Page 57 of Expecting the Earl's Baby

‘Just water, please.’ She accepted the ice-cold glass gratefully, carrying it over to the comfortable cluster of sofas grouped around the windows, sinking onto one with a sigh of relief.

She had begun to recreate this feeling in the kitchen at Hawksley, sanding back the old kitchen cupboards so that they could be repainted a soft grey and bringing in one of the better sofas from an unused salon to curl up on by the Aga. Slowly, step by step turning the few rooms she and Seb used into warm, comfortable places. Into a family home.

‘I feel like I should be coming to you with words of advice and wisdom.’ Rick sat down on the sofa opposite, a bottle of beer in one hand. ‘After three daughters and three decades of marriage you’d think I’d know something. But all I know is don’t go to bed angry, wake up counting your blessings and always try and see the other person’s point of view. If you can manage that—’ he raised his bottle to her ‘—then you should be okay.’

‘Funny.’ She smiled at him. ‘Mum said something very similar.’

Rick took a swig of his beer. ‘Well, your mother’s a wise woman.’

Daisy swung her legs up onto the sofa, reclining against the solid arm and letting the cushions enfold her. She half closed her eyes, allowing the sounds and smells of her childhood home to comfort her. After a few moments Rick got up and she could hear him clattering about in the food preparation part of the kitchen. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she allowed herself to fall into a doze, feeling safe for the first time in a long while.

‘Here you go.’ She roused as a plate was set before her. ‘I know it’s fashionable for brides to waste away before their wedding but if you get any thinner, Daisy girl, I’ll be having to hold you down as we walk down that aisle.’

‘My favourite.’ The all-too-ready tears pricked her eyelids as Daisy looked at the plate holding a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup. Her childhood comfort food—not coincidentally also the limit of Rick Cross’s cooking skills. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

Her father didn’t say another word while she ate; instead he picked up one of the seemingly endless supplies of guitars that lay in every room of the house and began to strum some chords. It had used to drive Daisy mad, his inability to stay quiet and still, but now she appreciated it for what it was. A safety blanket, just like her camera.

As always the slightly stodgy mix of white bread, melted cheese and sweet tomatoes slipped down easily and a full stomach made her feel infinitely better. Rick continued to strum as Daisy carried her empty dishes to the sink, the chords turning into a well-known marching song.

Rick began to croon the lyrics in the throaty tones that had made him a star. He looked up at his daughter, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Thought I might sing this instead of making a speech.’

She couldn’t do it, couldn’t lie to him a single moment longer. So she would slip back into being the problem daughter, the mistake-making disaster zone. Maybe she deserved it.

She could take it. She had to take it.

She was tired of doing it all alone. Tired of shutting her family out. Tired of always being strong, of putting her need to be independent before her family.

Maybe this was what being a grown-up meant. Not shutting yourself away but knowing when it was okay to accept help. When it was okay to lean on someone else. The day Seb had come to help her with the wedding had been one of the best days of her adult life. She’d come so close to relying on him.

Tension twisted her stomach as she fought to find the right words. But there were no right words. Just the facts.

Daisy turned, looked him straight in the eyes and readied herself. ‘I’m pregnant. Dad, I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do.’

Her father didn’t react straight away. His fingers fell off the guitar and he carefully put the instrument to one side, his face shuttered. Slowly he got to his feet, walking over to Daisy before pulling her in close, holding her as if he meant to never let her go.

The skinny shoulders were stronger than they looked. Daisy allowed herself to lean against them, to let her father bear her weight and finally, finally stopped fighting the tears she had swallowed back for so long, shudders shaking her whole body as the sobs tore out of her.

‘It’s okay, Daisy girl,’ her father crooned, stroking her hair as if she were still his little girl. ‘It’s okay.’

But she couldn’t stop, not yet, even though the great gusty sobs had turned into hiccups and the tears had soaked her father’s shirt right through. The relief of finally not having to put on a brave face was too much and it was several minutes before her father could escort her back to the sofa, setting another glass of water and several tissues in front of her.

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