Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada

He didn’t answer. But the guarded expression on his face, and the fact that he’d asked the question in the first place, piqued her curiosity.

Was there another story at Draemar Castle – a bigger story, perhaps? – one that she should be investigating?

Oh, well, it didn’t really matter, Helen reminded herself. Her hire car would be towed back to the village tomorrow, and she’d have to leave the castle. Unless, she mused, she could think of a good reason to stay...

‘What about money, for starters?’ he accused her. ‘You reporters are always chasing after a big payoff.’

‘There’s always the money, of course,’ Helen agreed, and shrugged. ‘There’s no denying that an exclusive look at Dominic and Gemma’s wedding – with photos ‒ would fetch a tidy sum. But it’s more than that. With a big enough story, I can quit this bloody job and do what I really want to do – write.’

He frowned. ‘But that’s what reporters do, isn’t it? Write news stories?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘We ask questions, we string facts together, we check names and conduct research. That isn’t writing, it’s reporting. I want to write. Worthwhile things like novels and short stories. Human interest pieces.’

For a moment, he said nothing, only regarded her with that inscrutable expression on his face. ‘Oh, aye. And I’m sure you will, given time. You strike me as a woman who always gets what she wants.’

Helen met his gaze. ‘Not always, Mr Mackenzie,’ she retorted. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

And as she strode away across the entrance hall towards the drawing room, Colm called out, ‘Goodbye, Ms Thomas. And good luck to you on that story. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

Caitlin and Jeremy did not come down for dinner that evening. If he noticed their absence, Tarquin gave no sign.

‘Any word on your hire car, Ms Thomas?’ he asked Helen midway through the main course.

She glanced up from her saffron-sauced finnan haddie with a polite smile. ‘Yes, actually. Someone’s coming out tomorrow morning to tow it away to the village. Then I’ll be out of your hair at last, and on my way.’

He paused, wine glass halfway to his lips. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you’re not welcome to stay on at Draemar for as long as you wish,’ he hastened to assure her, and reddened. ‘I simply wondered.’

‘I quite agree with Tarquin,’ Wren said. ‘We’ve loved having you here as part of our little house party, Ms Thomas. And you do realize, don’t you,’ she pointed out, ‘that even if they tow your car away, it may not run properly...and you’ll need to stay on until it’s repaired. In which case,’ she added briskly, ‘you must stay here, at Draemar. We shall be deeply insulted if you don’t.’

Tarquin raised his wine glass. ‘Hear, hear.’

Helen laughed. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ She laid her fork aside and added, ‘Thank you both, so much. You’ve been very patient. And very kind.’ And you’ve very neatly solved the problem of how I’ll manage to stay on here a bit longer...

‘How is your ankle, Dominic?’ Wren enquired as she turned to the rock star. ‘Any better?’

He shrugged. ‘It still hurts like a bast— er, quite a bit. But that groundskeeper chap found me a pair of crutches and brought ’em round.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Mackenzie.’ Wren paused as a footman poured more wine in her glass. ‘He’s a treasure. He’s proven himself invaluable in the short time he’s been here. Hasn’t he, darling?’ she asked Tarquin.

‘Oh, yes, quite,’ he agreed, distracted.

‘What did he do, before he came here?’ Helen wondered. ‘Has he always been a groundskeeper?’

‘No,’ Tarquin answered. ‘No, I don’t believe so. When I interviewed him for the position, he said he’d worked in construction, and tended bar, and that he’d done a stint in the British Army...’

‘Interesting,’ she remarked. ‘He’s worn a great many hats, then.’

When everyone finished dinner and got up to go into the drawing room for after-dinner drinks, Natalie stayed behind. ‘Rhys,’ she murmured as he turned to follow the others, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll go upstairs and, and lie down for a bit.’

‘Again?’ A frown creased his brown. ‘But you’ve complained of not feeling well before. And you’re alarmingly pale. Perhaps being out in the cold all afternoon was too much.’

‘Probably,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll just go to bed early and I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.’

‘No.’ Rhys shook his head firmly and took her arm. ‘This time, I insist on fetching a doctor to have a look at you.’

She didn’t argue, but allowed him to lead her upstairs and settle her on the bed while he went back down to inform their hosts that she was ill.

Doctor MacTavish, the family physician and local GP, arrived forty minutes later with his medical bag in hand, and Rhys led him upstairs to their bedroom.

‘Well,’ MacTavish pronounced a short time later, after conducting a thorough examination of Natalie, ‘you’ve not got a fever, young lady, so it isn’t flu; and the fact that you’re keeping your food down tells me it’s not food poisoning, either.’

She exchanged a quick glance with Rhys, who hovered near the bed, and eyed Dr MacTavish in puzzlement. ‘If I haven’t flu or food poisoning, then what on earth is wrong with me, doctor?’

‘Well, nothing’s wrong with you, as such,’ he ventured as he returned his stethoscope to the bag. ‘I’ll need to run a urine test in my office to be sure, of course, but...’ he smiled ‘I think it’s safe to say, Mrs Gordon, that you might very well be pregnant.’

Chapter 14 (#ulink_b3cd4de2-4a7e-50b1-9a1a-5f9a1c35c9fd)

‘Pregnant!’ Natalie echoed, stunned.

‘Pregnant?’ Rhys exclaimed.

‘Pregnant,’ Dr MacTavish said again, and nodded. ‘Mind you, it’s not certain until we do a test.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course,’ Natalie said faintly.

‘You’ll need to schedule an appointment in the morning. Here’s my card.’ He handed it over. ‘I can see you late tomorrow afternoon for a urine test. That’ll give us the answer.’

‘The answer,’ Natalie repeated.

‘Yes. As to whether you’re pregnant or not.’ He smiled again and patted her briefly on the hand, then stood to leave. ‘In the meantime, stick to clear liquids and unsalted crackers if you begin to feel the least bit queasy. Good night.’

‘Good night. And thank you.’

Rhys stood up and opened the door. ‘Good night, Dr MacTavish. I’ll see you out.’

‘What do you think of this one?’ Gemma asked Dominic later that evening, after everyone had dispersed to their rooms for the night.

He lowered the television remote and looked up from his half-hearted perusal of the local channels – all three of them – to stare at the glossy bridal magazine his fiancée held aloft before him.

‘Well,’ he said cautiously, having learnt to tread carefully where all things bridal were concerned, ‘it looks like a plaid dress to me.’

‘It’s not just a plaid dress,’ she corrected him, ‘it’s a Lotte Ellis.’

‘A Lotte Ellis,’ he repeated, having no idea who (or what) a ‘Lotte Ellis’ was. He gave the full-length plaid dress with the red sash a cursory glance and nodded. ‘Nice.’

‘I thought it’d be perfect for the bridesmaid’s dresses,’ Gemma went on, ‘since they’re ready to wear and we can buy them off the rack in Aberdeen. I’ll need to round up the girls for a fitting, though.’

‘Have you chosen anyone yet?’