A Mother's Love(2)

Robert stared at her—the least busy woman in the south of England—and pulled a bewildered face. “Busy? Doing what?”

“I’m afraid I simply can’t entertain an eight-year-old boy for five days. I have people coming and Mrs. Cleaves will be on holiday, so I’ll have to cook, which you know I loathe. I’m going up to London midweek, Freddie and Ginny have asked us to the opera, and I’ve decided to learn bridge, so I’m joining a club in Alresford. You see, no time to look after a small boy.” She averted her eyes and took a sip of wine, which immediately made her look shifty.

Robert knew his mother had deliberately arranged things to avoid having his sister’s child for a week, but he couldn’t work out why. It was very out of character for her to be selfish. When Jack had been alive, he and Celeste had resorted to inventing things in order to keep her away, and she had jumped at any opportunity to have him to herself. “There must be somebody else she can leave him with?” he suggested in desperation, picturing Celeste sobbing on her bed at the prospect of having a child in the house again when her emotions were still so raw. “Please, Mum. Celeste is beside herself.”

Marigold’s blue eyes softened with compassion. “Darling, they’re moving back from Australia after having been away for sixteen years. Georgia has no friends here anymore, only us. She wouldn’t have asked you if she hadn’t been desperate. You’re her last resort. It’s only five days. I think you’ll manage.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. I have no problem with looking after my nephew. I’m thinking about Celeste.”

“Georgia says he’s a very easy child. He just entertains himself. He won’t need much looking after, he’s very independent. That’s what happens when you have older sisters. You were always independent, too.”

“God,” he groaned. “I promised Celeste I’d sort it out.”

Marigold popped another chocolate into her mouth and patted one of the Alsatians which was now sitting up and demanding attention. She shrugged. “Tant pis, darling. Such is life. You might find it turns out to be a blessing.”

Robert drained his glass then made his way back to the cottage with Tarquin, leaving the warmth of his parents’ garden for the chill of his own. When he was growing up, the cottage had been inhabited by the farm manager, but as soon as Celeste had gotten pregnant, his father had handed it over to him. The manager had been an expert rose grower, and when Celeste had moved in, she had lovingly tended them, but since Jack had died she hadn’t touched them, so that now few buds flowered and all one could see was a tangle of thorny tentacles falling away from the twine that once held them against the walls.

When he reached the cottage, he found his wife at her bedroom window, staring out over the field towards the woods, as if she longed to run there and never come back. As she heard him coming up the stairs, she swung around. “So, what did she say?” Her face was contorted with anxiety.

He shook his head. “She can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“I’m sorry, darling. The child is coming to stay. There’s nothing I can do.”

Celeste was speechless. She put a frail white hand to her mouth, where the fingers trembled against her lips and tears trickled down her cheeks. Robert sighed heavily and attempted to embrace her, but she stopped him, shaking her head vigorously. Her eyes spoke of her resentment, as if it was all his fault, so he turned and left her alone, as he so often did now, his own heart brimming with bitterness because Jack was his son, too. But Celeste couldn’t see past her own grief to notice his.

Celeste sat on the bed and turned her eyes once again to the woods. The wheat shimmered in the breeze like a golden sea as darkness crept up slowly, swallowing the remains of the light and another day. For that she was grateful; one less to live without Jack.

In a strange way Celeste had settled into her grief. Even though it was painful, there was comfort in its familiar patterns. She was used to the dead feeling in her soul, the chill of winter that had taken all color and joy from her spirit; the bleak, flat light, as hard as slate, which had pervaded her world. The prospect of having another child in the house had suddenly disrupted her rhythm and wrenched her out of herself. How would she cope? What would she do with him? How could Robert have allowed this to happen?





2

The morning of Bruno’s arrival, Celeste refused to get out of bed. Robert had taken the day off, leaving his young employee Jacques-Louis to manage the wineshop so that he could welcome his nephew and say hello to his sister, whom he hadn’t seen since she’d flown over for Jack’s funeral. Marigold and Huxley had driven round and now waited in the kitchen with cups of tea and biscuits. The atmosphere was tense, especially as Celeste had not yet emerged. Tarquin sighed from his basket, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep. The sound of rain on the windowpanes only added to the dreary mood inside.