The Baby Bond

Again, that fleeting smile. Only this time it was like the sun breaking free from behind a cloud, thought Angel, before she drew herself up quickly. What on earth was she thinking of? Just because she had been behaving like a nun since her marriage had broken down, that didn’t mean she had to undergo a complete personality change now. Fancy analysing the man’s smile when there was a poor little orphaned baby waiting!

‘Of course you can see him,’ said Rory softly. ‘He’s asleep in the kitchen. Or rather—he was asleep when I left him.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’

Angel led the way downstairs to the kitchen, which looked as though it was straight out of a brochure on the joys of rural Ireland. There was an old-fashioned dresser covered with many plates—some chipped—and from the range drifted a soft heat and the unmistakable smell of soda bread baking. The vast wooden table which dominated the room was scratched and carved, and carried the marks of generations of children who had written their homework on it.

And there, in the centre of the table, sat a dark blue carrycot, with a white bundle swathed inside.

Mrs Fitzpatrick had been bending over the cot, but she straightened up as soon as she heard their footsteps. Her expression wasn’t just curious as she glanced from one to the other of them; she was obviously bursting to know why this tall, handsome Englishman had arrived with a baby, asking to see Angel.

All Angel had told her was that her husband was dead, and that his brother would be arriving to see her. Molly Fitzpatrick had planned to find out more from the brother himself, but something in Rory’s eyes had cautioned her and she had refrained from asking any questions. For the time being, anyway.

‘I left him on the table because I didn’t want the dog licking at his face!’ she declared, in her thick Irish brogue. ‘The kettle has just boiled and there’s soda bread cooling on the side. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be changing linen upstairs if you need me, Angelica.’

‘Thanks,’ nodded Angel, but her attention was all on the sleeping bundle, which was mostly obscured by a snowy fleece blanket, so that she barely heard Mrs Fitzpatrick leave the room.

Angel walked over to the cot and stood silently over it, unable to see more than a tiny tuft of dark, silky hair and two sooty half-moon eyelashes which swept onto perfect pale cheeks. One little fist was clenched and visible, each finger so tiny that it would have looked more at home on a doll.

Angel had always adored babies, but this baby was her late husband’s son, and despite all her mixed-up emotions concerning the ending of her marriage something stirred in her heart as she watched the barely perceptible rise and fall of the little boy’s chest. How she wished that he would wake so that she could pick him up!

She glanced up to find that Rory’s eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her, and she felt uncomfortable under that brief, hard scrutiny. Colour rushed vividly into her cheeks, in a way it hadn’t done for years. ‘W-will we wait until he wakes?’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he whispered back, his eyes glittering, though he made no mention of the fact that she had been blushing in a way he hadn’t seen a woman blush for a long time. ‘His lungs are far lustier than you would imagine for such a little fellow. Such a tiny little fellow,’ he added almost dreamily, as he gazed down at his nephew.

Angel watched the almost reluctant softening of Rory’s features with something approaching astonishment. But there again newborn infants had the ability to grab your complete attention, didn’t they? Even from people who never normally gave babies a second glance. There was some quality in their cry which always alerted an adult to their plight. She had learnt that from looking after her younger brothers when they were growing up—long before she went to London and became a nanny and met Chad.

And this little baby in particular would surely still be missing his mother. Only an adult with a heart of stone would fail to be moved by that fact. ‘Will I make you some tea?’ she asked Rory softly.

He nodded, seeming to come to his senses as he raked his hand rather distractedly back through his thick, dark hair. ‘I’d love some tea. But first I need to freshen up. It was a long drive and the crossing was rough. Could you point me in the right direction?’

‘Sure I can,’ she murmured automatically, while wondering just how he could manage to look so cool and unruffled after such a long, unbroken journey and with a brand-new baby in tow. She frowned. Were all barristers as commandingly in control as Rory Mandelson appeared to be?

She directed him to the grandest bathroom in the hotel, which she hoped might appease Mrs Fitzpatrick for having let him drink out of inferior crystal! Then she set about busily making tea, her mind working overtime, running round and round in circles as she tried to take in the significance of everything that Rory had told her.

Every now and again she sent over a curious glance at the sleeping bundle in the cot, but the baby slept on and she left him to it, even though part of her was longing to see what he really looked like.

How strange to think that Chad had a son now, and that his own life would continue through that son. He must have loved Jo-Anne very much, Angel decided, with an odd sort of pang, because she remembered his reaction to her tentative query about when the two of them would have a baby of their own. They had been married just a month when Angel realised that they had never brought up the subject of children. Not once.

