly. He must have run to the garage. When he appeared at the door, Hope tried to lift herself up, but the next contraction hit her just then. The wave of pain made her sink back on the step.
He walked over to her and waited until the pain subsided before helping her up.
‘Put your arm round my shoulders,’ he instructed quietly, and, bearing much of her weight, took her out to his car. He installed her in the back where she could stretch out.
‘I’ll write a note for my mother. Hopefully she’ll follow on to be with you,’ he informed her, and returned to the house.
He was gone only a minute or two, but it seemed like an age. He arranged over her a blanket he’d brought, before climbing into the front and setting the car in motion. Hope curled up like the foetus inside her and wished it were all over.
He didn’t bother her with unnecessary conversation. He just drove. When she gasped with pain, he asked, ‘How frequent are the contractions?’
‘Every four or five minutes,’ she answered, wondering if it would mean anything to him.
Perhaps it did, as he seemed to increase his speed. It was a tortuous route down the hillside from Heron’s View to the main road, but he took the bends with practised ease, seemingly unaffected by the flashes of lightning that lit up the sky.
Hope was frightened, but his calmness helped her contain her own fear. They arrived at the hospital without mishap, and, after taking directions from a car-park attendant, Guy drove straight up to the maternity department partment entrance. Then he left her briefly to find a nurse, who recognised the situation as a far from normal labour and the next thing Hope knew she was on a hospital trolley being pushed along corridors to the delivery suite.
She was still dressed in her night gown and robe, and a midwife helped her out of the robe, but she indicated that she wished to keep her nightie on, especially with Guy Delacroix still at her side.
He stood frowning down at her, perhaps wondering how to extricate himself, then another contraction made her draw her knees up.
‘Hold her hand, Dad,’ the nurse instructed briskly. ‘I think your baby’s well on its way.’
He remained still for a moment. Hope waited for him to deny the identity that had been thrust upon him. Instead he took her hand in his.
‘He’s not—’ Hope tried to explain the true situation, but another contraction ripped through her. It was the worst yet. She couldn’t believe the pain.
She gripped Guy’s hand as if she could transfer some of the pain to him. It seemed to help. At any rate, she had no breath left for explanations as the doctor on call appeared.
Everything happened very quickly after that. She had started to haemorrhage. The doctor decided a Caesarean was the only option. Before they could wheel her into an operating theatre, she lost consciousness, still holding Guy’s hand.
They did their best, but it was already too late. Her baby, her first-born, had been a boy. A perfectly formed baby boy who had never drawn breath in the world outside.
Some time later she woke to find herself attached to a drip. Guy was by her side, waiting. He said no words. She saw the truth in his eyes.
She’d always considered him a cold, emotionless man, and perhaps he was, but that night he held her in his arms while she cried out her grief and bitterness at losing her first baby.
He was still there in the morning. He had sat by her bedside while she slept. He took her hand when she woke.
Hope bit back tears and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ for it should have been Jack who was there, Jack who was sharing her suffering.
He shook his head, and asked simply, ‘How do you feel?’
‘Empty.’ Hope put a hand to her stomach to protect her baby. But he was gone. He was dead. ‘Can I see him?’
‘If that’s what you want.’ Guy accepted her need to see the baby as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’ll speak to the nurse.’
He arranged it for her. The baby was brought to her, wrapped in a blue shawl. Guy sat with her while she held her child for the first time, and the last. He let her cry over that small, lifeless human being, then held her again when she cried as they took the baby away.
Somehow she survived that terrible day, and what Guy had been to her remained their secret.
Caroline appeared in the afternoon. Because of the storm, she’d stayed overnight with a friend and had just returned to find Guy’s note.
She took over from Guy at Hope’s bedside, while he went to follow up the calls he’d already made to Jack, currently on the other side of the Atlantic.
Flowers with sympathy notes arrived before Jack finally did, a day later. Only then did Guy fade into the background, possibly relieved that his brother was there to grieve with her.
But, of course, he didn’t. He talked, but his words weren’t the right ones. He tried to console her with the idea that she had been too young for a baby. Only her body didn’t think so. It longed to hold the life it had briefly created.
Jack had no desire to see their baby, either. It had never been real to him. Hope had given him a nameSamuel—but Jack never used it.
She remained in hospital for a week, then returned home to Heron’s View. Jack went back to his tour, suggesting she join him when she was properly recovered.
Perhaps it was then that she should have left him, when her love for him had already died a little with their baby. But she just couldn’t accept the failure. Growing up, she’d watched each of her father’s marriages disintegrate with frightening ease. She’d promised herself that things would be different for her. She felt there was no choice but to stay with Jack.
It must have seemed weakness to Guy Delacroix. He continued to be kind to her after she left hospital, but the kindness changed to incredulity when she announced her intention over dinner one night of flying over to the States to be with Jack.
If Caroline Delacroix had any reservations, she kept them to herself. Guy waited until his mother left the room before he expressed his.
‘You can’t go,’ he told her from across the table. ‘You look like hell.’
‘Thanks.’ Hope pulled a face but took no offence. She was growing used to Guy’s bluntness, and she was still grateful to him for looking after her during her labour, and afterwards.
‘You know what I mean,’ he accused gruffly. ‘It’s only been four weeks. The doctor said you needed to rest.’
‘Well,