She would never forget the look on his face when she had posed her innocent question. She’d seen incredulity and then, unmistakably, sheer horror. That look had told her things about Chad’s attitude to her—things which could never have been put into words simply because those words would have been too cruel to utter.

And how had she responded to Chad’s reaction?

Why, in the way she had always responded to something which might cause her pain. Ignore it and it might go away.

She had never brought the subject up again.

Part of that had been embarrassment, of course. Fear that Chad might have thought her some big, old-fashioned country bumpkin—eager to become barefoot and pregnant as soon as possible. Which wasn’t, of course, the modern way, but—if she was being entirely honest—had, in fact, been her way. And one of her reasons for getting married.

Angel had always adored babies, and it was more than being the oldest of six; it was in her make-up. But all her adult life she had been fighting a feeling of inferiority whenever she suffered from feelings of broodiness. Because it seemed to her that a woman was made to feel inadequate unless she wanted to compete in a man’s world. To work all the hours that God sent and earn far more money than was good for her.

Angel couldn’t think of anything worse!

She made a pot of tea, cut and buttered several wedges of the freshly baked soda bread and placed a jar of Mrs Fitzpatrick’s bramble jelly on the table. She was in the process of deciding whether or not to add a big hunk of farmhouse cheese—just in case Rory was hungry after his long drive—when she heard a snuffling sound from the carrycot, which was swiftly replaced by a raucous cry. Angel scooted across the kitchen to where the baby lay, and stood staring down at him.

The tiny scrap was yelling, already bright red in the face, and she hesitated for no more than a second before bending over to carefully pluck him out of the cot and to clutch him tightly against her chest.

The baby was hungry, yes, but perhaps he felt safe within her firm embrace, maybe he heard the reassuring drumming of her heart as she cradled him. Whatever the reason, his frantic cries lessened by a fraction, and Angel found herself speaking to him in a sing-song voice as she stared down at him.

‘Hello, little fellow,’ she crooned softly. ‘Who’s a handsome-looking baby, then?’

The baby wailed.

‘Are you a handsome little fellow, then? Are you?’ she persisted quietly. ‘And are you going to let me get a good look at your face, instead of screwing it all up like a prune?’

And the baby opened his eyes and looked at her.

Just for a moment—that was all it was—a moment frozen in time.

Angel found herself staring into eyes as darkly blue as the deepest ocean, and a skitter of awareness skated down her spine as she recognised that this baby might have Chad’s eyes—but they were Rory’s eyes, too.

Mandelson eyes.

Angel gripped the baby tighter as she acknowledged how defenceless he was, how vulnerable and frail, and she was so lost in her thoughts that she failed to hear the sound of footsteps as Rory returned to the kitchen.

In fact, the only thing which did alert her to his presence was the growing certainty that she was being watched, and she spun round, still holding the baby, to find Rory behind her, his eyes fixed on her with a curiously intent look. She had seen it on his face before, only this time he seemed even more watchful than usual, with an air of complete stillness about him.

‘Did you mind me picking him up?’ Angel found herself asking.

He shook his dark head. ‘Of course I didn’t mind, Angel. Why on earth should I? You’re absolutely brilliant with babies.’

‘Am I?’ she asked, his approval making her feel absurdly pleased. She looked down at the soft, dark hair of the baby and felt strangely reluctant to relinquish the warm and tiny bundle. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well, I can see for myself,’ he told her quietly. ‘And Chad always said that you were the most sought-after nanny in London.’

‘Did he?’ asked Angel, surprised to hear that Chad had given her such unqualified praise—but that was what separation did, didn’t it? Made you forget all the good bits of a relationship and concentrate on the nasty ones instead. ‘Did he really?’

‘Yes, he did,’ he agreed, his dark blue gaze still fixed with fascination on the tiny bundle she had clasped tightly to her.

Could he see his late brother in the child? wondered Angel, ruthlessly swallowing down the tears which threatened to rise in her throat. For it would be nothing more than self-indulgence to cry now. This was Rory’s grief, not hers, and she must appear strong. Chad had been no part of her life, not really, even before his tragic death.

As if on cue the baby began to scream again, his little head moving frantically as he instinctively tried to steer his mouth towards Angel’s breast.

‘He’s hungry,’ she said awkwardly, lifting her head to meet Rory’s rueful gaze and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘Yes.’

She would die if he referred to the baby’s butting and rooting frantically against her empty breast.